A Perfect Knight For Love (8 page)

He didn’t meet her eyes, looking instead out over her head. He had a rosy shade along his jaw as well. Then he put both hands on her waist and turned her forward-facing, or as close to it as her side-slung legs allowed. She felt him fuss behind her with the flat round bag-thing he carried at his groin, putting it flat between them. All of it mystifying and interesting. Especially as the flush moved up his cheeks. He didn’t explain and she didn’t ask. It was hard enough recollecting what she’d promised and what he’d do.

Tonight
.

Amalie looked away before he’d spot her blush. Then she felt his thighs move beneath her, tightening on the horse as he motioned it back to a walk. That sent her leaning into the rock-like substance of his lower belly and the bag-thing, which got her a groan from him. He didn’t speak. And she didn’t question. She was afraid of the answer.

He’d been right about the infant. Mary’s baby was at a full wail despite the wet-nurse’s efforts to quiet her. The sound carried over the surface of the lake, making it difficult to spot where it spawned. Amalie could feel the tenseness in Thayne the closer they got. He also walked their mount faster. She didn’t know it was to fling the reins at her and jump from its back until he did it, leaving her stranded and alone and bereft and easy prey.

And that got her Dunn-Fyne’s unwavering gaze.

Amalie kept her head averted to slide off the horse in Thayne’s wake, keeping the animal between her and Dunn-Fyne. The ground was wetter than it looked and soaked through her socks the moment she reached it. Amalie stood indecisively, one hand on the horse’s mane and the other on her plaid to make certain it covered her. She hunched slightly to step atop her hem where it had to be warmer.

“’Tis such a weak bairn.”

Amalie’s breath caught. She held it until it burned before easing it out. She didn’t have to look. She already knew who spoke. And where he was. And what he wanted. Shaking was overtaking her form despite effort to fight it, bringing faintness in its wake. Amalie fought the swell of black rising from where her blanket covering touched ground, blinked hard and fast while breathing quickly and shallowly until the darkness faded back into dull grayish-brown mud. Everything on her was cold now. Everything.

“Verra weak for a MacGowan,” he continued. “Must be the mother at fault.”

She tipped a glance to where he stood, exactly as she’d known. He was watching her from over the top of Thayne’s saddle. Amalie looked away the moment her eyes verified it. Thayne ordered her to stay near to avoid this very thing, and then what happened? When she needed him, he wasn’t here. And worse. In the hunched state she’d assumed, she looked and felt even more vulnerable. It was unbelievable. Amalie Ellin. Only daughter of the Earl of Ellincourt. Standing in a bowed position, terrified as she’d never been and weak-kneed enough to drop where she stood.

“’Twas an early birth?” he asked.

Amalie lifted her shoulders in a shrug, forced her fingers not to tighten on the wad of material she held to her throat.

“You ken why I ask?”

She shrugged again.

“You doona’ feed your own bairn. ’Tis powerful odd. Na’ many husbands hire a wet-nurse.”

If she’d doubted Thayne’s words, she was getting paid back. Fully. Amalie tried to shrug again but failed. Nothing worked at stopping how she shook in full-body tremors. She knew he saw it.

“You ken my meaning?”

Amalie had prided herself on a self-confident and fearless nature. She’d always exhibited it in her charades with Edmund, her dealings with others at court, her father’s decrees. It’s that strength of purpose she’d tapped when stealing the real governess’s identity and luggage and undertaking a journey of this magnitude. She was known for bold fearlessness. Courage. Daring.

It was mortifying to find it all a sham when faced with true danger. She was also starting to cry. No matter how much she blinked and how quickly she breathed, or how tight she held her entire body. Nothing worked. And if Thayne didn’t come soon, she didn’t know what else might happen. All she knew was she feared it, to a near incomprehensible level.

“We’ll speak more on this. You’ve my word.”

Amalie blinked on moisture that kept flooding her eyes, making the view of lake and mist-draped mountain glimmer and blur and then glimmer again. How long she stood there, she didn’t know. The edge of her plaid worked well as a handkerchief. She sopped at her face and then cupped her hands about it. All she wanted was to be back home. In her stateroom at Ellincourt Manor. Warm. Dry. Safe.

“What’s happened?”

Thayne’s voice accompanied arms that pulled her into an embrace of bulk, warmth, and protection. Amalie put her face firmly in the center of his chest and shook with the sobs.

“Well?” He lifted her enough her toes cleared the muck and wet and cold.

“You . . . left,” she whispered.

“A moment. I was gone a trice. Mayhap less.”

“He . . . he—”

“Dunn-Fyne?” He spit the name into existence.

Amalie nodded. “He—uh . . . he . . .”

“He . . . what? Come along, lass. Answer or no. Doona’ leave me guessing.”

“You left me.”

“I saw your reaction to the others . . . so, to spare you, I—Oh, Jesu’! I canna’ be with you every moment!”

“B-but that’s . . . what you said. At your side. Always.”

“You canna’ have it both ways, lass!”

“Both ways?”

“I—uh—
women!
” The way he said it was another cursed word.

“I want to go home,” she replied.

“Soon, lass. Soon. We’ll be on MacGowan land by tomorrow eve. At Castle Gowan a day past that. With any luck.”

Castle Gowan. Her mind conjured a building as dark and cold as the day about them. She shivered involuntarily. “I’m cold, Thayne. And wet.”

“As is everyone. Look about. We’re all cold and wet. Can you spare my ear the complaints?”

“But I haven’t even . . . got shoes.” She lifted a foot and touched it to his lower leg. He jumped slightly.

“Why dinna’ you say something sooner?”

“I—”

“Christ! And His mother, Mary! You’ll catch your death!”

He swung her into a berth in his arms, cradling her against him and placing her nose right against his neck. His steps were just as sure and swift as when he’d first held her in the stable yard. There was a pulse pounding from his throat against her, too. Sturdy. Strong. Powerful.

He probably didn’t know it was the perfect restorative. Amalie wasn’t going to tell him, either.

Chapter 6

She could feel him watching them. It continued throughout the rest period and wouldn’t abate. Dunn-Fyne watched them. Every glance showed him watching. It got worse once they’d reached the meadow Thayne told her of. Despite supervising placement of the fire cover, ordering the score of men grouped about Thayne’s small band, even when shoveling the stew they’d cooked into his mouth, ignoring where he dripped broth onto his beard. He was always watching her and Thayne. With a dark expression that matched his plaid.

Amalie tried ignoring Laird Dunn-Fyne but that just caused nervous suspense that made her limbs quake as if she was a fearful mouse and not a bold adventuress. The thought brought more self-loathing and self-recrimination. It was better to mimic Thayne and return every look without expression, while pretending a mothering nature she didn’t know she possessed. She watched Dunn-Fyne as Thayne strapped the babe to her with a length of plaid material. It made an uncomfortable knot at the back of her neck, but Amalie didn’t care. She cupped an arm about the babe who snuggled into it and slept.

The infant seemed to be the lone one.

Thayne assumed a position against a huge tree, beneath wide branches that held another animal skin. He was propped against his saddle, his legs spread toward the fire and his right hand on the hilt of the long weapon that paralleled his leg, glinting occasionally with flickers of firelight. Amalie didn’t quantify it as a sword. It didn’t look like any she’d ever seen. The Earl of Ellincourt owned a massive armory. It contained all sorts of swords, handed down since the Crusades. They’d been long, slender weapons, never used. They hadn’t been in her lifetime, anyway. Probably longer. The most attention they received was a polish cloth.

Thayne’s weapon was long, thick, with a sharp edge that curved strangely before ending with a wicked point. It looked massive and unwieldy, and entirely capable of taking a man’s head off. And it looked well-used.

Amalie was settled into the space along his other side, her head balanced on his upper belly where the steadiness of his heartbeat soothed and calmed the fear she still harbored despite every attempt at stifling it. From that position she could view Dunn-Fyne as he watched them. She didn’t need any warnings. She was plastered to Thayne. She wasn’t leaving his side for anything or anyone.

The air grew thick with moisture, imbuing the scene with dreamlike quality and making sparks from the fire sparkle before getting extinguished. Amalie blinked on the wavering image of horns sprouting from Dunn-Fyne’s forehead until they disappeared. And then she shuddered. She had too much imagination . . . as always.

“Rain’s slowing.” Thayne lowered his head to her ear, pulling muscles she lay atop and breaking into her doze.

Amalie nodded slightly and continued watching Dunn-Fyne.

“’Tis a good thing. Provides cover.”

“Cover.” She repeated the word without comprehension, and watched the smoke between Dunn-Fyne and them undulate into dancing writhing forms. And then it drifted into the gathering mist, mutating into different shapes.

“Ground fog. ’Tis of great use.”

“Fog . . . ”

Her voice hadn’t much substance to it, matching the scene in front of her. The flames were difficult to see through what had to be smoke. Odd smoke since it was held to the ground rather than floating skyward. At that low level, the smoke joined with the mist snaking about the tree trunks. Dunn-Fyne still sat across the fire facing them, but it was difficult to tell how watchful he was. His face was indistinct and vague and his eyes were shadowed recesses of black. Thayne’s heart rate changed, nearly imperceptibly, and Amalie lifted her head. At that moment, there was a sense of movement about her other side, the one Thayne didn’t protect. Amalie moved to check, but his hand stopped her, as if he knew. And then he dipped his head and explained in a soft whisper that echoed through his chest.

“’Tis but Sean. And Iain.”

Amalie returned to studying Dunn-Fyne’s indistinct features through haze that seemed thicker and full of dancing imps. Amid flickers of firelight.

“They’ve come to replace us.”

Amalie murmured as if that made sense and squelched the yawn. It was entirely too comfortable and too safe-feeling, and added to that was the endless beat of Thayne’s heart. She closed her eyes, settled her cheek, and the next moment she was spinning, pulled to her feet and jerked into place against Thayne as he slammed into the back of the tree, a hissed warning filling her ear.

“Hush!”

Amalie’s heart filled her throat, trembling owned her limbs and there wasn’t anything left to react to how he dangled her. She was entirely surprised the infant was still cradled against her breast and that her arm cupped it.

“Nae sound, lass! You ken?”

She nodded and craned her head with him to look back around the tree. At the site they’d just left. Dunn-Fyne hadn’t moved. He was still endlessly watching them. Nothing looked changed. Or alert. Amalie glanced to where two forms had rolled into the spot Thayne and she had claimed. Yet another one filled where Sean and Iain had just been.

She was still assimilating all that as Thayne sucked in air and then he moved, quickly and quietly. No rustle of sound betrayed his steps, taken sure and swift through shrubbery that showered with spent rain and limbs that swayed and slapped without end. Then they were out of trees and onto open moor that was shadowed with rocks and other obstructions. That’s when Thayne lifted her fully into his arms and broke into a run, as if there was a path and it was easily negotiated. Amalie held to the babe and kept gulping at a lump in her throat she couldn’t speak around. Her voice was missing. And if she found it, she’d likely be screaming.

It was better to hide her face fully against him, scrunch her eyes, and pray. The thump of his pulse grew faster and harder, his breaths more strident and harsh, yet still he ran on, impressing her fully with his endurance and strength, taking countless steps over an unknown distance. And then without warning he slowed, spun, and knocked his back on what sounded like wood.

“Quickly . . . lass! Here!” His words were shoved through heavy breaths as he set her on her feet facing utter blackness. He was untying the knot at her neck as he spoke.

“But—” Amalie began.

“We’ve . . . little time!” The words were harsh and rapid, matching the exhalation of breath he used to say them.

“Time?” Amalie repeated.

“For tupping! There!”

The bundle of infant opened and was lifted from her. In the complete blackness, Amalie couldn’t see what he did with it.

“But—your men?” Amalie asked.

“Took our . . . spots. I doona’ . . . see what that has to do—make haste!”

“With what?” Amalie asked in a little voice she hated the moment it came out.

“Your clothing! At least . . . shed your plaid!”

She heard the sound of rustling that could be him removing clothing, but could be a sign of rats as well. All she knew was it was black and cold and carried a lone feeling that started a tremor deep within her.

“Where . . . are we?” she asked.

“Shepherd croft. Well built. Well-placed. Well hid. Private. Where are you? I canna’ find you, lass! Amalie?”

He had his breathing back under control somewhat. The words were no longer sharp and huffed and spaced. She could sense his movements but despite how alert she was, couldn’t hear them. Further, it was odd he asked. She hadn’t moved from where he’d set her.

“Your men . . . know about this?” she asked.

“Jesu’, lass! Of course they
know
! They’re my Honor Guard!”