The Enchantress (9 page)

She turned her back on him, trying to pull the shirt down over her legs, only to have it slip over her shoulders. She gave up struggling and half turned, scowling at him as he continued watching her every move.

“Could you do something other than stare at me?”

He stretched his long legs out before him and then rose to his feet. Laura felt the hut shrink by half when he stood up.

“I can certainly try.” He casually lifted a gray wool dress off a few pieces of wood by the fire. Without glancing back at her, he hung the garment on a leather cord stretched above the fire. He then picked up a very wet bundle that proved to be her shift. He shook it out, and then let his eyes travel from the wet and transparent material to her half-dressed body and then back to the undergarment. She was sure she heard a low chuckle as he hung the shift beside her dress.

“There must be something you could be doing outside.” She saw his horse watching them with a bored expression. “Like watering him or...”

Laura stopped. William Ross was frowning at her.

“Aye, you were saying?”

She felt her face turn crimson. “You needed to...to take him out...this morn...for watering.”

He simply nodded as he turned and stepped to Dread’s side. The horse still carried its saddle, and the man moved around the animal, tending to it.

Embarrassed that she had thought the worst of him--that she had not even considered a practical reason for his absence this morning--she turned her back to him as she moved toward the fire, crouching beside it and hugging her knees to her chest.

“I suppose I should...well, I am sorry,” she mumbled.

“So you assumed that I had abandoned you here, is that it?” He dropped the saddle somewhere behind her.

“I...I did.” She never lifted her gaze from the blue-tinged flames.

“Actually, I wanted to. But Dread had doubts as to whether you’d survive without us.”

“I would have managed.” Her weakness. She couldn’t hold her tongue. “I was taught long ago how to fend for myself.”

“Och! As you did this morning, I suppose.”

She had no answer to that. When the animal was settled, she heard the Highlander rummaging through his travel bags. She didn’t look at him as he lowered himself beside her at the fire, though her gaze flickered toward the leather flask in his hand and the pieces of dried meat and an oatcake that he placed on the ground between them. She gnawed her lip and forced herself to look away, but the growling of her stomach made her face burn with embarrassment.

“Aye, you were taught to fend for yourself, but I say your teacher should be hung.”

He extended the flask toward her, but she shook her head.

“Come, lass. ‘Twill do you good.”

He pushed it at her again, and she reluctantly took it. The liquid burned her mouth and throat, but a heavenly warmth quickly spread through her belly. When she lowered the flask from her mouth, she found his eyes lingering where she could still feel the liquid on her lips. Stunned by the look and the jolt that coursed through her, she quickly ran the back of her hand over her mouth and handed the flask back to him.

“What is that?”

“‘Tis the ‘water of life.’ Usquabae, they call it. Straight from the kitchens of the Shrine of St. Duthac.”

She pulled her hands tighter around her knees and tried to shake off the light-headedness she suddenly felt. Whether it was the liquid or his nearness, she simply could not tell. Looking at him, however, did not help, and she focused her gaze on the fire. “I believe we’ve been hostile to one another for no reason. Perhaps we started off on...”

“I had reason enough.”

“And so did I,” she retorted, her temper flaring.

They sat in silence for a few moments, but then he shook his head before offering her a piece of the dried meat.

“You seem to have only enough for you. I’m very well.”

He pushed the piece into her hand. “I did not bring you back frozen and half dead just to watch you starve before my eyes.”

His chivalry had reared up once again, and she accepted a bit of the meat with a grateful smile. A moment later, he broke the oak cake and handed her half as well.

As she ate, her eyes traveled from the wet clothing hanging by the fire down to the large shirt that was covering her. A warm flush began to creep again into her neck and cheeks. With difficulty she swallowed the mouthful of food.

“Did--did you...undress me?”

“It was either Dread or me. We drew straws and I lost.”

Laura leaned her forehead against her knees and tried to ward off the embarrassment. She’d reached the age of twenty without ever allowing a man to seriously pursue her, never mind kiss her. And here, in a single day William Ross of Blackfearn had already carried her off, seen her naked to the skin, and awakened with her curled contentedly in his arms. By the Virgin, she thought with rising panic, and none of that was even in response to the lustful thoughts she had of the man.

“I would eat that if I were you.” He nodded toward the food in her hand. “You’re far too thin already. By his Shirt, as lean as the wenches are at the Three Cups, I still think every one of them has more meat on her bones than--”

She shoved him hard enough to send him rolling onto his side. Pretending as if nothing had happened, she quietly tucked the shirt around her legs.

He pushed himself back up into a sitting position. “I take it from your actions that you do not care to be compared with--”

“Don’t say it.”

“...Wenches.”

This time the attack was less than successful. Before she could lift the closest weapon at hand--in this case, the leather flask--he had trapped both of her hands in one of his own and pinned them to the ground. Her face was only inches away from his. This time, though, she was taken aback at the sight of the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was a breathtakingly handsome man, she found herself thinking. Especially when he was amused by her actions. Her gaze drifted uncontrollably to his lips.

“You have a temper, lass.”

“I am the calmest of all my sisters,” she said, struggling to free her hands.

Holding her until her efforts subsided, he finally let go of her hands, and she quickly pulled them a safe distance away. He reached over, though, and pulled up the neckline of the shirt onto her shoulder. Laura again felt a feverish warmth creeping into her face. She gnawed her lip and gazed at his booted legs as they stretched before him.

“And how many are there?”

She stared at him a moment until it registered in her brain what he was asking her. “Oh, three. My sisters are...” She stopped. “You have news of them! You started saying something...something at the stream about a message from my sisters?”

“If I knew how the mere mention of them would affect you, I would never have done so, I’ll tell you that.”

“But I struck you before you mentioned them.”

“And why was that? A strange thing...to reward kindness with violence.”

“I told you before. I thought you were one of them.”

“One of who? You tell me you’ve never seen that monk before, and yet you knew they were coming after you. Why?”

Laura didn’t look away. “You are William Ross of Blackfearn. The laird of clan Ross. ‘Tis very little I know about you.”

“Are you saying that you don’t trust me?”

“Aye.” She nodded with conviction. “You mentioned a provost’s name. Gilbert.”

“Gilbert Ross. My brother.”

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a look of suspicion. “When I was being sent into the Highlands last fall, the name given to me was not Gilbert Ross, but...”

“Father Jerome,” William cut in. “He passed away about the same time that you were expected. Gilbert was chosen as his replacement.”

“And how do I know what you say is the truth?”

“You can believe what you will.” His scowl darkened. “I’m a fool to...och! Think what you will!”

She tucked the tips of her toes under the shirt. The Highlander was staring into the fire, the muscles in his jaw clenched hard.

“I--I believe I was wrong in not believing.” There was no response. She softened her tone. “Does this mean you’ll not tell me what you know of my sisters?”

William continued to stare into the fire for a long moment before finally cursing under his breath. He turned his blue gaze on her. “First, you tell me why you did not arrive at St. Duthac’s three months ago...when you were expected.”

“A storm blew us off course.” She shrugged. “The ship I was sent on was pushed north and forced to anchor at Loch Fleet. We very nearly ran aground at the entrance to the loch itself.”

“That is only a day’s ride from Tain.”

She didn’t like his accusing tone. But knowing the man was obstinate enough to withhold any information until she’d answered all his questions, Laura bit her tongue and forced down her temper. In measured tones, she gave him an account of the disastrous conditions she’d found upon arriving at St. Agnes’s Convent. She had been needed there, so she had stayed. As she spoke, she thought he should be at least a little impressed by the account of all she’d been able to accomplish there. But the Highlander’s hard look never softened.

“And you could not sent a message to St. Duthac?” he said accusingly.

“I did. I sent word with the same sailors who had brought me here.”

“The same sailors?”

She nodded.

“And let me guess, were they Lowlanders?”

“The ones assigned to take me here were.”

He looked at her as if she were a simpleton. “And you thought, ‘tis so easy to maneuver a ship...‘twas a ship, was it not?”

“Get on with what you have to say.”

He nodded. “You thought, ‘tis surely no trouble for a ship to move out to sea and back again into Fearnoch Firth, just a wee distance down the coast, to deliver a message...for a spoiled English chit.”

She tore her eyes away and, resting her chin on her knees, stared into the fire. The taste of the food in her belly had turned sour. Well, what was she supposed to think? It was their duty to go to Tain. At the time it had seemed reasonable to expect them to proceed as planned.

“I assume no message arrived at St. Duthac.”

His snort of disdain was her answer.

“Coddled!” he muttered. “What else is to be expected!”

She pushed away a lock of hair that fell across her face as she snapped her head in his direction. “I’m not coddled. I never have been. I don’t know what you mean.”

“The noble! The rich! Your kind think they can do as they wish and have everything their own way.” He shook his head. “And the English are the worst.”

“I won’t let you insult me.” She threw her head back. “I am sitting here in a ragged shirt with all my worldly possessions hanging above that fire. I think the people you are talking about are
your
kind...not mine! The only people I have are a mother, whom I haven’t seen in months, and two sisters...and
you
refuse to tell me what you know of them. So if you’d be courteous enough to turn your head, I’ll be putting my clothing back on and leave this place so you won’t have to suffer any more because of
my
kind.”

She waited for him to turn his head, but he stubbornly refused to look away.

Laura was too upset not to go through with her threat. “Damn you, you’ve seen what there is to see.” She scrambled to her feet and, stepping behind him, tried to reach for her dress, but his strong grip around her ankle stopped her.

“Sit down.”

“I will not! I am leaving!”

“You’ll stay here and wait out this storm with me...if I have to hang you by your hands right there beside your wet clothing.”

She shivered as his eyes turned on her face. There was no mistaking that he meant everything that he said. Still, she waited as long as she dared. She would not let him bully her.

“I’ll stay...for now.” He let go of her ankle, and Laura retraced her steps, crouching again by the fire. This time, however, she made certain to sit farther back, where she could watch him.

They both sat in silence. Laura listened to the sound of the wind buffeting the hovel walls. Steam was rising from her clothing. They would be dry soon, thank heavens. A fine mist was swirling above them, mingling with the wood smoke. Smoke and mist. The Highlander’s horse shook his head and shifted in the corner, and she turned her gaze to where he stood. A magnificent animal, she thought.

She stole a secretive glance at William Ross of Blackfearn. He too was magnificent. And very much a man. Muscular thighs well defined beneath his red and black kilt, and--as he sat back--strong arms supported a broad, powerful body. Tucking her knees closer to her chest and pulling the long sleeves over her cold hands, Laura tried to bury her face in her knees. Please, Virgin Mother, she prayed, let my clothes dry soon.

“I have news from only one of your sisters.”

Startled by his words, she focused her eyes on him. He had once again taken out the Tudor coin that she’d seen that first time. He was studying it in the dim light of the fire.

“Which sister?” she asked unsteadily. A sudden burning tightness gripped her belly. What if something was wrong with one of her sisters? What could she do? Her eyes involuntarily followed the movement of the coin in William Ross’s hand.

“The message Gilbert received brought word of Catherine Percy Stewart.”

She tore her eyes away from his hands and looked with confusion at the Highlander’s profile. His attention was still focused on the coin. “What did you say?”

He gave her a side glance over one shoulder. “If you have no sister by the name of Catherine, then I’ve been searching for the wrong--”

“I do!” she quickly interrupted, shaking her head. “But you called her Catherine Percy....Stewart.”

He nodded. “Aye. Catherine Percy Stewart, countess of Athol. Mistress of Balvenie Castle.”

“She is married? She...” Laura couldn’t continue. As his words registered, her eyes clouded with a jumble of emotions. Joy and happiness, curiosity, disbelief, even a pang of loss. She quickly dashed away an escaping tear, forcing herself to think on this as good news. As the best of news.

Looking away from his watchful eyes, she dropped her chin on her knees and looked ahead into the dimness beyond the fire. This news changed everything, though. Nothing would ever be the same. Married! A husband to protect her. To love her...Catherine Percy Stewart.