Behind the Plaid (31 page)

Not me.

This gown was in pieces, a skirt, sleeves and a bodice. Lovely silken stockings embroidered with thistles. Thick petticoats that would make the gown puff, and surely make me swelter once the sun had risen. I wouldn’t be able to dress myself. I’d have to find Agatha first. This gown looked like those worn by ladies at a Tudor court. But this was no Tudor court. This was Scotland. The Highlands. And I refused to wear such garb.

The screams came again. Yells now
, really. Angry bellows, returned shouts. I swallowed hard, fearing the castle had been invaded. Where was Logan? Had he left me here to go and fight? But in the back of my mind, I knew he left shortly after we’d both exhausted our bodies. I’d pretended to be asleep while he slipped away, unable to confront him having just realized what my own feelings were. I sensed he, too, needed to escape from the heady and heavy cloud that enveloped us.

A tiny slit of light seeped through the shu
tters, in stark contrast to the demon roaring. Instead of the devil coming with the dark, he came with the dawn. I snuck to the window, and eased open the shutters, trying my damndest not to make a noise. But the hinges didn’t agree and creaked so loud I was sure Logan’s door would be banged open any minute.

I stiffened, unmoving, hands holding the shutters open, mouth
agape, eyes wide, at the most beautiful sunrise I’d ever seen before. Pink and orange dashed across a purple backdrop meeting the crest of mountains. A few clouds hung as if waiting for direction to fall and create a mystic haze. The loch lapped lazily, the ships rocked. One ship’s sails were unfurled and waving with the slight breeze that was always present. What was it about this place that made me want to lie on the ground all day and enjoy the splendor of its creation?

But there again, the shouts disrupted that moment of beauty, and no one came barreling through Logan’s door to slam the shutters closed.
A steady stream of warriors followed behind Logan, across the grassy overlook. Between them, a man was being dragged. A shackled man.

I gasped, disbelieving what I saw.
So medieval. So unreal. A caravan of brutality. One of the men who walked behind the prisoner hit him and he bellowed, his cries echoing in the morning air.

Somehow I knew immediately that this man was the murderer. The way they all despised him, the way Logan had taken his dignity. While I knew Logan to be a brutal man if needed, he also seemed like one who would show mercy if necessary. One who, if yo
u gave him what he wanted, would not simply slit your throat for giving answers. But I also knew with a fierce clarity, that he would not abide traitors. Traitors stood between him and his secrets. His treasure.

Watching them march
the prisoner along the cliff’s edge toward the dock stairs to the water below reminded me of how real this era was. The harshness of it. A stark reminder that I’d not dropped into fancyland. This was actually happening. There was no government like I was used to. There was no police, no one I could call to come and take me away or to protect me from anyone, including myself.

The man below,
the laird of Gealach, with broad shoulders, glittering in his weapons, was the one I loved. Madly. Deeply. He’d somehow stormed inside my mind and possessed my very soul. And lucky for me, because he was the one marching a prisoner to God knows where across the dewy grass, tramping beautiful flowers, instead of the prisoner.

Two quick raps hit the door and then it was opened. I turned to see
Agatha standing in the doorway, her hands folded over her middle. “My lady, his lairdship wished me to help ye dress, so ye might break your fast.”

My stomach growled, a reminder of how little I’d eaten the day before. Logan and I had skipped dinner in favor of feasting on each other. I’d skip every me
al for the rest of my life if he so much as grinned at me. Damn… I unclenched my hands, not realizing I’d been digging my nails into my palms. My body was already in agreement with my mind. Agatha would surely notice my hardened nipples. I’d keep my thighs tightly clenched, praying my tender, tingling, swollen lips would stop throbbing, else I wouldn’t be able to stay still.

“I don’t want to wear this dress, Agatha. I liked the other more simple gowns. I don’t want you to have to dress me.” I wanted to add that I was no one special, that I’d been dressing myself for
twenty some years, no need for a regression. But Agatha stood stonily within the room, giving me a look that broached no argument. The longer I argued, the longer it would be until breakfast and my stomach was starting to churn.

With an exaggerated sigh, I threw my hands into the air. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Agatha nodded once and walked to the chair which my new attire had been tossed over. I supposed I’d feel quite like a royal today. Most young girls dream of being royal and even some women.

“Arms out now, lass.” Agatha worked around me, pulling on my stockings, and tying them with satiny ribbons above my knee. I had to admit they were the nicest stockings I’d ever worn.

“No underwear?” I asked as she moved to put on the thick underskirts, tying them at the back. They poofed out and I had the overwhelming urge to swing around and see them make a wide bell around my legs.

“Underwear?” she asked.

“Never mind.” I’d not worn any up until now, but I thought it simply because of the simple gowns. With a fancier gown, I had hoped to get a fancy set of drawers too. I remembered something about easy access and when I used to think of it in terms of using the bathroom, I realized how much easier it would be for Logan to touch me without the drawers. God, I wanted him to touch me. I shifted on my feet.

“Stay still,” Agatha said, several pins between her lips.

I did her bidding and watched with fascination as she pinned pieces of fabric into place. The green satin skirt rustled and crinkled as she pinned it, and then came the bodice, lined with something hard, almost like a corset as she tied it behind me, tugging and tugging until I could barely breathe.

“Ye’ve a tiny waist, hardly needed any tugging at all.”

I grunted. Agatha didn’t know what she was talking about, and if she did, then my sympathies went out to those with a fuller figure as it probably felt even worse. My breasts were crushed and spilling from the top—fleshy mounds. And quite honestly, I was impressed. The bodice had managed to give me cleavage and it was damned nice. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Logan’s face when he saw me. Wanted to see the hunger sparking in his eyes.

Next came the sleeves, two sets. First red, then green.
Even these were pinned into place. If I moved in the wrong way, I was going to get stabbed. No wonder women had such a regal way of walking in royal courts—they didn’t want to bleed all over their gowns. I was about to ask Agatha if she could take off one set of sleeves, it was summer after all, when she pulled the red satin through the green making poofy red and green stripes at my shoulders.

“Pretty,” I murmured. Then promptly wondered how many other women had worn this gown.

“Aye, ’tis. Used to be the laird’s mother’s gown. He saved it all these years.”

I didn’t want to read into her words and what the interpretation would be of anyone else dwelling
at the castle. I was wearing Laird Grant’s family gown. Probably saved for his wife. I did, however, have a question that needed to be asked, and I didn’t want to ask Logan. If Agatha had somehow chosen for me to wear this… I wouldn’t be able to face him.

“Whose choice was it for me to wear
this gown?”

“His Lairdship’s.”

Relief filled me at the same time as dread. Logan had no qualms in giving me his previous lover’s gowns, but to give me his mother’s? I didn’t know much about his mother. Should I be flattered or not? Should I feel that his gift was one with great meaning, or was this yet again a case of not wasting fabric?

Too many times in my life I’d not been true to myself and for the last eight years, I’d lost sight of who I was and what I wanted. Before that, I’d caved to peer pressure. Perhaps when I was
a young child I might have chosen my own path, but even then I was guided by others. But here, standing in the center of this room, I wanted to plot my own course. I wanted to be the one who had a choice in the matter. As much as I was kept here within the walls, as much as I was beholden to Logan for his safety, I was also free. Free to choose who I was going to be. Free to express myself and my desires. I knew that. Felt it.

So, standing here in this gown that meant either utterly nothing or
made a whole world of difference, I decided I had to speak with Logan about us. Yes, I’d agreed to be his lover. Yes, I’d agreed to stay. Yes, I’d accepted his protection. But I’d also fallen in love, and I had to protect myself, too. If he was only using me and this gown was another way to not waste fabric, then I had to end this before I fell harder. Before I was utterly crushed, my heart forever damaged. Because I’d started to heal with Logan, could feel it in my soul. He completed me.

Agatha and I didn’t say any more
. She gave me a half-lemon and after slipping a pair of matching satiny shoes onto my feet, she beckoned me to follow her. The corridors were dark as usual, the stairwell lit by arrow slits every few feet, shafts of light stabbing into the dark like radiant swords. There was no one in the great hall, which I assumed was because they were all following Logan on his course with the murderer.

“My lady, should ye like to sit here?” Although Agnes asked the question, it was more of a direction. A place had been set—no
, two places had been set at the table, one at the head and one to the left.

Just two
settings. If Agnes was having me sit at the place set to the left, the other spot could only be left to Logan. Yet again, a big deal. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to sit down. Not until we’d talked.

“
When does his lairdship expect to return?” I asked. Judging from what I saw out the window, he could be gone all day.

“He’ll be returning soon. He bade ye take your place here.”

I frowned. “No. I’ll wait.” I turned from Agatha and walked to the hearth, empty of a fire, but logs already set in place should one be lit. The maid give a disgruntled mumble, but I ignored her. I’d let her dress me, but I wasn’t going to sit at a table by myself waiting for Logan. I needed to pace. Needed to stand.

And there was that little issue with possibly stabbing myself
with the pins of my gown.

I didn’t wait long. Maybe twenty minutes of pacing and staring at the various tapestries, counting the candles in the grand candelabra hanging mightily from the
rafters—one-hundred forty the first time, one-hundred thirty-six the second time.

He came into the great hall alone, surprisingly not covered in blood as I’d imagined.
His eyes were automatically riveted to my cleavage, his appreciative gaze making me flush and tingle.

“Ye look beautiful,” he murmured.
He came toward me, confidence and power in each step. My thighs quivered, breath quickened. God, he was magnificent, oozed sexuality.

“Thank you.
” Heat suffused my cheeks, and between my thighs. I had to change the subject or else I’d lift my skirts before I had a chance to ask about them. “Where is…the prisoner?”

“Gone.”

I nodded, not knowing what he meant, but assuming it had been clean. I glanced back toward the hearth, trying to form words for what needed to be said.

“He yet lives.”

That caught my attention. “Why?”

“Should I have killed him?” Logan’s expression was contemplative.

I shrugged. “I don’t think that’s really my decision.”

“’Twas not my decision either.”

“But you are in charge here.”

He nodded. “But I still answer to my king.”

“Oh.” I’d somehow forgotten about that. Had to get used to there being a king, when I’d grown up without one.

“Are ye hungry?” he asked.

“Starved,” I replied, but my appetite was for something entirely different.

“As am I.” Judging from the way his lids turned heavy as his gaze fell
once more to my breasts, Logan was not referring to food either.

Easy access. We both had it. A flip of his kilt and a flip of my many skirts and we could come together in the heated, frenzied passion I’
d been craving since waking up. But before that… I had to know my place.

“Logan, I…” My voice trailed off as the words refused to leave my throat.
“I need to know—” Dammit, this was harder than I thought.

“Know what?” Logan came forward, only a foot away. He smelled like the outside, and his dark hair was windblown, making him look roguish.

I took a deep breath. I just had to spit it out. “I need to know what is going on between us. Where I stand.”

Logan swallowed, enough of a visible movement to show he dreaded my question. He pressed his lips together, and the desire filled his eyes evaporated. I glanced away, pain seeping from my chest up
to my throat. I blinked, praying tears didn’t fall even as they stung my eyes. Just as I’d suspected, I was nothing but a vessel with which to find pleasure. All of our encounters, the way he made me feel, the closeness and intensity that had developed—it was all in my head.