The Raven's Moon (14 page)

He crossed his hands over his saddle. "When I am ready to take you down, you will know it." He lifted the folded plaid tucked behind his saddle cantle. "I brought this back to you. I came for my horse and my gear." He handed her the cloth.

She took it, balancing the babe as she did so. "I will fetch your things," she said curtly, and turned away.

Rowan dismounted and walked over to Valentine, patting his shoulders and murmuring to him as he looked the horse over. The animal was brushed and content. Hearing a dog bark as he turned toward the house, Rowan cautiously approached the door.

A lanky wolfhound, all legs and ugly head and bared teeth, faced him over the threshold. Rowan stood still while the dog, scarce more than a pup, grew taut.

"Easy, Bluebell." Mairi's voice came from inside the shadowed interior of the house. "Be still. He is—a friend."

The dog relaxed and sniffed at Rowan's breeches, then shoved at his stomach and thrust her nose into his hand. Rowan hesitantly patted the wiry gray head. When the hound begged for more, he rubbed his fingers over her head and neck, murmuring a greeting. The dog jumped up, resting two large feet on Rowan's shoulders, and began licking his cheek.

"Bluebell!" Mairi called. "Down!"

Rowan, chuckling, shoved gently at the dog. But Bluebell lifted higher on her back legs, standing nearly as tall as Rowan, and continued to slather his face.

"She is not much of a guardian," he commented.

Mairi pushed the dog's shoulders, still balancing the infant in her other arm. "She is young and wants for fierceness," she said, as Bluebell dropped to four feet and gazed raptly at Rowan.

"Even when reivers come?"

"She growls a bit, and barks, and would make them welcome. Daffin lassie," Mairi said, ruffling Bluebell's brow.

The infant began to wail, and Mairi jiggled the bundle in her arms, distracted. Rowan stepped inside, and Bluebell turned to lick his hand.

"Where is my gear?" he asked, glancing around.

The bairn whimpered loudly. Mairi glanced at Rowan. "When I can put this one down, I'll fetch it," she said, and moved toward the cradle near the hearth.

Rowan looked around the simply furnished main room. The whitewashed walls gave the home a cozy atmosphere, enhanced by the mingled scents of garlic and herbs suspended on ropes attached to the ceiling rafters. At the back of the main room, he noticed a large curtained bed tucked in a corner, and a ladder that led to a shadowed loft.

The bairn abandoned whimpering for long, quavery wails. Mairi swayed, murmuring, and glanced at Rowan distractedly.

He gestured toward a storage chest beneath a window. "Is my gear in there? I can get it myself."

"Not there." Mairi made a cooing noise as the babe cried.

"What's bothering it?" Rowan asked over the din.

"Hungry, but his mother is gone for a bit. Or wet." She worked a finger inside the wrappings. "Oh. Aye."

Turning away, she took a few cloths from a basket and tossed them over her shoulder. Then she dropped her folded plaid to the hearthstone and knelt to lay the infant down on it, murmuring softly as she unwrapped the swaddling cloths.

Rowan waited silently, watching as she bent over the babe. The sinuous curves of her hips and waist revealed a lithe, elegantly shaped body beneath the woolen dress and plaid shawl. Her braid slipped down, a dark, gleaming rope.

Rowan flexed his hands, wanting, suddenly, to touch her hair, to capture its glossy mass in his hands. He imagined, too, so quickly that he could not stop the image, the path that his hands would take as they traced the sensuous contours of her hips and breasts. Drawing a breath against his impulsive thoughts, he told himself that such feelings had no place here.

She spoke softly to the infant, then laughed when it mewled. She glanced at Rowan, eyes sparkling, sweet, as if she wanted him to share some joy with her.

Something stirred and awoke in him then. He clenched his fist against it, but a lost dream came pouring back, compelling and urgent. That dream had been destroyed when he had learned of Maggie's marriage to Alec. The wound was still tender, for he knew now that Maggie had given Alec a son.

Mairi laughed again, sweetly. Once Rowan had thought to watch Maggie smile and coo over a babe, and then look at him like that, sweet and welcoming.

He nearly walked out of the stone house in that moment.

But he was unable to take his gaze from the beautiful girl by the hearth. Such gentleness, such nurturing was rare in his world. Craving that warmth, he wanted to linger near it for just a moment.

He felt isolated suddenly, yearning suddenly. And forgot for the moment the troublesome highway robber. Seeing only the woman, wishing she was his, he moved closer. And stopped.

"I'll get my gear, then. Just tell me where it is."

She adjusted the infant's clothing. "I did not store it here. Reivers would have it quick if I had."

"Have they come again?" he asked quickly.

"Nay." She glanced at him, eyes like smoke, lashes thick and black. "Only you, Master Reiver."

"Do not speak of snatching gear, lass," he said. "I would not be here looking for my boots and jack if you had behaved yourself."

She pursed her lips. Rowan felt relieved to be on more familiar ground with her, scowling and sparring. It seemed safer, he realized, than feeling what he had experienced moments ago.

Bluebell padded over to Mairi and nosed at her head, then snuffled curiously at the child, which jerked its tiny arms in a startle and began to scream again.

Rowan laid a firm hand on Bluebell's shoulder and moved the dog out of the way. Mairi looked gratefully up at him.

"Thank you. Could you wet this, please?" She flipped a white cloth toward him. Catching it, he dipped it in a bucket of water near the hearth and handed it to her. She applied it deftly to the child's bottom.

Rowan had never been this close to an infant before. He leaned closer, peering at pink, tiny creature, which had ceased its pitiable squalling. Mairi lifted the miniature legs with one hand, and slid a soft cloth beneath its skinny rump.

Rowan blinked in surprise when he saw the fleshy male artillery displayed there. "Quite a laddie," he remarked.

"All laddies look overblessed at this age," she said. "'Twill change as he grows."

"Ah. How old is this one, then? He is wee enough to fit in my hand."

"Five weeks," she answered.

A disturbing thought occurred to him. "Will he be much larger when he is—ah, say, two or so years?"

"A good deal larger and quite sturdy by then."

"Larger than this? Good," he said with relief.

Mairi gave him a perplexed look. "Why?"

Rowan shrugged and stood back. "Just a thought." He felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. He might appear to be a lackbrain, but he had scant experience of children, and he would be challenged to care for one soon in fetching Alec's son.

As Mairi tucked the clean cloth in some mysterious manner around the babe, Rown was further relieved to remember that his grandmother had said that Alec's lad was trained to use a jordan. He had no desire to be untangling soiled cloths from a squealing bairn while traveling through the worst nests in Scotland in the Debatable Land.

Mairi finished wrapping the babe and stood. "Here, hold him and I will get your gear," she said, pressing the infant to his chest. "His name is Robert Macrae. Robin."

Rowan's arms came up in surprise, moving instinctively to catch what came to him. Mairi laid her hand over his for a moment to make sure he had a firm hold.

"Keep hold of his head," she told him. "You are not such a threat, Master Reiver, with your arms so full of a bairnie."

"Master Deputy," he reminded her.

Eyes twinkling, she tossed him a bright smile, and having cleverly and gently waylaid him with the babe, she went to the loft ladder and climbed up.

Rowan looked down at the infant, who blinked at him. A frown wrinkled the tiny face, and the miniature chin was scrunched and wobbly. Rowan was not sure he had the thing securely, for he could hardly feel the slight weight in his arms. The head bobbled in his hand.

The child mewled and squirmed, and a gummy, dimpled grin blossomed on his little face. Rowan laughed, could not help it. Glancing up, he saw Mairi's feet and the hem of her gown at the top of the ladder. A fine, firm lower leg emerged, and he strolled closer, holding the child with increasing confidence.

Mairi disappeared into the loft. Rowan walked the room, jiggling the infant. Bluebell trotted at his side.

Minutes later, Mairi came back down the rungs. From where he stood, Rowan could appreciate her slender, muscular calves, so neatly formed. She had his long black boots under one arm, and tossed them to the floor.

"If you are in a hurry, I can throw all your gear down to the floor quick like." She climbed up again.

"Nay!" Rowan called, thinking of his Spanish helmet. He looked at the bairn. "Laddie, you must fend for yourself."

Crossing the room, he bent over the cradle and gently laid the babe on the soft linens piled inside. Awkwardly he tucked a wee blanket over the child. Then he set the cradle to rocking, and glance down at the dog, which was chewing nonchalantly on one of the boots that Mairi had tossed to the floor.

"Hey!" he yelled. Bluebell looked up. "Here, guard the wee lad," Rowan ordered, pointing. The dog padded over and sat near the cradle. Rowan then crossed the room for the ladder.

Chapter 10

"But now I've got what lang I sought,

And I may not stay wi' thee."

—"Lord Maxwell's Goodnight"

Thin sunbeams pierced the thatched roof and spilled into the loft. Kneeling in a corner, Mairi shoved aside a loose floorboard to reach into the shallow space between the loft floor and the ceiling of the main room. Grasping the man's heavy leather jack, she dragged it out, and jumped slightly to see Rowan Scott peering at her over the top of the ladder.

He stood upright in the small loft, bumping his head on a sloped rafter and wincing. Mairi remembered his head wound with a twinge of remorse.

"Where's Robin?" she asked.

"Watching that hound of yours," he said. He came forward, stooping, then knelt beside her. He peered into the hole in the floor, crammed full of his gear.

"A canny place to hide valuables," he commented.

"Do not tell your reiving friends about it," she said.

"Am I such a scoundrel? I've been muckle courteous this day. I've even tended your bairn."

"My nephew. And you have been courteous," she agreed, glancing at him. In the light, Rowan's eyes shone green as moss, his hair like black silk. He smiled a little—neither reiver then nor deputy, just a man who had a strange effect on her and made her breath and her heartbeat quicken.

Did he mean danger for her or not? When he had ridden into the yard, she had been afraid. But now he had won Bluebell's heart, and had held Robin so tenderly and awkwardly that her heart had melted to see it.

But he was a Scott and a March deputy, and he posed a threat to Iain—and to her. And he had refused to help her free Iain, she reminded herself.

"Here," she said stiffly, reaching into the hiding space and backhanding his woolen hose toward him. She followed with his bunched up linen shirt and his belt. His brown serge doublet was next. Gathering up his things, he set them aside.

He knelt so close beside her that she could feel the warmth of his body. Her bare toes brushed his boot-clad leg.

Drawing his heavy steel helmet out of its hiding place, Mairi sat back with it. Rowan reached forward, his hand mirrored in the glinting metal surface. His fingers slid over hers as he took the thing from her.

That warm contact startled her, distracted her. She bent hastily to grab the hilt of his sword. It was stuck somehow. She yanked, overbalancing herself.

Rowan caught her waist firmly, sending another shock through her. She felt touched by fire, but he was gentle as he set her aside.

"Let me," he said, and stretched his arm out to take hold of the sword. His shoulder bumped against her knee. She sat back, watching the strong play of his broad shoulders and long torso as he reached. His dark hair swung forward, and she remembered touching its smooth texture when he had lain injured in her lap.