The Warrior Bride (7 page)

“What are you so afeared of that you would endanger your life to avoid me?”

“Afeared? Me?”

“Aye. You. Who are you really?”

“I am Hunter, the warrior.”

For a moment neither spoke. His gaze was as sharp as shattered glass.

“Aye,” he said and nodded slowly. ”The warrior. And so you must disrobe so I may see to your wound, for ‘tis obvious, there is no difference between us.”

Lachlan watched her as he waited for her reaction. She wore no hat this night. Neither did her chain ventral hide her face, though her cheeks were smudged with dried blood and dirt. Her hair was but a little longer than his, reaching a hand’s length or so past her shoulders, but where his was dark and bedeviled with waves, hers was smooth and straight and as bright as barleycorn just brought into the bam. Her cheekbones were high, her jaw strong, and her mouth full, but it was her eyes that fascinated him, for they reminded him of something, though he couldn’t say exactly what. Silver blue, they were, and as bright as the even stars.

“Why do you stare?” Her voice was low.

He shrugged, trying to look casual. “No reason. Take off your cloak. I’ll see to your wound.”

”As I have already told you-”

“Aye. Skewering and all that,” he said, and set his fingers to the clasp at her throat. She knocked his hand away with her arm, and though her knife never touched him, he scowled at her.

”Tell me, then, do you call yourself a liar?” “What’s that?”

“‘Twas you who said there was little difference between us. If such is true you have me most solemn vow that I will have no interest in you.”

Silence.

“In truth,” he added, “You could dance naked about the room and I would be naught but bored.”

She still said nothing. Her face was as somber as a stone.

“Well, perhaps I would be a mite… surprised,” he said, and in that instant he thought he saw the slightest hint of a smile and the dimmest shadow of a crescent dimple. “Maybe…” He shrugged, feeling breathless as he watched that foreign expression ebb and wan. “Maybe I would be a bit… repulsed.”

The corner of her mouth lifted a quarter of an inch and then she dropped her head, as if she could not trust him to see such a dastardly weakness as humor.

“So I am to believe you have no interest in other men, MacGowan?”

“Interest?”

She shrugged. ”There are those who favor their own sex. Men dallying with their servants. Knights…enjoying their squires.”

He stared at her.

“Surely you’ve heard such tales.”

He could not help but grimace, and perhaps she could not help but laugh, for she did so and the sound tantalized him; it was hardly the deep chuckle of a warrior, but the silvery laughter of an untried maid. ‘Twas little wonder she hid behind those dour expressions and low mutterings if she wished to feign masculinity, for it was an utterly feminine sound, light and joyous and filled with iridescent beauty.

Lachlan stared transfixed.

She cleared her throat, dropped her gaze, and lowered her brows. “What are you looking at, champion?” Her voice was low again. He yanked himself from his trance with an effort.

“Think of this. If your wound festers you will need to have it seen by a healer of some sort. Surely then another will learn your secret. But if you let me help you…” He shrugged. It was becoming a familiar gesture, disarming, he hoped. But then, the word disarming was a bit disconcerting now that he thought about it, for she still held the knife, and though her laughter may be utterly feminine, her fighting skills were not.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you wish to see me wound?”

He scowled. “What are the possibilities here?”

“There is no reason you should help me.”

The statement made him pause. “I suspect you are right, laddie, except for the fact that you are another human being and it be me Christian duty to do so… and that you were unjustly attacked and did your part to rid Scotland of rabble that may have harmed others in the future… and that you once saved me from-”

“Very well.”

He stopped abruptly and turned his ear toward her for he was certain he had not heard correctly. “Your pardon?”

“You can see to me wound,” she said. Drawing a deep breath, she sheathed her knife and set her fingers to the clasp at her throat. Knot work was etched into the fine silver.

Lachlan nodded once. “‘Tis good.” he said, but though his tone was casual, he felt an odd tightening in his chest. “Sensible. Wise.”

She stared at him strangely. He cleared his throat, and ID a moment her cape was laid aside. Setting her fists to her hips, she turned away.

“Well?” she said. “Well?”

“See to it.”

“Oh! Aye,” he said, and stepped quickly forward.

Padded and protruding well past her shoulders, her sleeveless jerkin was made of thick, rough bull hide, but the brigand’s blade had sliced easily through it. That much Lachlan could see, though he could discern little else. “You must remove your garments.”

She said nothing, but merely glanced over her shoulder at him. No emotion showed on her face.

“I can see nothing like this,” he explained.

“Tell me, champion…” Her voice was low and quiet.

“Do you think me a fool?”

Her expression was absolutely sober, as if her question were one he was to answer, and for some foolish inexplicable reason it almost made him smile. Almost. But she still had her dirk close to hand and he liked to think he wasn’t an absolute lackwit.

“Nay,” he said.

“Then mayhap you think I find you irresistible.” Lachlan gently tugged at the sliced edge of the dark jerkin. Beneath the heavy leather, she wore a simple, bone-colored tunic, and beneath that there seemed to be another layer of cloth. Did she already wear a bandage?

“Is that it then?” she asked.

Her tunic was bloodied and tattered. He scowled. “MacGowan?”

“What’s that?” he asked, distracted.

She pulled away to turn toward him. “Do not think I am like the others. For I do not find you irresistible.”

“I did not…” he began, then, “Others?”

They watched each other cautiously for several silent moments.

“What others?” he asked. “Your past conquests.”

“Ahh,” he said, and nodded once. “Those.”

“Aye. Those. It does not matter if there were dozens or scores. In truth, champion, I find maids to be a silly lot, and the things that excite them, sillier still.”

“Excite them?”

She drew herself up slightly. Nay, she was not a small woman, but without the cape she had lost some breadth. Her jaw was square and firm, her cheeks slightly hollowed, but her neck… He stared at it. Without the metal ventrail, it looked as delicate and smooth as a royal swan’s.

“Aye, I admit that you have some power in your arm, and your face…” She stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “It is not hideous to look upon, but that does not mean that I will beg for your touch like the maids of your past.”

He stared blankly.

“Do not underestimate me, MacGowan. I am a warrior and not easily charmed,” she said and, setting her hand to her dirk, pulled it forth again. “Do you understand me?”

Was she suggesting he was charming? Him? Oh, aye, he was strong and he was stealthy, but truth to tell, women did not always appreciate the fact that he could best them in arm wrestling or startle them at will.

“Do you understand?” she asked again, and pressed the point of the blade to his chest.

He paused a moment, still thinking. She pressed harder. He dropped his gaze to the dirk, then lifted it slowly back to hers. “Aye,” he said finally, and nodded. “I think I do.”

They stared at each other for one endless moment, then she drew a deep breath and replaced her dirk.

“Very well then,” she said and removed her jerkin. A moment later, she grasped the bottom of her tunic and pulled it upward.

Lachlan didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he heard her soft gasp of pain.

“Here then,” he said. Brushing her hands aside, he gently tugged the tunic over her head and tossed it aside.

When next he saw her face it was ultimately pale, and her eyes, silver blue in the dim light, were unbelievably large.

“Are you well?” he asked.

It took her a moment to speak, but when she did her voice was brusque. “Aye, of course,” she said and turned away.

Lachlan lowered his gaze to her back, but despite the removal of her shirt, he could see little of her injury. A long strip of white fabric encircled her chest. It was wrapped over her shoulders and crisscrossed against her torso again. She was trussed up like a Yuletide goose, and from the top of the bindings a narrow leather sheath protruded. So that was where she kept her wee sgian dubh-her black knife. She hid a dirk in her boot, her short sword lay on the floor, and housed with her beloved Knight in the stable was her longbow. The woman was armed like a battalion of foot soldiers, but it was her back that held his attention, for the lower portion of her bindings was rent and bloodied. The cloth frayed apart for several inches and along the edges of the cut there was a smear of dried blood. He spread the tear apart carefully, but he had seen enough injuries to know this one was far from life threatening. His gaze skimmed down from the cloth, smoothing past her waist and over her buttocks.

“Well?” she asked, but her tone was softer now.

He drew himself back to her wound, but it was difficult to see, so he brushed his hand down her hair and gently skimmed it past her shoulder and out of the way. A silver chain lay against the velvety skin of her neck, and he was stunned, and yes a bit mortified, to find that it was just there, beneath the spun gold of her hair, that he longed to kiss her.

“Must it be stitched?”

So deeply absorbed was he that he nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. ”Truth to tell… Hunter…” It was difficult remembering to refer to her as a man, for though her torso was mostly hidden, he could catch glimpses of her flesh, and where it showed it looked as smooth and soft as a kitten’s coat. “‘Tis impossible to tell with the… ahh… bandages in place.”

Silence entered the room. ‘Twas a good sign. At least she hadn’t yet skewered him to the wall as earlier suggested. But if he gave in to his yearnings, she might do so yet. Thus, he cleared his throat and stepped back a pace, lest he fall victim to his nether parts’ foolish urgings.

“We have little choice here,” he said. “The wound must be cleaned and tended.”

She didn’t speak, but turned to glance over her shoulder at him. Thick, deep gold lashes fringed her quicksilver eyes, and her hair, long as his forearm, fell over her shoulder in a cascade of sunlight. Her shoulders were as smooth and pale as winter’s first snow, and below the bandages, her waist was as small and curved as the bend of an hourglass. But it was not just those stunning elements of femininity that made the breath squeeze shut in his chest. It was the striking contrast of the warrior and the maiden, for though her skin looked as creamy as a babe’s; below she was encased in scarred leather.

Her bottom was round and firm. Her legs were as long as a blooded mare’s, starting at the provocative V and sloping down to where her battered boots rose above her knees.

Beneath his plaid, his desire stirred restlessly. He cleared his throat, and then they spoke at once.

“Listen- ”

“Do- ”

“What?” they said in unison.

He took a deep breath and carefully held her gaze.

Aye, one would think it would be safe to stare at her back, but one would be entirely wrong, for even now his desire was whispering foolhardy things to his foolhardy brain.

“Mayhap you should employ the aid of another,” he suggested.

“What’s that?” she asked, and scowled. The curve of her cheek was hidden by a wave of flaxen hair, and somehow the sight of that alone was nearly his undoing.

He swallowed hard. “I am not greatly gifted as a healer. Perhaps I should send someone else to examine you.”

“And have another man discover me true-

“Man!” The word escaped him without warning. Her brows rose abruptly. He scowled and began anew. “Nay. The bindings will have to be removed, therefore I assumed you would want…” He paused, rephrasing wildly in his mind. “That is to say, I thought a woman would be more… knowledgeable in the ways of herbs and the like.”

“A woman?”

“Aye, you could… remove the rest of your clothing.” He truly hoped his voice didn’t squeak when he spoke, but he felt like an untried boy, hard and needy and aching with hopeless desire. “You could tell her you fell. There would be no reason for her to know you were aught but a misfortunate maid who had-”

“But I came here in the guise of a man.”

A man! With an arse like that? No one in his right mind would believe such foolishness. The fact that he had made it no more believable. The thought almost made him laugh, but he was finding it difficult to breathe, so laughing was out of the question, and it was a good thing too, because regardless of the delicious curve of her buttocks, she did not seem to possess a woman’s renowned ability to forgive.

“Aye,” he agreed, and took a cautious step backward, putting a bit of judicious distance between himself and the temptation that was her. “Aye, you did that, but no maid saw you enter. I could tell them that the man I came here with was… in the stable and that I had a… companion who needed-”

“A companion? From where?” she asked. “Everyone in Jedburgh will know their own citizens. Nay.” She shook her head. “‘It will never work.”

“But…” He was starting to sweat. Holy Mother!

He’d followed her afoot for many a league and had not felt this winded. But her buttocks were as curved and sweet as a ripe apple and her waist all but begged for his touch.