The Warrior Bride (14 page)

“What’s that?” she said, and continued to stare between Knight’s dark ears. “I fear I cannot hear you.”

The other snorted and in a moment a hound barked and raced toward them down the winding road.

“Quiet, dog,” she said. The cur wagged his tail at the sound of her voice, only emitting barks at intervals as he scampered and wiggled his way toward Nettlepath’s ancient stable.

“Come no further!” warned a teetering voice, and a feeble light was unshielded.

Knight pitched his dark ears forward and stopped on command. Hunter dismounted without a pause.

“All is well, Shanks. It is I.”

There was a moment of silence before the lamp was held aloft. An old man blinked in the glow of it.

“Lord Giles, is that you?”

“Aye. ‘Tis.”

Hanging the lantern on a nearby peg of the stable, Longshanks tottered out of the shadows, his pale night cap clearly visible in the enveloping darkness. “You have returned,” he said, and dropping his walking stick, grasped Hunter’s arms in a feeble grip.

“Aye,” she said, and for a moment allowed a smile for the memories that soared through her. “That I have.”

“And you are safe and well,” he said, pushing her out to arms’ length.

“I am hale.”

“I prayed it would be so.”

“It must have been your prayers that have kept me from harm then, Thanks.”

“And your uncle’s.”

“Of course,” she said, and pulled gently from the other’s grip. “How is he?”

The old man’s pause spoke volumes. “I fear he is not doing well. The ague took him this spring. He has not been the same since. But you have returned. Surely that will see him improved.”

“Perhaps,” she said. Leading Knight into the barn, she loosened his girth and slipped the saddle from his back.

“And who is this with you, Master Giles?” asked Longshanks. His voice warbled a bit more than she remembered, but otherwise, he seemed unchanged, built like a curved needle, with a nose like a fisherman’s hook and eyes of palest green.

“He is me servant.”

“Servant?” The old man squinted into the darkness, his head canted. “A brawny lad, he is.”

“Brawny enough, I suppose.”

“Do you have a name, lad?” he asked.

“He is deaf and mute,” Hunter said quickly.

“Ahh. ‘Tis unfortunate.”

“Sometimes. So the old mare gave me uncle another strapping colt,” she said, glancing into a large, well bedded stall. Inside, the floor was piled deep with strew. Lying with her long legs tucked beneath her, the gray nuzzled her sleepy foal and nickered with maternal contentment. The world could be falling apart about their ears, but the horses of Nettlepath would want for nothing. Things had changed little since her departure.

“Aye, a bonny one he is too,” Shanks said and followed her to stand in the doorway where she turned Knight loose. From the corner of her eye, she saw that MacGowan did the same with his steed. He was silent, but she would guess he was none too happy about it. The thought almost made her smile, but she turned away instead, searching for a grooming brush.

Longshanks turned stiffly toward her. “I will see to your steed, lad.”

“I like to make certain-” she began, but the old man stopped her.

“Who taught you the ways of the horse at the outset?” he asked.

She paused a moment, allowing the memories in for another brief instant. “It was you, Master Shanks.”

“Aye.” He nodded. “Aye. And old age has not made me forget.”

She watched him for a moment. Errant emotions filtered through her like chaff on the wind, but she put them carefully aside. “Me thanks,” she said finally.

“Go to your uncle,” he told her. “He does not sleep well these days.”

She scowled, but the old man had already turned away.

“And take your servant with ye.”

She considered arguing, but Longshanks spoke first. “A fine mount you’ve given him. Near as good as your own.”

Even without looking, she could feel MacGowan’s glare. The silence was deafening, but the old man spoke into it.

“You were always more generous than others deserve.”

She would have spoken, but he turned away with a gentle word for Knight, and finally she stepped out the door.

The path to the house seemed both endless and foreshortened. Striding up the stone stairs, she paused for a moment before letting herself in. The ancient hinges creaked as the weathered door swung open.

“Aileas?” The voice that called from the adjoining room was reedy and abrupt, as if just startled into lucidity. She stopped where she was, but in a moment she felt MacGowan’s gaze on her and moved on, through the darkened house toward the light that glowed from within.

“Ai- ” Lord Barnett began again, but his mouth froze in a soundless O when she entered the room. He lay on a narrow bed that seemed adrift amidst a sea of parchments and books that were scattered like seed upon every possible surface.

“Me laird,” she said.

His pale lips moved, but no sound came forth. He looked old and frail, barely a shadow of the man she had once called father. “David,” he rasped finally.

Memories stormed her mind. “Nay,” she said, and braved a few more steps toward him. Liver-colored spots shone on the pale flesh of his sunken cheeks and his hand shook as he lifted it toward her. “David died of the fever many years since. Do you not remember?”

The house was as silent as a tomb, then, “Aye.” He nodded and on his face was a lost sort of misery. “Me David. Gone. Like his mother,” he mused to himself. “He was a bonny lad.” A scowl tightened his brow, then he lifted his face again. “Who-”

“I am Giles.”

He repeated the name without inflection, staring at her with his mouth slightly open. “Giles? Me nephew?”

“Aye.” It was all she could do to force out that one lie, for her throat felt tight.

He did not seem at ease with the idea, but neither did he argue. “Long you have been gone.” There was accusation in the words. She ignored it. Self-preservation had taught her well.

“I had much to do.”

He nodded jerkily. “How did you find London?”

“I did not go to London.”

“The king, he is well?”

She stiffened, but refrained from glancing at MacGowan.

“I am weary,” she said. “Is me old chamber unoccupied?”

“There will always be a place for you, David.”

She paused. When last she saw him he had been lucid, but that had been long ago. “Very well then,” she said, and turned away.

“But what of this fellow?” asked the baron, and turned ill-focused eyes toward Lachlan.

“You need not concern yourself with him,” Hunter said.

“What be your name, lad?”

“They call him champion.” She felt MacGowan’s gaze on her, but ignored its heat with careful disdain. “He does not speak,” she said, and finding a candle on the nearby table, set the wick to the living flame that lit the room from the arched stone hearth.

“Champion,” mused the old man, and nodded rhythmically. “It suits you. You will see to me nephew’s comfort.”

MacGowan said nothing.

“There is pigeon pie and almond fritters in the pantry. Shanks has kept a cauldron hanging over the fire. You’ll be wanting a bath, as was your way. The lad can fetch the water.”

“Aye.” She turned away, guarding her fragile flame with a curved palm.

“David,” called the old man.

She glanced toward him, ready to correct his mistake.

But age had made him thin and frail. His eyes looked bright and lost and, despite everything, something ached in her gut. She said nothing.

“What of Rhona?” His voice was weak, his bent fingers clutched and loosened in the blanket that was pulled high on his chest. “Any news of her?”

Seconds ticked away. Memories burned her mind.

Some paces behind her, Lachlan remained perfectly silent.

“Nay,” she said, and turned away with a hard effort.

“I’ve not seen her for some years.”

“What is it?” she asked and, setting her candle upon the narrow writing desk, faced him finally.

He stared at her, his brows slightly raised. “I’ve no idea what you speak of,” he said.

“Have you a problem you’d like to vent?”

“Me?” He chuckled a little. “Nay.”

She told herself to let it be, but she could not. “And what is it you mean by that, MacGowan?”

He said nothing for a long moment, then, “Your uncle…” He paused as if he could not quite believe his own words. “He acts as if you are a man.”

“Aye.” She clenched one fist. Her patience was short this night. “That he does.”

“Why?”

“Because that is what I chose for him to believe.”

He scowled at her, as if she must have mistook his meaning. “Your uncle,” he repeated and stepped closer. “He acts as though you are a man.”

She gritted her teeth. “Aye,” she said. “And why not?

He had no use for me as a lass. I have made a capable man.”

“But surely he knows the truth.”

She barked a laugh. “Laird Barnett?” she asked and laughed again, though it hurt her chest somehow. “Did he look the sort to know anything? Nay,” she said before he answered. “He had no use for the truth.”

He was scowling at her. She scowled back. “Then who is privy to your secrets?”

She removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her hair.

“And what secrets might those be?” she asked and swung the cape from her shoulders.

“Who knows you are a maid?”

Hunter stepped inside the room she had once called her own. It remained unchanged but for the dust that lay on the place. MacGowan followed her in, and though she focused on her surroundings, she could feel his presence like a looming sentry.

The arrow she’d won at the Braemar Gathering remained in its place on the wall. The plaid she’d received from the Munros lay slanted across her old bed. She lifted the candle and swept her gaze across the room to the narrow window. A bed, a desk, a copper tub. Aye, the place remained the same, as if she had just stepped out for a moment. But years had passed and she stood now in a warrior’s garb with this vociferous mute looming in the darkness behind her.

The silence weighed like a firkin of barley against the back of her neck.

Hanging her cape on a peg beside the door, she turned to him with a shrug. “As I have told you afore, champion, I am a man in every way that matters.”

Behind her, the candlelight flickered in an errant draft.

“I beg to differ,” he said.

She faced him, arms akimbo. “Do you threaten to expose me?”

He shook his head. “I but ask who knows the truth.” “It seems that you are the only one who doubts the truth, MacGowan.”

“What of your mother? She must have known.”

Her heart twisted. “You talk a great deal for a daft mute.”

“Who is she?”

She shrugged. “No one you would know.”

“Then you’ve no reason not to tell me.”

“And less reason to spill her name.”

“Surely she knew she bore a girl child.”

Her chest ached. “My mother is long dead and past the cares of this world.”

“Then your uncle is your guardian?”

She said nothing, but watched him in silence.

“He is not your uncle,” MacGowan said, his voice low. She tried to look casual, removed, uncaring. “Is he not?”

“Nay.”

“Then pray tell, who is he, champion?”

“That is what I would know. That and much more.” She turned toward the window. Against her breast, her tiny shell felt small and fragile. “Leave me be, MacGowan. I did not ask for your company.”

“How is it that you took this guise as a man? Surely there are those who know the truth.”

She said nothing.

“So you have none to return to but this old man and his servant. I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” She turned to stare at him. “There is no need for that, champion.”

“You do not mourn your family?”

“I did not even-” She paused.

“You did not even what?”

“I am hungry,” she said and, pulling off her gauntlets, tossed them on the bed.

“You did not what?” he asked. “Know them?”

“No.” She stared up at him. “In truth, I did not.”

“Why? Did they die at your birth?”

“Fetch me some supper.”

He remained perfectly still, watching her for a long moment before he spoke. “They sent you away,” he said finally.

Her throat tightened up, but she did not break eye contact. Indeed, she dared not change her expression. “‘Tis the truth,” he said. His voice was quiet now. “They sent you to another. Why?”

Her heart was pounding in her chest.

“Was it here that you were sent? Did they tell the baron that you were a lad and-”

She snatched her dirk from its sheath. “I did not invite you here, MacGowan, but since you have come, you will do as I command.”

He said nothing. Neither did he back away. “And what do you command, laddie?” He was as big as a wall, powerful and hard and alluring. She swallowed.

“Fetch me a meal,” she said.

”And what then, laddie? Shall I share your room?” He said the words as a challenge.

The tension cranked up a notch, but she shrugged, attempting to dispel her breathlessness. “And why not?”

“For all the most obvious reasons.”

“I’ve no more interest in you than you have in me, MacGowan,” she said.

He laughed out loud, throwing back his head slightly, so that the taut cords in his neck stood out hard and rigid against his tanned throat. “‘Tis a good thing to know,” he said finally, and took another step toward her.

The room seemed strangely narrow. She swallowed and raised her chin. “You needn’t pretend with me,” she said. “I know where your desires lie.”