The Recruit (12 page)

It took Mary a moment to realize what she meant. Her eyes went huge with shock. “Margaret!”

Long sword
, Lady Moira had said. Now she understood. Apparently, it hadn’t been her glasses.

Margaret gave an unrepentant shrug. “Ladies talk. It’s hardly a secret, although I
admit it isn’t one for polite conversation. But after a long feast and a few goblets
of wine, some of the ladies can be every bit as ribald as the men.”

Mary had been more sheltered than she realized. It seemed there was an entire world
she was missing.

“He’s the perfect man, you know, for a night of sin. Were you ever to contemplate
it.”

For once Mary did not ask herself what her sister would do. She feared the answer.
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? A night isn’t an option for women like us. And
I could never marry such a man. He only sought me out because he doesn’t know who
I am. Seducing a widowed attendant is quite different from a countess the king wishes
him to marry.” She smiled. “I admit, I’m looking forward to his surprise when he finds
out his mistake.”

Margaret returned her smile. “I am, too. Sir Kenneth is a charming scoundrel, but
his behavior has been outrageous. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson.” She paused.
“But you could always tell him after. Why shouldn’t you not have a night, if you wish
it, Mary? If anyone deserves a bit of sin, you do, after all you have been through.
You’re a widow, not beholden to any man. Surely you know it is not uncommon?”

Hardly. Atholl had taught her that. “It doesn’t make it any less wrong,” she said
softly.

Margaret smiled and patted her hand. “Of course, you are right. Now who is the wicked
one?” She laughed and gave her a mischievous wink. “But don’t forget, if you change
your mind, you can always repent for your sins later. I should think he would be worth
at least a few dozen Hail Marys.”

More like a few hundred. Mary fought back the smile, but in the end laughed along
with her former sister-in-law. Who knew it could be so much fun to be a little wicked?

The torches had already been lit for the coming night when Kenneth finally dragged
himself from the soothing hot waters of the bath his sister had arranged for him.
Helen didn’t think any of his ribs were broken, but you wouldn’t know it from the
ghastly-looking mass of purple, black, and red that covered a large portion of his
left side. And you sure as hell wouldn’t know it from the pain. It hurt like the bloody
devil.

He’d made a mistake. Become too aggressive. Assured of his victory, he’d tried to
end it too soon and in the process had given MacKinnon an opening. The other warrior
had taken full advantage of it with a blow that could have put a swift end to all
Kenneth’s plans. He knew better, damn it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen
again.

There was nothing his sister could do for it beyond providing a tight binding tomorrow,
having him soak in a hot bath tonight, and giving him a draught of nasty-tasting brew
for the pain. It relaxed him. Perhaps a little too much. He could have fallen asleep
in the warm water and been happy to skip the feast entirely.

He’d avoided most of the long meals and celebrations during the week, preferring a
Spartan routine while he competed. But the king had specifically requested his presence
tonight to meet Atholl’s widow, who was leaving
soon, and MacKay had told him in no uncertain terms, when he’d come to collect Helen
earlier, that he’d better be there. With the result tomorrow all but assured—as Kenneth
had anticipated, Robbie Boyd had not entered—he could afford to relax his guard for
a few hours.

Besides, he had other plans he didn’t want to miss.

He was surprised just how eager he was to see Lady Mary again. He didn’t let her prior
refusal deter him. He was confident in his persuasive abilities. She’d been shocked
and outraged, but she’d also been tempted. He’d seen it in those brilliant eyes of
hers before they’d started flashing at him.

He didn’t know what it was about the lass that provoked him to such wickedness. But
there was something about the way she looked at him that made him feel as if she were
still wearing those glasses of hers—as if she were seeing him too clearly and judging
him too harshly—and he couldn’t resist.

He frowned. There was more to her than the laced-too-tightly repressed wanton in a
nun’s habit than he’d anticipated. He’d expected a shy, passive lass who would be
flattered by his attention.

She wasn’t either.

His frown deepened. He didn’t know why he was bothering with the lass at all. She
wasn’t like his usual bed-mates. She was older, plainer, and far from the “throng
of worshipers” his sister teased him about.

He wasn’t usually forced to make such an effort. Women came to him. Hell, he couldn’t
remember the last time he’d had to go to this much trouble for a lass.

He supposed it was the novelty that was drawing him. But he was surprisingly eager
for the second part of his night to begin. He couldn’t wait to see whether the glimpse
of raw sensuality was as hot as it appeared.

He’d blocked out the simpering and giggling of the maidservant who’d been given the
task of bathing him, but
heard it now as she began to help him into his braies. He didn’t encourage her obvious
interest, however, and quickly donned his breeches, tunic, and plaid, wincing when
he had to lift his hands over his shoulders. He allowed her to help him pull on his
boots to avoid bending over, but buckled the dirk that he was never without around
his waist himself.

His hair was still damp as he made his way across the courtyard from the makeshift
bathhouse in a small corner of the kitchens, where the fire had not only kept him
warm but had proved efficient at heating the water as well.

There weren’t many people milling about as the feast had already gotten underway,
but he greeted a few of the guardsmen who were posted around the
barmkin
. Even before he climbed the stairs and entered the East Range of the castle, he could
hear the raucous sounds of celebrating coming from the open windows of the Great Hall.
He was glad to see that he wasn’t the last to arrive, as the corridor to his left
was still filled with people making their way into the celebration. Before he could
follow them, MacKay blocked his path.

“You’re late,” he snapped.

Kenneth’s jaw locked in what had become almost a reflex when it came to his interactions
with his future brother-in-law. “You have the fine makings of a nursemaid if you ever
get tired of warfare. I didn’t realize my comings and goings were so important to
you.”

MacKay returned his glare. “They aren’t. The king sent me to see what was taking you
so long.”

“I had something to attend to.”

MacKay smiled. “Helen told me you were injured. I hope it isn’t serious.” He shook
his head in mock disappointment. “It would be a shame if you lost tomorrow.”

“Helen exaggerates. I’ll be fine to fight tomorrow, and just like all the other events,
I’ll win. I hope you are ready for a new partner.”

MacKay’s eyes flared. “If you win tomorrow, you’ll deserve to be my partner. But I
wouldn’t count my victories too soon; it’s not over yet.”

Kenneth wasn’t listening; he barely registered MacKay’s half-smile before turning
away. Out of the corner of his eye, something had caught his attention. Or should
he say
someone
had caught his attention?

“You’re fortunate Lady Mary hasn’t arrived yet,” MacKay said.

Another Mary. Kenneth had forgotten Atholl’s widow’s given name was Mary. His mind
was on the Mary at the other end of the corridor, near the donjon. At least he thought
it was her. He couldn’t see her face, but the clothes were dark and plain enough to
stand out.

Except this woman seemed to be
laughing
. She was looking up at the man opposite her—

Kenneth stopped.
Bloody hell
.

Without realizing it, his fists clenched at his sides and his mouth fell in a hard
line.

Why was she talking to Gregor MacGregor?

He started toward them.

“Where in Hades are you going?” MacKay called after him. “The king is waiting for
you.”

But Kenneth was too angry to heed him. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

He heard MacKay mumble something along the lines of “it better be important” behind
him, but he was already striding—stalking was probably more accurate—down the corridor.

As he drew nearer, his instincts were confirmed. It was his nun. She’d changed for
the feast into a gown of deep emerald silk and a matching veil, albeit without the
ghastly wimple. He could actually see her neck. It was a pretty one, long and slender,
with creamy-smooth, milky-white skin. His eyes narrowed. What else was she hiding?
The cut of the gown was still shapeless and the embellishments
still plain, but he supposed green was a marginal improvement over black. The color,
however, was too dark and harsh against her fair skin—

He stopped himself. Bloody hell, he sounded like a lady’s maid. He couldn’t recall
ever noticing a lady’s attire before—except perhaps to figure out how to get it off.

His steps fell a little harder and his mouth grew a little flatter as he drew closer.
He didn’t know why he was so irritated. But when she put her hand on MacGregor’s arm,
looked up at him, and smiled, Kenneth felt a spike of something hotter and edgier
than mere irritation.

MacGregor saw him first and nodded. “Sutherland.”

Kenneth could tell by the tone in his voice that he’d sensed something was wrong,
though damned if he knew what it was any better than MacGregor did.

Lady Mary turned on hearing his name. The smile immediately slipped from her face.
Why that reaction bothered him, he didn’t know, but it damn well did.

His jaw clenched. “The feast has started,” he bit out.

The lady ignored him. “Thank you, my lord,” she said to MacGregor. “I fear I would
have been looking for hours without your help.”

MacGregor explained. “Lady Elizabeth lost her kitten.”

“Lady Margaret’s youngest daughter,” Mary clarified when it was clear he didn’t know
to whom they were referring. “I was able to recruit Sir Gregor in our search.” The
smile on her lips and flush on her cheeks when she looked up at the other man made
Kenneth’s fists and jaw clench even harder. She didn’t look dull and colorless at
all.

“Fortunate, indeed,” he said, unable to completely mask the dryness of his tone. Sir
Gregor wasn’t a “Sir” at all; MacGregor wasn’t a knight.

He and MacGregor exchanged glances over her head.
Back off
, he told McGregor wordlessly. “I will escort Lady Mary to the Hall.”

MacGregor looked more puzzled than put out, but he
conceded without argument. Kenneth was too angry to wonder about that.

“My lady,” MacGregor said with a bow, and then to him, “Sutherland.”

Kenneth hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, until his muscles started to relax as
the man reputed to be the most handsome in Scotland walked away.

Lady Mary was watching him with furrowed brows. “What was that about?”

He didn’t know himself, damn it, and suddenly he felt as if he’d revealed something
he shouldn’t have. He buried his anger behind a mask of feigned concern. It was his
duty as a knight to warn her off, he told himself. “You should watch yourself with
him. MacGregor has made more than one woman forget herself.”

She had the gall to burst out laughing. “This, from you? Isn’t your warning a bit
ironic considering our first meeting?” Their eyes held, and he felt the strange urge
to shift his feet. If he believed it possible, he would have thought he was embarrassed.
“Nor did he invite me to his bed the first time we spoke.” She allowed her gaze to
follow the other man’s disappearing form. “Pity,” she said under her breath.

But he heard it. His blood spiked hot. That edgy irritation returned full force. His
muscles flared and his mouth fell in a hard, uncompromising line. He took her arm
and forced her gaze back to him. “Stay away from him.”

She should be terrified. He never spoke to women like this. He was in full, fierce
warrior mode. But her eyes only narrowed at his tone, and then on his hand when it
became apparent that she wasn’t going to be able to shrug him off so easily this time.
“What right do you have to speak to me like this? You have no claim on me.”

He told himself to cool down, but there was something in her gaze that snapped the
precarious hold he had on his temper like a dry twig. She might not have meant it
as
a challenge, but he’d taken it as one. Young, uncomplicated, eager to please, and
lusty. She might be the last, but he was already regretting not sticking to his typical
sort of bedmate.

Seeing a door behind her, he opened it and pulled her inside. It probably had been
a storage room at some time, though judging from the shelves of books and folios,
the thickly cushioned bench and chairs, and the brazier, it had been turned into a
library. But he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He closed the door behind
him, spun her around, and pinned her against it with the hard slam of his body.

She gasped—in surprise at the suddenness of his movements or at the sensation of contact,
he didn’t know.

Damn. He’d forgotten about his ribs. Yet pressed against her, it wasn’t pain he was
feeling but awareness. She was more slight than he’d realized, slim and delicate.
He had to be careful not to crush her. He could feel the bones of her hips, but also,
he noticed, the small, soft curves of her breasts. For unremarkably sized breasts
they seemed to be eliciting quite a reaction. His body crackled with a frantic, unfamiliar
energy. It was lust, but lust unlike any he’d ever felt before.

It didn’t make any sense, but he was too angry to wonder how a too-skinny widow past
her prime, doing her best to look unattractive, was making him feel like a squire
about to tup his first maid.