The Warrior Bride (20 page)

He glanced down the passageway again, then grudgingly back to the fire. It was a small blaze with no logs available to make it larger. Perhaps he should gather wood. The old man was certainly too busy talking to himself to do the task, and since he seemed to be the only servant in the moldering manse, there was no other to pass the job on to. But Lachlan had no idea where to gather kindling in this area. He could ask Shanks, of course, but the old fellow was no longer anywhere to be seen, and besides, he was less than charming anyway. Whereas Rhona…

He ran the name around in his brain. Aye, it fit her, he decided, for it was neither weak nor masculine, but a unique blend of femininity and strength, of velvet and steel, of-

Damn it all, he thought and turning on his heel, marched determinedly down the hallway in search of her.

He didn’t hesitate outside her bedchamber door, but lifted the latch and stepped inside. It was immediately evident that the chamber was empty.

He scowled, moved back into the dark corridor, and continued on. The next door opened into a storage room and the next was a small anteroom of sorts.

Deep in thought, Lachlan pushed open the next door, then stopped short and stared in silent amazement.

“What are you doing here?” Hunter asked.

He said nothing, but stepped quietly inside, shut the door behind him, and stared some more.

If he wasn’t mistaken, she was, apparently, in the process of getting dressed. Leather breeches encased her endless legs, but above that she was bare except for a stiff, sleeveless bodice made of white linen and bone. It scooped upward from her hips, nipped in at her waist and lovingly cradled her spectacular bosom. Bare to the nipples, her breasts were pushed up high and pale, and her midriff was squeezed tight, making it difficult to breathe-at least for him.

Her neck, he noticed, was flushed the hue of a bonny sunrise and when he managed to bring his attention to her face, he realized that her cheeks too were bright.

She straightened under his speechless gaze with her hands still holding the laces tight behind her back, but this new position did nothing to diminish his interest. Indeed, he held his breath to see what might fallout.

“You said you were leaving.” Her voice was a low accusation.

He shook his head, still not quite able to speak and not much more successful at keeping his gaze averted from her chest.

“Get out.” Her hands remained behind her back. Her bosom still threatened to escape.

“What…” He drew a deep breath and noticed for the first time that a gown lay across the nearby bed. A trunk stood open and a tumble of strangely fashioned hoops lay upon the floor. “What is it you’re doing exactly?”

Early morning light streamed through the nearby window and gleamed like gold on her freshly washed hair. She wore it loose this mom, neither confining it beneath a hat nor binding it in any way. Instead, it was spread across her ivory shoulders like a priceless net.

He cleared his throat and refrained from adjusting himself beneath his plaid.

“Leave me,” she commanded, but he took a step nearer instead.

”Tell me, lass, who is this Rhona?”

For a moment he thought she paled, but just as quickly she rallied.

“‘Tis none of your affair, MacGowan.”

“I beg to differ,” he said and, pacing soundlessly across the floor, placed himself upon the bed. Perhaps it was not entirely coincidence that he now sat between her and her abandoned tunic. “I hear she was sent to the Black Douglases at a tender age.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “I do not know this Rhona you speak of.”

”Truly? Then you know nothing of King James’s abduction by the earl of Angus?”

She stared at him, then laughed. “I said I did not know the girl, I did not say I failed to have any knowledge whatever of politics.”

“Politics.” He studied her narrowly. “Is that what it is to you? Our young king was abducted by his mother’s own husband and you think ‘tis naught but a bit of interesting politics?”

She shrugged. The movement did nothing to steady his erratic heart rate. “I am, as you’ve said, only a lass.”

He drew in breath carefully, lest he forget that important practice. “I never said only.” And had I seen you in that garment earlier…” He shrugged, feeling lightheaded.

“Why are you here, MacGowan?”

He wondered the same himself. But if the way she looked in this foolish garment wasn’t enough to keep him close at hand perhaps the mystery was.

“I wish for answers,” he said simply.

She flexed her shoulders. Maybe her arms were getting tired, bent back as they were. But her discomfort was naught but a boon for him.

“Do you need help with that? he asked. “Answers to what?”

There were so many, and suddenly a half dozen squeezed in at once.

“Who you are, to start?”

“I have told you-”

“Aye. Hunter,” he said. “Giles. The warrior. But ‘tis strange, for a warrior should not look like you do in those stays.”

She pursed her lips. “I am sorry if you disapprove.”

“Disapprove?” He shifted slightly, trying to ease his discomfort. “You put words in me mouth yet again.” He let his gaze drift downward and when he returned to her face it seemed to have colored once more. “You make a hell of a warrior, lass, but as a woman…” He let the words lie, for he had not intended to compliment her. Indeed, he had not even intended to return. Just now, however, with her breasts perched at the very brink of that ungodly bodice, it was difficult to regret his decision.

She stared at him for a motionless moment, then turned abruptly away as her fingers fidgeted with the laces. He watched for an instant, but her back was not nearly so entertaining as her bosom, so he approached and set his own fingers to the ties.

She froze at his first touch.

“Here then,” he said, and pushing her hands aside, pulled the laces snug. He was close enough to smell the scent of the herbs he had strewn on her water the night before. Close enough to glance over her pearly shoulder and see the high mounds of her breasts capped in sunset hues.

He cleared his throat and tied the laces in a bow. “‘Tis too small.”

She stepped abruptly away and turned slightly toward him, her body stiff. “What?”

”The whalebone…” he began, but she was, it seemed, just as fascinating in profile as head on. “‘Twas made for a smaller form.”

Glancing down self-consciously, she crossed her arms against her waist. It looked amazingly narrow beneath the power of her well-honed arms.

“Was it your mother’s?”

“As I’ve said, me mother left me naught.”

“And what of the chain about your neck?”

She glanced down and curled her fingers over the silver shell. In an instant it was gone, hidden in her bosom. Lucky shell.

“From whence did that come?”

She stepped toward her tunic where it lay beside the gown. He did the same, then walked casually over and sat atop it.

“Tell me MacGowan,” she said, looking down her nose at him. “Are you always such a damnable nuisance?”

“Generally, aye. Are you Rhona?”

For a moment he thought she would deny it again, but instead she watched him before speaking. “If I tell you the truth will you leave me?”

“Nay.”

“Then why should I tell you?”

“Because otherwise I will have to ask the others,” he said, and nodded toward the all but empty house beyond.

A flash of anger crossed her face, but finally she spoke. “Longshanks has suffered enough for his loyalty.”

“I did not intend to torture him, lass,” he mused. ‘Though the idea bears merit and-”

“I am Rhona,” she said. “Or at least that is the name I came with.”

“Came with?” he said. “From whence?”

She shrugged. “I am told I was a wee thing. Not yet a year of age when I was left at Nettlepath.”

“By whom?”

“You must think I have a marvelous memory, MacGowan.”

“Or that you were curious enough and bright enough to learn the answers.”

She stared at him for one speechless moment, then, “‘Twas an old woman that brought me. ‘Tis all I know. She left me with some coin and took away a promise that I would be cared for.”

“An old woman.” Something niggled at his mind, but he wasn’t sure what. “Where was she from? What was her name?”

“I know not. Give me my tunic.”

“Nay. And the shell?”

She looked as though she considered a variety of stories. “It was around me neck at the time.” She looked tense, nervous. Why?

“I’ve not seen the like.”

She relaxed marginally. Again, why?

“May I take a closer look?” he asked and stood. They were face to face. Mere inches separated him from all that glorious flesh.

“You’ve looked close enough, MacGowan,” she said. He shifted his gaze to her bosom, luscious beyond compare, and stepped closer. “I may be missing something.”

“Or you will be soon,” she said, and in that instant, he realized her dirk was pressed against his hip.

”Tell me one thing, lass,” he said, and though he knew himself a fool, he lifted his hand and brushed a golden lock away from her cheek. Her skin was as soft as moonlight. His fingers ached to touch her, to skim down her throat to the glories beyond.

“One thing,” she agreed and pressed the dirk into his plaid so that he could feel it against his flesh.

He held his breath. “Did you do it for me?” She narrowed her eyes.

“The gown,” he said. “Do you-”

“You?” She laughed and choked at the same time.

“Are you daft?” she asked and jerking the knife away, turned with a jolt.

Disappointment smote him. Aye, he should have guessed her answer, but when he was near her it almost seemed that she felt as he felt-except for the ever-present knife, which was disconcerting at best.

He remained very still. ‘Then why?”

A thousand thoughts seemed to flit through her mind. “‘Tis none of your concern,” she said finally.

“Then I am forced to believe you are lying, and that the feminine attire is indeed on me own account.”

“Do you think yourself so important that I would don these foolish garments for you?”

He shrugged, hoping against hope that he looked unconcerned. “Then who?”

“A gentleman.”

He said nothing. Indeed, he did his best not to think, for his was not a steady temper and the thought of her in another’s arms… He pushed the image aside.

“So you’ve fallen for a nobleman, have you?” “Fallen for!” she said and laughed again. ”‘Tis just like a man to believe lust would be the reason behind me plans.”

“Plans?” he asked, but in that moment she ran out of patience.

“Out of me way,” she said and, pressing past him, snatched up her tunic and left the room.

It took Lachlan some time before he got his emotions under control. Longer still to cool his ardor.

A nobleman? What noble? And why? If not for lust’s sake, what did she seek? Fortune? She didn’t seem the type. So why had she donned that blood-stopping garment? Did it have some connection with the mission she had mentioned before?

He had no answers and a host of questions. Thus he finally sought her out again. But she was not in the house. Neither was she in the stable.

Letting Mathan rest, he strode down the muddy path toward the village. The day was warm, the clouds high and scattered. A chandler gave him a dark look from beneath a droopy cloth cap, and a wee lass skittered aside as he approached. ‘Twas fairly clear they did not see a host of plaids down here in the lowlands. They were a different sort of Scotsman in the southern reaches, if they were Scots at all. Perhaps their loyalties lay with the English king instead of with lames. Perhaps…

But in that moment a thought seized him. The Black Douglas was an earl. He was also condemned to death for his part in the young king’s abduction, but perhaps that was not a deterrent for some. Perhaps it was seen as a badge of honor for those who sided with the English king. Perhaps this Rhona felt the same.

Up ahead, a cobbler hammered a nail into the sole of a shoe, and beyond that a shingle hung askew above an arched door. Etched into the wood was the picture of a woman’s gown, pinched in at the waist and flared dramatically at the hips.

Lachlan glanced down the street. Rhona was nowhere to be seen. He looked behind him, then down at his plaid. He was not one to be ashamed of his Highland garb, but if Rhona was plotting some mischief he would be the one to learn of it, and fitting in with these lowlanders would only make it easier.

“If you insist on staying, champion, you might just as well do some good,” she said.

And so his labor began. Nettlepath, it seemed, was in ill repair. Stones were loosening at the northwest corner, the thatch needed replacing, and the stable was crumbling.

They started with the loose stone. It was not a simple task, for mortar had to be mixed. The sand was heavy, the lime needed to be hauled a goodly distance, and even the water was not easy to come by. But finally the rocks were once more secured.

Darkness was falling fast by the time they ceased their labors and found their way up the winding path into the house. Rhona and Lachlan ate cockaleekie soup while the hound roamed cautiously about the table, and Shanks fed Barnett in the adjoining room.

They could hear his chatter as he served the old man. “Your Giles is doing a fine job at the stonework. Labored all day with his hireling at his side.”

The old man coughed and said naught.

“Aye. Aye, me laird,” agreed Shanks as if the other had spoken. “He is hale and hearty. Strong as a pair of oxen, if a bit slow-witted.”

Another cough.

“Ahh, you speak of your nephew,” said Shanks. “He is well too. Healthy and bright of eye.”