Taming the Barbarian (14 page)

“It shall again. Now, you must return to Lord Gardner posthaste and offer whatever is necessary to secure the purchase of that property.”

” ‘Tis not so—”

“Try to obtain it as inexpensively as possible, of course. But pay what you must.”

“It’s—”

“Mr. Benson,” she said. “I shall see my husband’s estate returned to its former grandeur. The cost matters—”

“Hiltsglen already holds the deed,” Benson said in a rush.

She drew a sharp breath, held it for a moment, and forced herself to be calm. “What?”

Benson turned his hat fretfully about in his hands. Its tattered rim suggested it might have made the same nervous circuit on more than one occasion. “Sir Hiltsglen,” he said. “I fear he already holds the deed to the property.”

“That’s impossible,” she breathed, but she knew that it was not, knew Hiltsglen was just the sort of man to steal the land from under her grasp even as he pretended to come to her aid. She pursed her lips, glanced at her desk, and carefully closed her account books. “Mr. Benson,” she said, her tone carefully clipped now, “please ask Horace to bring my carriage around.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, and turned away thankfully.

“And Mr. Benson.”

He twisted back with an undisguised grimace.

“Do you happen to know any investigators?”

His eyes widened marginally. “Investigators, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“No, my lady, I fear I do not. But I… I imagine I could find one if you so desired.”

“I do,” she said, and gave him a curt nod. “I do indeed.”

Killian rubbed the ancient wound beneath the plaid cloth that crossed his bare torso, then bent and heaved a pair of stones into his makeshift dray. It had taken him most of the morning to fashion the thing out of rough timber, still longer to rig a harness so that it might be pulled by a horse.

He looked at his sorry handiwork and sighed. He was hardly an accomplished wainwright, he thought, and glanced toward the north. A furlong in that direction, the River Nettle hustled along in its fertile bed. From the surrounding trees a pipit sang to the setting sun. ‘Twas a bonny spot there by the quarry, pastoral and quiet. Mayhap a man could find peace there. But did he deserve peace?

He turned his gaze to Caraid. The sword of his ancestors leaned against the stone wall, its upturned hilt etched with intricate knotwork. His dark memories assured him that it had served him well in the past, but mayhap those days were far behind him. Mayhap he had come to this place to start anew. He glanced at the tumbled cottage. Then, lifting another pair of displaced stones, he tossed them into the wagon behind the spavined gelding. The chestnut remained absolutely unmoved when the rocks hit the growing cairn.

Treun, on the other hand, flickered back his foxy ears and issued a snort of disgust.

Killian gave him a glare. “You’d best be keeping yer comments to yerself, laddie, lest ye wish to carry yon load upon yer own back.” They had had something of a disagreement hours before about whether or not handsome destriers were meant to pull homemade drays filled with rocks from tumbledown cottages. Killian was fairly sure he himself had lost the argument.

The stallion shook his hirsute head. Lifting his heavily feathered foreleg, he struck the oaken trunk to which he was tied.

“And ye’ll stay where yer put,” Killian added, “if ye dunna wish to spend the remainder of yer days as a gelding.”

The stallion swung his great head toward the east and trumpeted like a battle horn.

“Aye,” Killian agreed grumpily. “And that’s where the fiery lass will be staying. Well out of the reach of the likes of ye.” The bay mare was no less dangerous than her mistress, who could hit with surprising strength when moved to violence. Killian’s eye still ached like the devil where she’d struck him.

Treun snorted as if laughing and thumped the tree with irritating repetition.

“Ye may well think it funny now, but ye were na so merry when I found ye with yer bonny mare.”

Treun pawed again, more aggressively still, and Killian snorted.

“Oh aye, she be a lovely sight to behold, but she is na so delicate as she seems, aye?” When Killian had discovered the two in the woods beside the smothering stable, his charger’s shoulder had already sprouted a swelling the size of his fist. “Ye cross her again, and she’ll have ye seeing double or na a’tall.”

The stallion half reared, restive and angry.

“Ye think yerself a bleeding hero just now, but ye’d best na forget, she would have beat the living tar out of ye had I na dragged ye away. ‘Tis a blessing to ye she caught ye in the shoulder where she can do ye na damage instead of in the balls where—”

Treun jerked his head to the east and screamed again. Killian turned with a start.

Just stepping from the woods, was the bay mare. And upon her back sat Lady Glendowne.

Killian’s breath caught as if he’d been struck with a battering ram.

Fleurette rode as straight and true as a conquering queen. Her strawberry hair shone like rosy gold in the waning sun, and her eyes, as green as the Highland hills, scanned him with regal disdain.

And despite himself, Killian felt himself flush. If the truth be known, he preferred to be dressed in full armor in the presence of the fairer sex. But at least she had not heard him discussing nether parts with his randy steed like a demented stable lad.

The lady drew her mount to a halt. The mare tucked her delicate head to her chest and rolled white-framed eyes at Treun.

“Sir Hiltsglen.” Her voice was dulcet, her velvet-clothed shoulders drawn back like a wee, battle-ready soldier.

“My lady,” he said, and felt strangely naked in naught but his belted plaid. Which was strange, since he’d spent most of his life in naught else.

Her eyes skimmed him again, as if he were some strange phenomenon she’d found beneath a rock on the river bank. “I’ve a matter I would speak of with you… if you are not too busy discussing delicate matters with your steed.”

G
od’s breath, she’d heard him. Killian scowled, hoping to control his blush. But it was no use. So he glared at her and straightened his back. It ached dully. A warrior was not meant for menial labor. But times had changed with confusing abruptness. And he must change with them or fall. “What would ye discuss?” he asked.

She remained silent, staring at him. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet like a callow lad.

“Did ye come here apurpose, my lady?” he asked. “Or have ye lost yer way?”

Anger sparked in her eyes as she raised them to his, and Killian was glad to see it, for it was good to remember that she was no fragile blossom. Indeed, despite her touchable skin and delicious fragrance, she was no more tractable than the fiery mare she controlled with such cool aplomb.

Turning deliberately away, he bent and lifted another stone from the tumbled pile. It met its mates with a clatter. Killian raised his scowl to her lowered gaze and found that she had fixed a careful smile on her perfectly sculpted face. Her skin, he noticed, was as fair as a windflower, with just the slightest blush of pink on her bonny cheeks.

“Would it not make more sense to use the stallion for that task?” she asked, nodding toward the gelding, who stood with one hind resting lazily and his bottom lip drooping.

Killian turned his gaze toward Treun. The black charger reared again. His cock had already gone hard and jerked like a long dark arm against his taut belly. God’s balls!

Killian cleared his throat and snapped his gaze back to the lady’s.

“Treun thinks himself better suited for other tasks,” he grumbled.

“Such as—” she began, then paused as the steed swung his haunches about, affording her a better view of his opinion of his value. “Oh.” It was her turn to clear her throat. Indeed, it was her turn to blush. Killian watched in fascination. Mayhap she was not so worldly as he had thought. “I just… I…” She cleared her throat again and straightened her back even more, though he would have thought it impossible. “Treun?” she asked, and refused to glance at the stallion again.

Killian almost smiled at her obvious discomfort. Indeed, if he had not throbbed with such impatient lust himself, he might well have laughed out loud.

” ‘Tis the beastie’s name,” he said, but she did not respond. In the past, he had rarely been uncomfortable with silence. Indeed, he was not the sort to care for idle blather. But he shuffled his feet, feeling lost in her wordless presence. “It means brave…” he said, “in the Gaelic.”

“Oh.”

“Aye.” God’s nuts, he was like an unwashed boar at the sight of a prize sow.

“Well…” Her mare danced a slow-cadenced
rondeau
beneath her, but the lady’s lithe body only swayed the slightest degree while her hands were as steady as the earth. “He is that,” she said, and pursed her lips. They looked as succulent as elderberries, as bright and lush as spring flowers. “He seemed quite fearless… despite the fire.” She cleared her throat and glanced down momentarily. “I do not deny that I would like to have him amongst my own stock, but just now I am quite grateful he was in your care.”

Killian stood transfixed as her lips moved. How soft they would feel beneath his. How plump and warm and—

“Sir Hiltsglen.”

“Oh! Aye!” he rumbled. What the devil had she been saying? He jerked his gaze from her mouth to glare at Treun. The stallion kicked out behind and trumpeted again. “He is na usually so rank as all this.”

“Not usually?” Her brows dipped toward her ever-bright eyes. “You speak as if you’ve owned him for a decade.”

Damnation! He had to keep his wits about him, but her luscious lips kept moving, drawing his attention, tightening his body. And now she was staring at him, and he had no idea what to say, and—

“Sir Hiltsglen?”

He swore in silence and tried not to sweat. God’s truth, ‘twould be safer to face a troop of his own wild clansmen than spend ten minutes in her dangerous company. “He… reminds me of a steed I once rode.”

“Truly?” She eyed the stallion, her lips slightly quirked. “I’ve not seen his ilk. Not in all of England.”

Treun strained at his tether, his erection snatched up tight against his barrel, his teeth bared.

“Aye, well, they’re a breed apart in the Highlands.”

She turned her gaze back to him. He felt the impact like a direct blow. As if she had reached in and struck his heart.

“Did he…” She paused and Killian realized he was rubbing the aching bruise Treun had left on his biceps. “Did he bite you?”

The slightest suggestion of a smile was tilting her rose petal lips, calling to him, begging for him. He took a step toward her, then caught himself with taut impatience and perfected a glare. “I’ve a task to do,” he snarled. Rampaging lust rarely put him in a good mood. Being laughed at by a maid who smelled like heaven and hit like the devil made him downright nasty. His eye twitched, reminding him she had surprising strength in her foolishly tiny fist. “And I cannot dringle me time away on foolish blather. What be yer purpose here?”

A muscle jumped in her jaw. Her mood could change like the weather, a good thing to remember, considering his eye. “My purpose,” she said, “is of a business nature.”

He clenched his jaw and held himself steady. Damn it all, didn’t she know that some men still acted like men? Some men could not hear her speak without wanting to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and—

And he was daydreaming like a green lad again. “State yer business,” he snarled.

“A gentleman… indeed, a
civilized
man,” she said, and raked his bare chest with her hot gaze, “would not wish to discuss business like two badgers over a fresh kill.”

He tightened his fists and willed himself not to blush again. ‘Twas no surprise to learn she did consider him to be one of the preening peacocks she called gentlemen.

“And what would a gentleman do, my lady?” he asked, refusing to be quelled.

“He might…” She glanced toward his tumbledown cottage as if suddenly uncertain. “Invite me in to… discuss matters over tea and… crumpets.”

He almost laughed out loud at the idea. Tea! He was lucky to have water and a cup to put it in, but he bowed, then motioned to the hovel with sincere sarcasm. “Me apologies, me lady,” he said. “Would ye care to view me grand estate?”

She gritted him a smile. “No,” she said, and brushed a speck of dust from her immaculate frock. “But thank you ever so much for asking.”

Maybe it was her tone that irked him. Maybe it was her baiting. Or maybe, God damn it, it was just her. He returned her taut smile. “

“It’s a strange thing,” he said, and took a step toward her. The mare tucked her handsome head and retreated. “I did na think ye the type to be afeared of a barbarian such as meself.”

“Afeared?” she asked, and brought the mare to an abrupt halt. “I am hardly afeared… afraid,” she corrected, “of the likes of you.”

He gave her a smile, the one O’Banyon had once compared to an irritable bear’s snarl.

“Then please…” he said, and swept his arm toward the moldering abode. The movement burned through his biceps like fire. Damned horse. ‘Twould serve him right and well to spend the rest of his days as a hapless stag. “Will ye na join me in me…” He paused. “Solar?”

She glanced toward the house. Had the building been fully restored to its former, dubious glory, its entirety would have fit into Briarburn’s master bedchamber. But that wasn’t where she spent her nights was it, he thought, and wondered about her reasons.

Their gazes met. She scowled, then hid away the expression and lifted her chin. “Very well,” she said, and, kicking an iron free, balanced momentarily on her left foot before jumping to the ground.

The mare swung her hips wide and rolled her eyes at Treun. As for the stallion, he was sweating as if battle-ready. A lazy beam of fading sunlight found its way through the new spring leaves and shone on his hide with blue-black luster.

The lady smiled. “Where shall I house my mount?” she asked, then glanced about as if surprised. “Oh, but I see you’ve got no stable.”

Killian gritted his teeth. “Bring her ‘bout back,” he said, and led the way around the cottage.