A Perfect Knight For Love (11 page)

Amalie’s upper lip lifted slightly in a sneer. She didn’t have any trouble following his words . . . and his intent. He’d gone into depth on times when he’d taken uncountable women to his bed. Some at the same time. Jamie claimed women flocked about him, begging for his favors. They were his for the taking. Always had been. Always were. Due to his name. And position. His manhood. Prowess. Or mayhap it was his handsome face. Or his record of braw’ wins on the list. According to Jamie, women were forever pestering him. Wanting him. Needing him. Begging him for what he claimed Amalie also wanted and needed.

He was ready to grant her all, now that he’d gotten a good look at her. She was much too bonny for his “puny-ass” brother, Thayne. Jamie was rich. Titled. Thayne had little unless it was granted to him. By his brother. The MacGowan clan chieftain. He informed Amalie she’d be wasting her time with him. She should be dressed in silks from the East, satins and velvets from Venice, and covered in Scot pearls of all shades. The MacGowan laird would assure it. She just needed to order MacPherson to step outside for a bit and Jamie MacGowan would be hers. She’d have no regrets. He was twice the man most men were. Even his brother possessed less “tupping meat.” At least, the women they’d shared always said so.

More than once his bragging got him a gasp of shock. That was one of the times. He’d just grinned and asked if she wanted to see for herself. That was when she’d first shifted closer to the wall, hunching her shoulders against further assault. It wasn’t the last. Nothing worked. He seemed to enjoy her reaction since he regaled her more tales of male prowess and experience. All of it completely distasteful.

And totally frightening.

Amalie wasn’t allowing that emotion. She thanked God silently that MacPherson was in the middle of the little croft, taking up most of the space in a cross-legged sit; Amalie at his back and the MacGowan laird in full sight at his front.

Amalie had never been around grown men. She’d always had servants and a governess at her side. Her father would never allow such familiarity. Thayne had seemed a creature from another world. Yet he had a sense of honor about him that his brother lacked. The more she was around Jamie MacGowan, the less he resembled Thayne. She doubted she’d ever have trouble distinguishing them.

As the torch sputtered and dimmed, he’d gotten lower-voiced. As if speaking secrets. Just to her. He’d moved to speaking of love. If she was looking for that, she had the wrong man. Thayne MacGowan would never love her. She might as well ken the truth. He’d been ruined by Mary even afore she’d wed with Dunn-Fyne. That must be why he claimed the bairn . . . and probably why he claimed Amalie as well. He needed a mother for the bairn. Thayne didn’t want her. He didn’t love her. He needed her. From all Jamie could tell, Amalie’s lone value was as the bairn’s substitute mother. That was the full truth; simple and straightforward.

He’d gotten slower-witted and softer and drowsier, yet still filled the croft with words. Jamie didn’t know why she wouldn’t let him demonstrate what love between a man and woman could be. How a wench could take a man within her and grasp the key to heaven at the same time. He’d show her. All she had to do was get MacPherson to move to one side. Jamie wasn’t even caring if MacPherson watched.

He grew bored with his own voice and slept, his legs sprawled before him, his kilt-thing askew, showing off legs equally as long and thick as Thayne’s, and his mouth wide and slack with the force of his snoring. And that’s how the rest of the night passed.

Amalie lifted her eyes toward the myriad holes in the roof, letting in light. She sent an unspoken prayer through them. She didn’t have anything else. It was dawn, her time was up, and Thayne hadn’t returned.

“MacPherson.”

She must’ve dozed. Amalie lifted her head from the infant’s silent form, blinked on rose-shaded cheeks, and then looked over and up. The man who’d guarded her was moving, first to his knees and then to a stand that grazed his head against the beams. He was facing the laird, easily seen through daylight percolating through the roof and sides of the hut.

“Take the bairn and leave us.”

MacPherson turned his head and looked down at her. “Thayne—”

“Look for yourself. Thayne dinna’ return. Nor did my Honor Guard. ’Tis well past dawn. I’ll repeat it just once. Take the bairn and leave. Now.”

MacPherson reached for the babe. Amalie didn’t seem to have any feeling in her fingers as they simply let the bundle go. She had her eyes on Jamie. He flicked a glance at her, imprinting absolute chill. Then he looked back up at MacPherson.

“You are to fetch my horse. Stand by it. You’re na’ to return, nae matter what you hear. Doona’ fash it, much. I’ll na’ be that long.”

“Aye, Your grace.”

Your grace? Sweet heaven!
Jamie MacGowan was a duke, too? No wonder he’d regaled her with tales of position and title and how many women it impressed! Amalie was panting. And she was trembling. There was no fighting a duke’s command. Her father wouldn’t even have the power. She was surprised Thayne tried.

She didn’t dare stay on the ground. She willed enough substance into her legs to stand, wrapped her blanket securely about the ill-used gown, and ignored the scratch of wool against her bare back where the dress hadn’t been refastened. It didn’t help. Jamie MacGowan was a towering man, and once the wood bolt thing banged into place behind MacPherson, Jamie was an immensely threatening one. His first step took him to the center of the structure and the next put him right in front of her. Not touching, just standing, and huffing whiskey-tainted morn breath all over her.

“You thinking to fight me?” He lowered his head toward her. She didn’t look up to check. She could feel it.

Amalie pulled the blanket tighter and kept her focus on lengthening each breath. She’d never been so frightened. She had to cease reacting and think! She wasn’t an easy wench. She was Miss Amalie Ellin. His was a stupid question. She wasn’t submitting without a fight. For some reason she knew if she told him of it though, it would please him. He might even want it.

“Is that what you want?” She tipped her head back to say it, met his gaze and kept it without blinking.

One side of his lip lifted. “Na’ especially.”

“Then yes. I’m fighting.”

He pulled in a breath and let it out, sending sour breath over her again. Amalie held hers until the odor dissipated.

“You should see sense. We’ve a long ride ahead of us, a horde at our heels, and verra little time.”

“Yet you waste it ravishing your own brother’s wife?”

“You’re na’ his wife.”

He stepped closer, forcing her back against the wall to avoid any touch. It didn’t help. All that happened was a rash of shivers from the chill of the structure at her shoulders.

“Your law says I am,” Amalie retorted.

Jamie lifted his lip again in a half-smile. It didn’t make him look any less aggressive or menacing. “The same law makes you a widow, then.”

Her heart thudded hurtfully and then kept radiating it with every following beat. It also made her voice shake. “You’re wrong. Thayne was delayed. He’ll be here. He will.”

“Matters little, even if he does arrive. I’m the laird. I can have any woman I wish. This includes my brother’s wife.”

“But . . . last night.” Amalie looked away. The words had come out breathless. Like a plea from a frightened young girl.

“Last eve? That was drink talking. Started when I got this.” He gestured to his shoulder. “What you see and hear now is
me
. Jamie MacGowan. The duke. Male. Aroused . . . and needy. Did you ken you’re way bonny? Does na’ surprise me, though. Thayne has a verra good eye. Always did. Now, come here.”

She didn’t move. He didn’t act like he’d expected her to either, since the moment he said it his good hand reached out, grabbed her upper arm and pulled her roughly against him. She’d been wrong earlier. He may not be the same hardness and strength as Thayne, but the difference couldn’t be much. She twisted and kicked but without boots it was ineffective and hurt her toes more than him. She shoved her head at his bandage and all that happened was an oath, and then more of them before he had her against the wall, pinioned in place by hard thighs and the same sensation of belly and chest. He was breathing hard, too, cursing her with more odorous fumes.

“I can have . . . MacPherson bind you. You . . . ken?”

“Why? You not man enough?”

She shouldn’t have taunted him. She knew it before he slammed her head into the wall with the pressure of his. Then she had to contend with his lips against hers, his tongue seeking entry between her clenched teeth. There was the hard, thick, and male portion of him shoving against her lower belly, too. That galvanized her into a jerk of movement, lifting her knee, and then she connected with a crunching hard blow.

The response was immediate and gratifying as Jamie dropped, freeing her. Amalie stared down at the mass of him, groaning and cursing as he cradled his groin in his good hand and rocked in place. She didn’t hesitate another moment. She lifted her skirts, jumped over him, shoved open the door, and then she was running. She couldn’t see where and she didn’t care. The sunlight was too vivid and stupid tears were hampering her vision. She tripped, falling to her knees before regaining her feet, the harsh sound of her own breathing accompanying every step. Or covering over the sounds of Jamie’s pursuit.

Amalie grabbed her skirts high and kept running.

Chapter 8

Mid-morn sun burned away any remaining fog and carved shadows all about the shrubs and rocks as they neared the hut. Thayne swayed with each step of his horse, a jolt of pain accompanying every one of them. Breath was sucked through his teeth with a slight hiss of sound, while anyone looking might have seen how white his knuckles were on the reins. The worst had to be that this injury was his fault. He didn’t castigate Dunn-Fyne for the man’s cowardice. It had been well-known. It was Thayne who’d turned his back on him.

They could all tell the scene about the hut was quiet, releasing a bit of the tension along his spine. Thayne should’ve given Jamie a bit of credit. And then the unmistakable form of MacPherson appeared from across the meadow. He had one hand holding what looked to be the bundle of babe while his other held Jamie’s horse. He dropped the reins as he saw them and then he started lumbering across the space for the hut.

Fool!

Thayne was a fool to leave her. To rely on MacPherson. To trust Jamie. Guilt was a worse bane than even chivalry. And if Jamie had touched one hair on her head, Thayne was gutting him. As a unit, the horses all broke into a run, sending complete agony down Thayne’s leg as he accommodated the pace. He barely gave it thought. The stone-weight feeling in his gut was far worse. He kept up with the others, but was unable to rein in his horse with a backward lean or pinch of his legs. His lock on the reins was the lone thing keeping him in position. Nobody noticed him overshoot where they were already dismounting, filling the space about the small croft. That’s when he saw Amalie, running and skipping and looking altogether strange as she moved away. And that’s why he was the first giving chase.

He’d passed her and had the horse broadside before she saw him. By then he’d slid to the ground and borne the shockwave of ache through his left buttock and down his leg. Thayne bent forward for a heartbeat and then two, forcing the sensation into a bearable throb, and barely heard his name cried. He looked up in time to catch Amalie’s full-body lunge into his arms, forcing a limped step back, and another, and with the third one he went down.

Thayne slammed into the ground, losing every bit of breath as she kept saying his name over and over, clinging to his neck. And if that weren’t strange enough, she was moving his arms about, trying to make them hold her. Thayne couldn’t catch breath and scrunched his face on the new torment.

“Now . . . that looked painful.”

It was Sean coming into Thayne’s field of vision, looking down at him from his stallion before he dismounted. He was joined by three or four more of them, blocking the sun with their forms. None of it did a thing to gain Thayne a breath or mute any of the agony. He kept opening his mouth but nothing came out or went in.

“I hope he dinna’ open the wound.”

“Wound?”

Amalie shifted to ask it, gaining Thayne a bit of room to gasp for air. He used it for that, taking his belly concave on gaining a breath. It set his heart pounding, made his head throb, and filled the moment with the sound of bells ringing.

Lift her
. He mouthed it. Someone shuffled but nobody understood or did his bidding. Their movements unblocked the sun so it could spear his face, too, blinding him.

He felt rather than saw Amalie slide from him and could sense, when he rolled his head toward her, that she’d gone to her knees in the grass beside him. Sun filled the air, looking like it radiated from her. She’d wrapped the plaid about her head and shoulders, shadowing her features, and with her long unbound hair, she resembled an angel from one of the mosaics at Castle Gowan chapel. Even with the black orbs swirling about her head. Thayne blinked. She had that perfect skin; womanly features, with a rose-red mouth and smallish nose; large eyes with long lashes; a perfect form, just made for tupping. Thayne narrowed his eyes to gain focus. He’d known the woman was beautiful, he must not have realized the extent of it.

“What’s wrong with him?”

She craned her neck up to ask it. Thayne watched the faces above him start circling. Rotating. Swooping. Dimming. Like the densest fog before gaining volume and size. Disappearing. Returning. It made the throb in his head worse.

“Naught a good gulp of whiskey will na’ cure.”

Someone lifted his head and sloshed pure liquid fire into his mouth, then held it shut until he swallowed and jerked with the passage of it. And then he was coughing and sputtering and on his hands and knees to keep his innards in place while his eyes wouldn’t cease watering. While everyone about him chuckled except Amalie.