A Perfect Knight For Love (25 page)

“The bedding is probably bloodied.”

“You have a wound,” Amalie replied.

“Had this been our wedding night this cover would be pulled and displayed. Proudly. Atop yonder tower.” He pointed behind him at the windows again.

“That’s . . . vulgar. Uncivilized. Uncouth. And . . . wrong.”

“It’s still done.”

“Exactly as I just said.”

“You argue without reason. And little in fact. My grandparents consummated their union with forty sworn witnesses to the event. Right in here.”

“Wit . . . nesses?” Her voice sounded as faint as she felt.

“How else can the clan assure legitimate MacGowan offspring?”

“The normal way.”

“And how is that?”

Thayne lifted to his elbows and swiveled his head to look back at her, making him undulate beneath her hands. That sent tingling all through her fingers and up her arms. Amalie nearly moved from him before catching it.

“They wait for the birth.”

“Bairns are oft-times early . . . leading to questions and issues. Legitimacy. Right to succession.”

“Like . . . Mary’s baby?” she asked.

She was surprised at her own daring. She truly was. She watched with baited breath as he stayed silent and still, the only sign it bothered him was the slightness of each breath. Then, he relaxed, easing back onto the mattress.

“Mary’s na’ a subject we’ll be discussing. You ken?”

“What do you want to discuss, then?”

“I want sleep, lass. And a fresh cover. When you’re about snuffing candles, you’d best look for another cover for the bed. And a good spot to hide this one.”

“Why?”

He sighed heavily, moving his frame and that moved hers. That started tingles through both arms again. Amalie frowned at the sensation before forcing it aside.

“I have to repeat everything to you. Everything. I need a fresh one because this coverlet is bloodied and ill-used. I doona’ wish them taking it on the morrow.”

Amalie’s frown deepened. “I have to repeat my words, too. You’ve a wound. Wounds bleed.” She shuddered but stopped the gagging reflex.

“You’ve a stubborn streak with no ear open for a listen. They’ve na’ heard of any wound. I doona’ go about shouting of wounds because that equates with weakness. Only a choice few of my Honor Guard ken the extent of this. All anyone notes is I’ve arrived with a new bride. Without warning. Tradition dictates a show of purity, and I doona’ believe there’s a Scotsman alive who can best a herd of clanswomen intent on tradition.”

“But . . . we claim a child.”

“Which is exactly why we have to hide the cover.”

“Why can’t I follow what you’re saying?”

“If I want Mary’s wee one to stay here and be brought up by me, I have to continue the story of her being mine. And yours. That’s why we have to keep the secret. Forever. You ken?”

“We don’t have to let them in.”

“Sooner or later, we’ll be for leaving this chamber. And they’ll be a-waiting. Like wolves to a kill. Trust me.”

“This . . . is barbaric.”

“Doona’ tell me it’s na’ practiced by the Sassenach.”

“It’s not.”

“I doona’ believe it. The Stewart king just lost the throne due to it.”

“No, and no. You’re woefully ill-informed. And it didn’t
just
happen. Nearly two years ago he abdicated and fled to France. It had nothing to do with his queen’s failure to get witnesses to a consummation, but at a birth.”

“Same sort of issue.”

“No . . . it’s not. The queen is well past childbearing age, and then she compounds it by failing to get witnesses to the birth? A royal birth with no witnesses? Where are your wits? There had to be a reason. If the queen birthed a legitimate heir, why wasn’t there a witness?”

“The Sassenach wrong us again. And you argue. This is the issue.”

“No. The issue is that Scots are hardheaded and harder-hearted.”

He sighed again, moving her up and down with it, while all the same reaction went through her.

“You should waste less time on your argue and more with your duties.”

“What duties?”

“You see? I wasted breath earlier. Listen this time. You need to find a replacement coverlet for this one. Look in the wardrobe. Get one that’s embroidered in heraldic theme as replacement. ’Tis odd, wife. Look here. We dinna’ even get to the sheets. You’re fain impatient.”

“
I’m
impatient?” Her lips set and then she saw the wink he gave her.

“Then, there’s this wound of mine. You’ve got to check for seepage. Then you’ve candles to see gutted. All of that afore I let you back into my bed. And mayhap allow you to sleep.” He stopped and yawned.

“Mayhap?”

“You argue without reason. I’m na’ immune.”

“To what?”

“You see? Another argue.”

“You’re avoiding an answer.”

“Verra well. You. I’m na’ immune to you. Prancing about while wearing my thinnest shirt. Showing off perfect woman curves since the light behind you cuts right through it. That’s what.”

Amalie lifted her hands from him, crossed her arms to cover her breasts and looked at him unblinkingly. She couldn’t do anything about the flush that reached her hairline.

“’Tis easy to see why Dunn-Fyne wanted you. And my brother. As well as any other man we come across. A man would have to be blind. I’d best seek sleep instead. I’m going to need it. Why are you still here?”

“I . . .” She didn’t know what the reply would have been.

“Sleep. I need sleep. Na’ another love bout with her. If I shut my eyes and ignore her, ’twill be easier to gain. I’ll just lie here. Ignore her. . . .”

“Thayne MacGowan.”

“What?”

“You speak as if I’m not here. It’s not the first time, either.”

“You’re na’ supposed to be. You’re to be snuffing candles. Finding covers. Staying out of my sight so I can sleep. I’ve men to work in the morn out on the list. Unless MacKennah visits and makes a true fight of it.”

“No. You can’t fight. Not with that.” She pointed to the wad of linens atop him.

“Oh . . . I’ll work. And I’ll fight.”

“What? Why?”

“I have to.”

“That’s just stupid. And ill-bred. And barbaric.”

“I already ken what you think of me, love. You needn’t use such honeyed words.”

Love
. He said it again and just like that stole her voice. Amalie opened her mouth to answer but nothing came out. She shut it again.

“I have to get to the list and give a show. For a bit. I canna’ afford other, lass. Na’ with Jamie as our laird. Never could.”

“You’re not weak. You’re healing. And that takes time.”

“Hints of weakness mean the same. You ken? Up here, a man is judged on strength. Power. Might. Victories. Against his enemies, and sometimes against his own kin. He needs sleep for all of it. Perhaps you could save further words of pester for the morrow.”

“Words . . . of pester?”

He moved onto his side, supporting himself on a crooked arm. “Go. Blow out the candles first. I’ve changed my mind. I look forward to watching you.”

“You can blow them out yourself, then.”

“I’m trying to re-knit my wound here.”

“So you can rip it open again on the morrow? That’s your argument?”

“I doona’ argue. I leave that to the wenches of the world. Now, go. Or bear the consequences of disobedience.”

“Consequences?”

“Do you wish to ken what they are?”

She didn’t need to guess. With the way he moved his eyebrows up and down, it was apparent. “You’re uncivilized and uncouth, MacGowan. And crude.”

“Next thing you’ll be averring is your towels were na’ warmed enough.”

“Just because you’ve got servants and luxury at your fingertips, doesn’t mean you’re civilized.”

“You’re halfway to consequences already, wife. Just keep arguing. I’m near awake again. All of me.”

Amalie gasped. “I’ve half a mind to leave you to bleed to death.”

“I’m in nae danger of that.”

“How do you know?”

In answer he pulled at his shirt, taking it from where it was tucked beneath the kilt, over the top of his head before tossing it over the far side of the bed. His antics mussed loose hair with the motion and gave her a perfect view of undulating muscle and brawn. She knew exactly what that described now, too.

“See that?” He pointed to a scar the length and width of her finger on the top of his left shoulder.

“Y-y-yes.”

“That’s where the arrow exited.”

“Someone shot an arrow at you?” Shock colored her voice, closing her throat. It was accompanied by the hand she moved there.

“Na’ just at me. Through me. Plenty of blood loss. Nearly died. This became my comparison.”

“Of what?”

“Blood loss. What it feels like. How much I can sustain. I was foolish that time. I dinna’ burn the wound closed.”

Amalie moved her hand to her mouth.

“And see this one here?” He lifted his torso to point at another jagged scar near his waist.

“I don’t want to know.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to be ill.”

“You’d be of little use on a battlefield.”

“Please?”

He moved his eyes to hers and smiled. “Doona’ fret so. I’m rarely challenged anymore. These scars are signs of why. I doona’ lose. You’re wed to a MacGowan laird now. You’re safe.”

“I thought . . . Jamie was the laird.”

“I’m his heir.”

“Why? Not enough blood on the sheets following his marriage consummation?” She asked it snidely and immediately regretted it.

“Jamie canna’ sire a bairn strong enough to live. His offspring all die. Within hours of birth. Even the bastards.”

“Oh, sweet Lord. His poor wife.”

“Doona’ waste pity on that woman.”

“But . . . it has to pain her.”

“One has to have a heart first, love.”

Blast and damn him!
Amalie’s eyes swelled with moisture at the words and the endearment again. She held her breath and watched him shimmer before her. She didn’t dare blink. It would make the emotion real and send tears onto her cheeks.

“You’ll learn that soon enough. Once you’re gowned proper for presentation. You should go now. Blow out the candles. Fetch another cover.”

“Don’t watch me.”

“She’s perched like a naked goddess beside me and tells me na’ to watch. Me. Verra funny, lass. Verra.”

“I’m not naked.”

“You’re near full consequences. Near. You want to try for full?”

Amalie put both palms on the bed and pushed toward the side, dropped down to the platform, and stumbled backward without taking her eyes from him. He was at a crawl as she backed across the room, stumbling over a thick rug before turning to run. She’d handle the candles at the table first. There was a long-handled snuffer along the base of his candelabra. She had them out before moving to the plateau of steps and the door. She didn’t note how ridiculous it would be trying to tamp the torch flames with the little cupped snuffer in her hand. And she couldn’t reach them. Even on tiptoe.

“You would try the patience of a saint, wife. I swear.”

She squealed as arms wrapped about her, hoisted her atop his shoulder, where he slapped a hand to her rump to hold her there while limping back toward his bed. The snuffer dropped with a clatter midway across the floor. It didn’t matter. She didn’t even think of anything resembling a struggle.

Chapter 18

Word from MacKennah came at midday, although pipers had been alluding to it since daybreak, amid the beat of drums and sounds of steel hitting steel. Word came with Jamie’s entrance into the inner bailey and to the stables, leading more horses than he’d started with. At least four mounts had women clinging to the manes, while one of them carried a trussed MacKennah clansman, limbs roped beneath the stallion’s belly in a picture of defeat. Thayne gave his brother a glance before putting his third opponent down in as many bouts, and then he put his arms wide to the sky, yelling of victory amid clapping and calling and the drum beats that came with each win.

It was better than sobbing the agony.

It was due to Sean that Thayne made a showing at all. The man took one look at Thayne’s limp and gave orders; first to escorting him to the alcove of the Chieftain room, next to fetching Angus the castle healer, getting full sporrans of whiskey for drinking and cleaning, and then keeping anyone from witnessing the wound as it got stitched together, every prick on inflamed flesh drawing an unmanly tear he refused to shed. Angus then put some sort of salve atop it before giving Thayne the worst indignity of his life. He’d been strapped with bands of linen to hold the wound together. Like a babe. And all without one word of comment or snicker from Sean Blair. The man’s loyalty reminded Thayne of the reason he’d chosen him as his closest Honor Guardsman.

Handling seepage was one part. Nothing could be done for pain except to endure it and turn it to fury and rage and hate. That was easiest out on the list, where the emotion changed Thayne into a beast of lightning reflexes, throat-scraping yells, and brutish blows. The outcome of any challenge was a certainty as soon as it was given. Three clansmen tried it. All three went down. Thayne’s wound throbbed ceaselessly throughout the battles, adding to the noise and pulse beats filling his frame until the entire field became not a snow-flecked mud wash, but a haze of red and black.

Then Jamie rode into the grounds, bringing a MacKennah man and several unkempt, weeping wenches. Thayne finished his victory yell and glared across the span of ground at his brother. His brother turned aside as Thayne sheathed his sword and held it in place against his leg. He was at a trot before he cleared the list, dodging chunks of churned-up sod, jumping slick spots, and shoving past Jamie’s Honor Guard, before finally stopping, gathering breath. Then he pulled himself to his full height and shouted.

“Jamie MacGowan!” His cry startled more than one of them. The women all turned to him, looking through strands of unkempt hair they didn’t push out of the way. A look showed why. Their hands were tied to their saddles.

“Hold there, Bairn Brother . . . while I cancel this thirst.”

“You’ve taken a MacKennah!”

Jamie drank until he needed breath. Pulled the sporran from his mouth and dragged a filthy sleeve across it. “I’ve taken more than one MacKennah.”