Bride of the Black Scot (3 page)

Sometime later, they reached the top of the mountain and
began their descent, down a rocky trail that ended in a small glade. She had
almost reached the bottom when her horse faltered. Before she had time to
react, she felt the iron weight of an arm slide around her waist. An instant
later, she was pulled from her horse and thrust across rock-hard thighs. Her
head hanging upside down against the sweat-glistening side of a much larger and
darker horse, she knew immediately that it was Stephen Gordon who had rescued
her from taking a nasty tumble.

It was an encouraging thought, for the man had showed little
regard for her so far. There were times when she wondered if he was not
disposed to dropping her along the wayside and riding off without her, not
really caring if she was taken by the MacBeans, or the wolves.

“You can put me back on my horse now,” she said.

“You will ride with me for a while.”

“Why? Are you afraid my horse will stumble again?”

“Perhaps…or perhaps I like the feel of you here.”

He might like the feel of her tossed over his horse like a
sack of barley, but she was quite uncomfortable.

She righted herself in front of him—which took some
doing—and shifted her weight to a more comfortable position, then stared up and
back at him. “I have no inclination as to whose idea it was to travel at such a
pace,” she said, “but I will tell you this, I am not as soft as you assume. If
you think I am going to beg you, or ask for leniency, you are mistaken. You can
ride until this black beast drops out from under you and I will still be beside
you.”

He did not say anything, so she went on. “I will not be
treated like some bit of cumbersome baggage. I will toss myself off the nearest
cliff before I submit to such.” She would not have dared, of course, but for
someone who did not have much to barter with, it sounded reasonably heroic.

She waited for his response, but he simply reached inside
his cloak and pulled out an oatcake and took a bite, offering it to her.
“Hungry?”

Here she was talking of suicide and he was thinking of food.
She shook her head. “No thank you,” she said with haughty dignity. “There are
some things more important than food.”

Seeing his amused expression, she said, “I might be English
and I might be a woman, but I can keep up with the likes of you.”

He gave her an amused look. “You think you are as good as
any Scot?”

That ruffled her. “I
know
I am as good as any
man…English or Scottish.”

He chuckled. “We shall get along. I like a strong woman.”

“Then find your own. I’m already promised to an ogre.”

His eyes narrowed. “You will find, lass, that when baiting a
mousetrap with cheese, it is best to leave some room for the mouse.”

She shrugged. “He that makes himself an ass must not take it
ill if others ride him.”

“Scotland is a wild, unforgiving land. Provoke me overmuch
and I may leave you behind. I am all that stands between you and certain
death.”

“Leave me behind and you will infuriate the King of England,
m’lord. I am all that stands between Scotland and another war.”

“There have been many wars, but none have broken us.
Scotland will outlive both you and the king,” he said.

Juliette ignored him.

“You have no comment?” he asked.

“It has never been my intention to inspire braggarts. An ass
will bray, whether encouraged or not.”

“You seem to ken a great deal about asses,” he said.

“Yes, and I’ll wager I’ll know a great deal more before we
reach Craigmoor Castle.”

He ate two oatcakes without replying.

They rode on in silence and Juliette drifted off to sleep,
cradled in his arms.

It was still dark when she awoke, although the first,
pale-gray, hint of morning was beginning to creep over the tops of the
mountains that lay in the distance. She had been awake for some time now, but
felt no compunction to speak. In spite of being in a strange land, and finding
herself cradled in the arms of a stranger, she felt safe and secure.

She did not venture to look at him but had a sense that he
knew she was awake. Not much went on that missed Stephen Gordon, she decided.
She wondered if that was why he was entrusted by her betrothed to go on a
mission such as this.

Her betrothed.

That reminder sent her thoughts drifting into another
direction entirely. She wondered what kind of man the Black Scot was. How old
was he? Was he fat? Did he have all his teeth? Was he a learned man? Would he
be kind to her? Would he be gentle? She sighed. Answers to these questions
would come, in time. In the meantime, she would simply have to be patient.

But one question still loomed in the back of her mind.

What did the Black Scot look like naked?

After riding in silence for some time, Juliette could stand
neither the silence or the suspense any longer. “Tell me about the Black Scot,”
she said.

“What do you wish to know? The typical things? Is he
handsome? Does he beat his women?”

“His handsomeness matters not, but I would like to know
something of his appearance. Is he tall and dark like you? Or is he short and
squat like Angus?”

“He favors me a great deal.”

His words warmed her. “Tell me something about him.”

“He is the Black Scot, the leader of our clan. What else is
there to tell?”

“What is his proper name?”

“His proper name is Alexander Gordon, Seventh Earl of
Gordon. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Partly. Tell me what kind of person he is. What he likes.”

“He likes silent women,” he said, pushing her head against
his chest. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Her head popped up. “I would rather talk.”

“That doesna surprise me. You do little else.”

“Then we are well matched, for you hardly speak at all. Why
is that?”

“Perhaps I have nothing to say.”

“No, I think it is because you distrust me. Am I right?”

“Aye. I have no reason to trust you, or any Englishman.”

“You have no reason to distrust me, either. True, I am
English, but I will soon be a Scot. Does that make no difference?”

He scoffed at that. “Marriage to the Black Scot doesna make
you a Scot.”

“Being born in England doesn’t make me untrustworthy.”

“Perhaps,” he said, adding no more.

Juliette could not help thinking about this solemn-faced
Scot, wondering at the strange relationship they seemed to be forming. She
would have to admit that she was more than taken with him and she was convinced
he was not indifferent to her, yet his dark glowers and sharp replies said
otherwise.

She stole a glance at his grimly set features. In spite of
his stoic presence, she felt completely at ease with him. Yet never in her life
had she met anyone who went to such extremes to discourage her. With a sigh,
she leaned back against him, deciding she needed to think about this man in
depth. His breath was warm and moist, brushing across her like an ocean
breeze—a touch of human contact as reassuring as the first signs of spring, as
comforting as her favorite blanket. It stirred the fine hairs that curled
around her face. She sighed and closed her eyes, absorbing the warmth of his
great body curled around hers. It both satisfied her and left her with a
strange longing. She kept thinking thoughts she had no business thinking.

She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to be with him as they
were at the pool—naked and unashamed. She wanted to feel his unclothed body
curl around hers as it did now.

But that would never happen. They would never be permitted
such liberties. They would go on as they had been doing, each hiding his
thoughts and feelings. Despair filled her at the prospect. She decided then
that she would not hide her feelings. In truth, she did not think she could.

They continued in silence, until her curiosity got the
better of her and she could contain herself no longer. “Why are you so sad?”

His laugh was low and bitter. “Those are your words,
mistress.”

“But you
are
sad. I can feel it. I see it in your
eyes. Oh, I know you try to hide it, and you probably fool a lot of people, but
you do not fool me. You are not as happy as you would have people think. You
carry a burden m’lord, and it grows heavy.”

“I
am
burdened,” he said. “You are a heavy lass.”

“I am not
that
heavy,” she replied, wanting to throw
her arms around his neck because of the way he tried to make light of something
that obviously pained him. “Who has caused you so much suffering? Was it a
woman?”

Even in the dim light, she could see the muscle working in
his jaw. He did not say anything for a long time. When she repeated her
question, he said, “Aye, it was a woman.”

Now we are getting somewhere,
she thought, priming
herself for a long discussion of this man’s past. “Want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

A minor setback, nothing more. Don’t give up, Juliette…
“Sometimes that helps…you know, talking about it.”

“I dinna need any help,” he said harshly. “Contrary to what
you think, it doesna bother me.”

“
Something
bothers you…unless you’ve always been this
way. Were you always solemn, even as a little boy?”

“If I was, I ken it was because I had something to be solemn
about. Everyone is no as fortunate as you, lass. We canna all be born into
gilded perfection.”

She would have said a word in her defense, but there was
something in his tone, a woeful lilt, a hint of melancholy that made her want
to understand this complex man more than she wanted to defend herself.
Suddenly, it was very important to understand him, to know what made him so
unhappy as a lad, so distrustful as a man. “Did you get on well with your
brothers and sisters?”

“I had no brothers or sisters.”

“Oh,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“I was a bastard,” he said, “born out of wedlock. My father
was married to another woman. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Not completely,” she said. “Why didn’t your father claim
you as his own?”

“Do you never sleep?”

“No, do you?” she asked, then heard his resigned sigh.

“He would have, but my mother took me away. She preferred
living in secluded poverty to giving me up.”

“She must have loved you a great deal.”

“Aye,” he said, in a way that made her think his thoughts
were spinning backward, to another time, another place.

“Did your mother ever marry?”

“Aye. She married my father…eventually. His marriage to his
first wife was a childless union. A few years after I was born, his wife died.
I was five years old when my father found and married my mother.”

A bastard, raised in secluded poverty…
She had
visions of him, a ragged little urchin, teased and taunted because of the
circumstances of his birth, a child with no one to love and comfort him, save a
mother who was as much an outcast as he. She thought of her own family, the
rich, full life she had enjoyed. Her heart went out to him. The look she gave
him was a tender one. “But by the time they married, it was too late to erase
the burden of being illegitimate,” she said, her voice low and full of feeling.

“Aye,” he said. “By then it was too late.”

She put her hand on his sleeve, feeling him flinch. “I am
sorry, Stephen.”

He drew back. “It doesna matter now,” he said. “It was a
verra long time ago.”

“But it does matter,” she said, knowing even before he spoke
that he would tell her no more about himself.

“We have talked overmuch about me,” he said. “It is time you
spoke of yourself. Why were you the one chosen to marry the Black Scot?”

She sighed and leaned her head back against his chest,
staring at the fast fading stars overhead. “It is a long story and not very
interesting,” she said, wishing there was some way she could bring a smile to
his tightly held mouth.

“It is a long way to Craigmoor lass, and I have nothing to
do, save looking at the backside of Angus’s horse.”

She smiled. “I am the daughter of an English earl. I am the
eldest of six sisters who are anxious to be wed, but my father said I must
marry first.”

“Ah, as Katherine did in
The Taming of the Shrew
,” he
said.

Her heart lurched.
A learned man
. She prayed her
betrothed was such as well. “You read Shakespeare?” she asked.

“I have been known to indulge. But we are not talking about
me,” he said. “Are you trying to tell me that your father allowed the king to
use you as a pawn simply so your sisters could wed?”

She nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am, although it sounds far
more cruel when you say it that way.”

“It is cruel,” he said. “Why did he not simply find you a
suitor in England? You are no great beauty, but you are comely enough to find a
husband.”

She smiled inwardly. If he thought to provoke her by baiting
her with a comment about her plain looks…well, she was not so vain as to fall
for that old trick. “It is true that I am not the beauty some of my sisters
are,” she said with forced sweetness, “but I had enough good qualities to
attract many offers.”

“And a large dowry?”

“It is true that my dowry is large, but according to my
father, it was my intelligence and wit that drew the offers. At most of the
gatherings I would find myself surrounded by men, while many women more
beautiful than I were left alone. I never understood why, but for some strange
reason men seemed to find it challenging to carry on a discussion with me.” She
looked up at him with an impish grin. “Perhaps it was because I am a worthy
opponent in chess. Do you play, m’lord?”

“Aye.”

“Then we must have a game sometime.”

“I have a feeling you would beat me.”