Warrior and the Wanderer (12 page)

Alasdair stepped forward. “M’Lady—”

“Vex me not, Alasdair!” she snapped shrugging from her chainmail.

Her champion stepped back, grumbling.

“OK, Blaze,” Ian continued, “You have to lose the warrior princess attitude. Find your feminine side, like the time you almost did in the priest’s bedroom….”

“Dinnae speak of that time again,” she warned.

Ian quickly reached around her and grabbed the handle of her claymore, and took it off her back, still encased in its plaid wrapping. “No weapons either, Blaze.”

“It fairly bothers me to see a MacLean holding my brother’s claymore. Give it back.”

“Do you want to blend in or not? That’s the only way you’re going to be served in this establishment, if you look like you belong.” he asked, unbuckling the sheath from her back. “I’ll return these when you’re through pretending to be a woman.” He buckled the claymore to his back and covered it with his plaid.

Shooting him a wary glance, she removed her doublet and gave it to him. Ian, in turn, handed it to Alasdair who quickly bundled it away in his vast plaid. Bess smoothed her hands over the top of her tunic that puffed slightly over her taut bodice, ran her fingers down the lacings, to rest on the stiff stomacher.

“Loosen up,” Ian said.

“Meaning?” she asked. His Edinburgh words were most unusual.

“You need to unlace the top of your blouse there and let your assets be known.”

Bess glanced down at her bosom hidden behind the boiled linen. She was blessed, or cursed, with over generous-breasts. They were the first, and sometimes the only, thing men noticed about her. The doublet over the stiff bodice had helped compress her attributes somewhat.

Taking in a deep breath, Bess loosened the top of her tunic. She looked up at Ian. He was smiling, nodding in approval.

“Nice,” he said, “very nice. You’re going to make a fine
woman
.”

“Remove yer stare, Ian MacLean,” she said, but could not help the smile that touched her lips. Sometimes it was good to be a woman. There was power in that also. She was clan chief
and
a woman. Powerful, oh aye.

Alasdair stared down at her, mouth agape.

She looked up at him. “Shut yer gob, Alasdair, and open the door.”

“Ah—aye, m’Lady,” he stuttered and placed one large hand on the latch. He swung the door open and Bess stepped inside with her two
men
. She was glad they were with her as she put her foot over the threshold.

She stepped onto a soiled layer of rushes, feeling Ian and Alasdair on her heels. The inside of the tavern was as musty and stale smelling as the wynd. A few candles in caged sconces illuminated the low-ceilinged chamber. A hearth, low and blackened with soot, glowed with smoldering bricks of peat. The smoke made Bess blink as much as the stench of stale ale. Several tables and a great number more of benches filled the center of the room. A bar and well-worn cupboard filled the back wall. Bess counted two-dozen men hunched over the tables, cups in hand. There were a half-dozen women with them. Some sat on the laps of these men. Some sat beside them, their own cups in hand. All of the women were dressed similarly to Bess.

“Over there,” Ian said.

He pointed to a table and two empty benches in one corner of the tavern.

They moved in a tight huddle to the table and benches. Alasdair took one bench, and Ian slid in beside Bess on the opposite bench. She was between him and the corner.

“I’m going to get us some ale,” Ian said.

Then he displayed yet another odd mannerism, just when she thought she had seen them all. He stood and patted one side of his buttocks. He paused and looked at them. “Uh, I don’t have any—”

“Coin?” Bess finished. She reached under the bottom of her bodice and withdrew her purse. She opened it and took out a sovereign. “This should more than pay for two rounds. Get some food as well.”

Ian accepted the coin with a grin. “Thanks, Blaze.” He turned and strolled confidently to the bar. She watched the way he commanded the chamber, just by height alone. His head almost touched the rafters. Then she turned to her champion.

“D’ye see anyone familiar?” she asked Alasdair in a low whisper. “Anyone who may have known my brother?”

“Aye,” he replied.

“Who?” Her eyes darted all around the smoky room.

“I see Fiona, Christiana, and there’s Amelia by the hearth.”

Bess huffed, folded her arms across her chest, and leaned against the wall. “Ye’ve been here with him more oft than no’, have ye?”

Alasdair remained mute and looked at a woman who was winding her way through the crowd toward him. “Hallo, Alasdair, ye bear of the Highlands. Ye have returned to me.”

Without invitation, the woman sat down beside Alasdair, almost in his lap. Her breasts, too, were fairly loosened over her bodice, not leaving much to a man’s curiosity. The ringlets of her black hair hung heavy on either side of a face that was patted with a heavy layer of rice powder. Her lips were overly crimson as were her cheeks.

She worked a hand inside Alasdair’s tunic. “D’ye wish to continue what we started?”

Alasdair grinned and tried unsuccessfully to fend off the attention in the presence of his female chief. Bess suspected he had not been so off-putting when he had come here with her brother. Undaunted, the woman quickly ran a hand up under his kilt.

Alasdair squirmed and gave the woman back her hand. “No’ the now,” he said tilting his head in Bess’ direction.

The woman sat up and stared hard at Bess. “Who is this
hoore
, my Highland bear? Tell her to leave us be, and find her own Jock to diddle.”

Bess leaned forward. “I am nae hoore, ye painted wench. Alasdair is my—”

“Cousin.” Ian stepped up and placed a wooden trencher on the table. Ale splashed over the sides of the horn cups onto the plates laden with boiled turnip and slabs of boiled beef. “Alasdair is her cousin.”

He flashed the whore a wide smile. Did Ian have an acquaintance with this wench as well?

“And I can see by your expert hand, that the big lad is quite happy with the attention you’re giving him.” Ian passed cups of ale to Bess and Alasdair.

He took up a cup of ale.
“Slainte.”
Then he drank it to the very last drop.

Bess could not help but watch his throat, the powerful lump of Adam’s apple moving up and down as he quenched his thirst. He swiped the back of his lips with the sleeve of his doublet and set the cup down. Bess quickly realized that she was not the only one at the table who was impressed by Ian’s powerful form. The whore was snaking her hand up Ian’s thigh.

“A fine lad like yerself doesnae come into the Stag oft enough,” Amelia cooed as Ian took a seat beside Bess, scooting her back to the corner.

“Thank you,” he said, taking up another cup. “What’s your name?”

“Amelia.”

“Pretty name,” he said after another swallow.

Glaring at Ian and Amelia, Bess gulped down the ale in her cup and reached for another.

Amelia slipped a hand into Ian’s doublet. “My Highland bear usually visits with a ginger-haired friend, but ye’ll do quite nicely.”

“Ginger-haired man?” Bess asked. “Was his name Campbell?”

“Campbell?” Amelia asked not taking her gaze from Ian. “Aye, ’twas him. A ginger-haired man with eyes as fierce as a storm and a cock as big as—” Her words dissolved into a knowing smile.

“My brother was a great chief, and, aye, he was a ginger like me,” Bess said.

Ian gently pushed Amelia’s hand away. “Good way to blend in, Blaze.”

She nudged his side hard with the point of her elbow. “Wheesht!”

Amelia batted her dark lashes at Ian. “Would ye wish to take me somewhere more private? I can show ye a few tricks I’ve learned from a visiting Frenchman, on the house.”

“Tempting,” Ian said around a grin.

Bess drained her cup of ale, and reached for her dirk. “This man is my prisoner. He stays in my sight.”

Amelia ignored her. “Is that what ye wish?” she asked Ian.

Before he could reply, a booming voice joined their cozy group. “Her. That’s the wench I wish to sate my desires. I’m fond of the gingers, as ye lads know very well.”

 
A small circle of royal guards stood over their table. They were dressed in dark leather doublets, pantaloons and hose. They carried their caps topped with raven feathers under their arms, and swords in silver sheaths hung from their waist belts. One of the guards, the one in the middle, a squat man with a pointy straw-colored beard pointed at Bess.

Before she could open her mouth to protest, Ian stood. His body easily blocked her from the view of the guards. He towered over them.

“She’s with me,” Ian said. “Find your own woman.”

“The wenches are not here to talk, lad, which is all I’ve seen ye and this other Highlander doing with them,” the straw-haired guard said. “If ye wish to talk find a homely wench or one who carries the monthly complaint. I want that ginger. And I’m never denied my wants here.”

“Learn to be disappointed,” Ian said, tone low, so assured.

“No, ye bastard,” the guard said. “Ye’re the one who will be disappointed.”

Straw-hair and the other guards pounced quickly on Ian, hitting him without mercy. He fought back, tossing two of the men into the wall like poppets. Alasdair leapt up to help him, but was quickly brought down by the straw-haired guard who thumped him hard on the back of his head.

“You guys are really starting to piss me off,” Ian snarled, fists tearing through the air between him and his attackers. He managed to thwart two of the guards sending them smashing to the floor.

But straw-hair had maneuvered behind Ian and unsheathed his own sword. He aimed it squarely at the center of Ian’s back.

Without another breath, Bess drew her dirk out from under the table and leapt from the bench, knocking Amelia out of the way. There was no forethought to her actions. She was a warrior, the protector of her clan. She did not think for one minute that she was saving Ian’s life and at the same time condemning herself to the gaol when she surged up behind the guard and drove her blade into his shoulder.

She released the handle and fell back into Alasdair who had recovered and stood up in time to catch her.

The guard’s screams echoed through the tavern. He reeled back from Ian and dropped his sword, grasping in desperation for the dirk embedded in his shoulder.

“What have I done?” Bess breathed. She was bound for the gaol for attempting to kill a royal guard. Alasdair held her tight, engulfing her in his arms, trying to conceal her with his plaid

Ian turned to face straw-hair. He regarded the handle of the dirk protruding from the man’s shoulder. He knew the weapon was hers. Bess knew he could turn her into the guards right now and be free of her, and no longer her prisoner.

Ian nodded at the guard. “That’s where I left my dirk, in your bloody shoulder.”

Bess pulled against Alasdair’s arms. Ian was taking her blame. Her mind could grasp no reasons why he would do such a daft thing.

The guards that Ian had fought off had recovered enough to follow straw-hair’s order. “Take this bastard to the castle gaol!”

They surrounded Ian, grabbed him and wrenched his arms behind his back. Bess could hear the metallic click of the manacles. One of the guards removed the claymore from Ian’s back and threw it, sheath and sword, to the table. Straw-hair did not give Bess a second glance, as he still carried her dirk sheathed in his shoulder, and out of the tavern.

As the guards dragged him out of the tavern, Ian gave Bess a lingering glance over his shoulder and, was that, a wink too?

She gave him a smile of encouragement.

Ian was a madman, surely. And yet, her heart lurched when he disappeared from her sight.

With her next deep breath, Bess returned to being Chief of Clan Campbell of Argyll. “We will save Ian from the gaol,” she told Alasdair

Alasdair grunted and released her. “’Tis best we are rid of him.”

“Twice now Ian has saved my life, and he saved the life of Father d’Auguste as well. I cannae let him rot in the gaol for what I did.”

“How ye’re gonnae get him out?” Alasdair asked.

“We’re on our way to the castle and to find the Duke of Argyll within. I will convince him to champion Ian’s release. He did protect my virtue from a royal guard.”

Alasdair snorted. “Yer plan was to ask the duke to ally with ye against Lachlan MacLean.”

“I am confident the good duke will have it in his power to grant both of my requests.”

Her biggest problem was how to convince the Duke of Argyll to condemn one MacLean, and absolve another, without thinking her truly mad or questioning why she was in a place where her virtue was threatened.

Chapter Seven: The Dane

“T
his is about what I expected,” Ian told the guard who unlocked his manacles.

He glanced down at the tip of the sword pressed against his throat. “I expected this as well.”

He looked up at the dank stone ceiling covered in wet, black slime. The single torch bolted to the equally slimy rock wall gave off a sickening dull light to this prison in the belly of Edinburgh Castle. Ian winced. His captors could have at least brought him in through the main entrance, let him get a good look at Scotland’s number one tourist attraction. Instead, the guards shoved him though a small doorway and slammed the barred, wooden door hard behind him. Once inside the bowels of this edifice, dank had been the catchword that rummaged through Ian’s mind. Fear had yet to make an appearance.