Bride of the Black Scot (4 page)

“I would try,” she said, looking up at him and smiling. For
a moment she thought he might smile in return, but he curbed the inclination,
keeping the discussion on the target he had set earlier: herself.

“If you had many suitors, why would your father marry you to
a Scot? Surely he knows we are no verra fond of the English?”

No verra fond… I do love the way he speaks. Faith! I
think I am beginning to love everything about him… Danger… Danger… Danger…

She ignored her own inner warnings. “I fear I was too particular.
Each time the king suggested a suitor to my father and the poor man came to
call, I found him not to my liking and my father sent him away.”

“Your father is very indulgent of you, I take it.”

“Yes, he is. Of course he would like my sisters and myself
to think him gruff and stern, but in truth, he is the kindest of fathers. He
would sooner lop off his own hand than cause one of us grief.”

“And because of your ease in manipulating your father, the
king became annoyed with you, so he banished you to Scotland.”

“He made it sound as if he were doing me a great honor,” she
said, turning her head to look at her companion but seeing only the square
thrust of his chin.

“It is the way of kings.” Stephen looked down at her, and
for a moment he studied her face. He was so close she could feel the moist heat
of his breath, a warm caress against her cheek. For a time she simply stared at
him, her gaze fastened upon his full, sensuous lips. She could not help
wondering what it would be like to kiss him. She could not help herself. She
was attracted to him, and despite the way he acted, she knew he was attracted
to her as well.

“You talk overmuch.”

“I know, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do,
save look at the backside of Angus’s horse.”

She heard his soft chuckle. Looking up, she saw the
expression in his eyes and recognized his intention, just as his head came
toward her. Her breath quickened. There were a dozen things she could have,
should have done to dissuade him, but all she did was make a small noise deep
in her throat before her eyes drifted closed. His lips touched hers softly,
then withdrew. It was not a kiss of passion, but merely one of inquiry. When
she did not turn away, he lowered his head again. This time, he kissed her with
slow, lingering thoroughness, tracing her lips with his tongue, then drawing
her lower lip inside his mouth. The sensation made her gasp and she had to dig
her fingers into the soft folds of his cape to keep from falling off the horse.
As if humored by her action, he broke the kiss, dragging his lips back and
forth across hers until she melted against him. She moaned softly when he drew
back, studying her face intently.

She bore the scrutiny of his dark gaze. “Why did you do
that?”

“Because you wanted me to.”

She smiled, losing herself in his eyes and forgetting for a
moment why she was here and who he was. “Yes, I did,” she said, her voice
barely audible. “What would you do if I wished it again?”

“I would tell you to remember you are promised to the Black
Scot,” he said in a chilling, unemotional tone.

His words slapped her in the face with cold, hard reality,
and it took only that one reminder to draw her thoughts up short. She felt too
many things for this man that she should not be feeling. Suddenly she was
terrified of herself, yet even more terrified of him. This was no foppish boy
like the ones she dallied with in the drawing rooms of England. This was a man
in every sense of the word. Suddenly, she felt as if she had stepped off a
cliff and was falling into a bottomless abyss. Her body trembled.

If she had been on her own horse, she would have ridden
ahead, leaving the tempting reminder of him far behind her. As it was, she
could only feign indifference, praying the heat she felt on her face was not as
red as it felt.

Ignoring her obvious discomfiture, he said, “Now, tell me
why you seem so accepting of your fate.”

“Is there a reason why I should not be accepting? Should I
have cause to fear this union?” she asked, fighting to regain her composure.
“Is the Black Scot an animal? Will I grow to hate him?”

“He is a fair man. One who holds the responsibility for the
welfare of the clan and must act accordingly. He cannot think of what he wants,
but only of what is best for his kinsmen.”

“He is a lot like the king, then.”

“Aye, perhaps he is. Why are you so inquisitive about the
Black Scot?”

“He is to be my husband. Is that not reason enough?”

“Perhaps you want to find out his weakness, the place where
he is vulnerable.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Are you Delilah, come to cut
Samson’s hair, or Salome, ready to dance for his head?”

She returned his gaze, praying he would see the truth in her
eyes. “Perhaps I am Esther.”

“The Jewish girl who became queen of Persia.”

“The Jewish girl who told the Persian king of a plot against
his life. I am not a seductress or a warrior, m’lord. My motives are simpler
ones and more gentle. It is only a woman’s natural curiosity that prompts my
questions. I have no doses of poison hidden in my jewels, no dagger tucked into
my boot, no code memorized to send the King of England secret messages. Why are
you so hesitant to tell me about him?”

He shrugged. “What is there to know beforehand? You will
have time enough after you are married to learn of him and his ways. Why is it
so important now?”

“Because it might help me to be a better wife to him.”

He looked surprised. “You plan to serve him?”

She stiffened at the sound of that. “I come as his
betrothed—soon to be his wife—not as his servant. I will be his equal, but that
does not prevent me from wanting to know and understand him.”

His voice was scoffing. “I ken he would value your
allegiance more than your understanding.”

“He has that already.”

The look he gave her was one of open surprise. “Ah, but how
do you know
you
can trust
him
, lass? Have you no heard? He is no
called the Black Scot for naught.”

“Oh, I have heard he picks his teeth with the bones of his
victims…that he drinks the blood of unbaptized babes.”

“And still you dinna fear him?”

“He has your trust, does he not?”

“Aye.”

“And the trust of his clansmen?”

“Aye.”

“Then I have no reason to fear him.” She glanced at him, saw
his worried frown, and smiled. “Trusting must come difficult for you,” she
said.

“I never trust a strange dog, an unknown horse, the deepest
part of a river, or a talkative woman.”

“I feel sorry for you then. Yours must be a lonely
existence.”

Anger flared in his eyes. She felt his body stiffen.
“Perhaps I prefer it that way.”

“And perhaps you don’t.”

“You are a troublesome lass,” he said.

After riding for a while longer, Stephen drew rein and they
came to a stop. He remained astride his horse until Angus approached, then he
handed Juliette down to Angus and dismounted behind her.

“We will take a short rest here,” he said.

“How long is a short rest?” she asked, rubbing her posterior
and looking around for Edith.

“You would be wise to spend the time walking, to ease the
discomfort of your legs, rather than exercising your tongue.”

“I know I talk overmuch. It is a habit that has plagued me
since my mother died and I found myself caring for six younger sisters. It is
the one thing I found I excelled at. I talked enough for myself and my sisters,
too.” She smiled at him. “My father always said, ‘talk won’t cook porridge’.”

Her words seemed to soften the hardness in Stephen’s eyes,
but his expression made her more uncomfortable than his hardness had done.

“It is said a man is hid under his tongue,” he said.

She broke into musical laughter. “I assure you that I am
hiding nothing.”

She made the mistake of looking at him. He was watching her
with an intensity that frightened her. Her every instinct told her to run, to
reveal nothing more of herself to him, yet she knew she should remain steady.
“As much as I would like to continue our conversation, this is, as you said, a
short rest. I find I am in need of some privacy…” She looked around for a
hidden place. “That is, I would…I need…”

Stephen chuckled and nodded toward a cluster of low shrubs.
“That should provide you sufficient cover to ease your distress, lass.”

She eyed the low cluster. “Cover? A suckling pig couldn’t
hide behind that,” she said.

“I ken it will cover the important parts,” he said. “You may
go that far and no farther. You decide.”

She stomped off toward the bushes, complaining under her
breath.
Thickwit…numskull…overbearing brute…dictatorial tyrant… The man must
have a bladder the size of the king’s coffers.

She heard Edith puffing as she ran up behind her. “M’lady,
where are you going?”

Juliette paused, waiting for Edith to gain her side. “To
relieve myself, Edith. Have you a need as well?”

Edith looked properly horrified. “I could not do it
here
.”

“You could if it were necessary,” Juliette said. “Go back,
then. I will only be a moment.”

“I would sooner step into a den of hungry lions,” Edith
said. “Those men have lust in their eyes.”

Judith smiled and glanced back at the clearing, where no one
seemed to be taking any notice of them. “What makes you think that?”

“A woman can tell,” Edith said. “Old as I am, I am beginning
to fear for my virtue.”

Juliette looked astonished. “You mean you still have it?”

Edith seemed to swell with righteous indignation. “Of course
I do. And I’ll not be losing it on the likes of these rugged creatures. I don’t
mind telling you, m’lady, that being with these men does not sit right with
me.”

Juliette was thinking that at Edith’s age, she should be
happy to lose her virtue anywhere she could. She didn’t say that, of course,
simply tried to soothe Edith, but it was difficult to remain serious. “I think
you worry overmuch, Edith. Why, Stephen told me himself that his men were most
honorable.”

“Honorable? A Scot? Begging your pardon, m’lady, but I’d
sooner trust a starved wolf. I would die before I would give the likes of these
a second glance.”

Juliette could not help smiling. Edith needed a diversion.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Angus. “Perhaps you would
reconsider if it was a man who recently said to me that an honorable man would
seek only marriage.”

Edith went on fuming. “Marriage is of no consequence,” she
mumbled, then paused. “Which one said that?”

Juliette pointed at Angus, laughing to herself when Edith
took off like a trained falcon, in hot pursuit of Angus.

Laughing outright, Juliette continued to the bushes and
glanced back. Seeing no one was watching her, she decided to go a little farther,
where the land sloped away, over a jumble of tumbled stones, down to where a
small burn spilled down an embankment. She stepped across the burn and found
the perfect spot, sheltered in a low stand of trees.

A few minutes later, her task completed, she left the screen
of trees…and her heart leaped into her throat as she came upon three large,
burly men mounted on shaggy horses blocking her way.

MacBeans!

One of the men snarled something and the three of them eased
their horses forward, one of them reaching for her. Juliette screamed and
turned away, running for the cover of trees that lay just ahead.

Suddenly, a shout rang out, and Juliette whirled around. The
three men turned to stare at the sight of a lone rider galloping toward them—a
rider garbed in black, his dark cape billowing out behind him, sparks flying
from the rocks struck by the hooves of his black horse as he rode like a demon.

Juliette heard the
whoosh
of air as he drew his
claymore.

Two of the men shouted and spurred their horses forward,
riding toward him. Juliette’s first reaction was to turn away, but she found
she could not. What she saw then would live in her mind for the rest of her
days.

It was a moment both magnificent and terrifying, the most
ungodly, uncivilized act, and yet the most graceful deed she had ever
witnessed.

Stephen rode between the two men, wielding his claymore to
the right and catching one of the men at the neck, between the head and
shoulder. Before the man toppled from his horse, he slashed to the left,
catching the other man across the chest before riding toward the third man, who
rode toward him with his claymore held in both hands, high above his head.

Stephen rode his horse toward the man, his own horse never
veering from the course but staying true and striking the other horse, causing
it to stumble, unseating its rider. Before the man could come to his feet,
Stephen pinned him to the earth, driving his claymore through the man’s sleeve.
Blood seeped from a cut on his side.

“Tell your chief that I keep what is mine,” Stephen said.

The back of her hand against her mouth, Juliette watched in
horror as the man staggered to his horse, then mounted and rode away. Stephen
whirled his horse around and rode toward her. For a terrifying moment she
thought he might cut her down as well, but it was only his arm that came out to
grab her and throw her across the saddle in front of him.

His horse never slowed as they rode back to the clearing
where the others waited. She could see from her upside-down position the rest
of the men watching them. She squirmed and was about to say something about her
discomfort when she felt the flat side of his broadsword come down against her
backside.

It wasn’t very hard, and what force there had been was absorbed
by her petticoats, but she gave a yelp anyway, just as he jerked her upright
and gave her a shake. “The next time you disobey me, I won’t be so kind.” He
dropped her to her feet.