Amanda Scott (32 page)

“Having also managed to sneak up on you …”

“I already agreed that I should have paid closer heed. If you want to scold me more for that, you have every right to do so, but this is not the place.”

His eyes narrowed. “I will decide that.”

“You want to decide everything for everybody,” she snapped, “but you are not God, Duncan. The sun will not rise or set for you.” Hearing gasps from her audience, she grimaced with remorse. “I should not have said that.”

“No, you should not,” he agreed grimly. “You should not have said a good deal of what you have said.”

“Perhaps not, but I said it, and though I spoke in anger, sir, I meant every word. I will not let you order me about as if I were two years old. I have a brain in my head, and have long been accustomed to using it. I am not, however, used to having a man around who thinks he will order every step of my coming and going. You try to tell me what to wear and what not to wear, what to think and what not to think, what to say and what not to say. I cannot live as if I were no more than your echo or a pattern card you have devised from skin to skirt!”

“Damn it, Mary, be silent. I am your husband, and since you vowed before God to obey me, I mean to see that you do, not because I am a tyrant but because you are a woman and therefore weaker than any man. I am sorry that your father and the others died, so that you lacked men to protect you, but—”

“She had me,” Neil interjected indignantly.

“Stay out of this,” Duncan snapped.

“If that isn’t just like you,” Mary told him. “You begin this out here in the yard with the whole world watching and listening, and then when one of your audience dares to speak, you shout at him to keep silent.”

“I did not shout!”

“Yes, you did. Moreover, you called me weak. I am not weak, Duncan Campbell. In fact, I am as strong in my own fashion as any man here is in his.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“You doubt me?” She turned to Jock. “Forgive me for dragging you back into this, but if you fell ill and needed help, whom would you call?”

Jock glanced uneasily at Duncan.

“Answer her.”

“They say the young mistress has healing in her hands,” Jock said quietly.

A murmur of agreement buzzed through the courtyard.

“I’ll grant you have knowledge of remedies,” Duncan said, “but if you want to go outside the castle walls, you will ask my permission first. You are too small to look after yourself, lass, brains or not, and you simply cannot deny that women are weaker than men and need their protection.”

“Oh, no?” Stunned by an outrageous idea that seemed to fly up from deep within her, she hesitated, wondering if she dared adopt it. Deciding that he deserved punishment, if for no reason other than having berated her in so public a manner, she said quietly, “I am no weakling, sir, and to prove it I will wager that I can carry a load in a wheelbarrow across this courtyard that you cannot wheel back.”

“Nonsense, you couldn’t do it. You’d only hurt yourself.”

She looked at Jock. “Have we got a wheelbarrow?”

“Aye, mistress.”

“Have someone fetch it. Unless,” she added when Duncan began to sputter, “you fear that you cannot carry the same load that I do, sir.”

“Exactly the same load?”

“Aye, the exact same one. No substitutions.”

“And if you win?” Showing a touch of amusement now, he looked around the yard, inviting the men to join in his disbelief. “What then?”

“If I win, you will exert yourself to treat my judgment with more respect. I do not expect miraculous changes,” she added. “After all, you have spent your whole life making decisions for everyone around you and offering them advice, even when none is required. Therefore, as a second penalty, you will try—at least upon occasion—to seek advice from others.”

Again he glanced around the courtyard, but this time his demeanor was more challenging, as if he dared anyone to show so much as a hint of amusement. A few men looked hard pressed, but no one laughed or smiled.

He turned back to Mary. “Very well, lass, you’ve asked for it. Do I get to tell you what I will demand when I win this wager?”

“Aye, sir.” She swallowed, knowing he would not win, but having a few uncomfortable second thoughts nonetheless.

“Good,” he said. “I shall expect a willing and submissive wife, one who never questions my orders and obeys them absolutely. I shall further expect you to accept due punishment when you fail to obey me, and to accept that also without question or complaint. Do you agree to my conditions?”

“Aye.”

“Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together. “Bring out the wheelbarrow.”

One of the lads came running with one, apparently having decided that its need had been inevitable from the moment of Mary’s suggesting it. Its big iron wheel rattled loudly on the cobblestones.

Mary pretended to eye the barrow with misgiving. Its wheel was wide, and cloth bindings wrapped its handles, so they would not be slippery. She had wheeled many a load in a similar one at Maclean House when more work existed than hands to do it. She doubted that any of those loads had been as heavy as the one she contemplated now, but she believed she would manage easily enough.

“How far must we wheel this load?” Duncan demanded abruptly.

“Second thoughts, sir? You may set the distance if you like.”

With a slight smile, he said, “So I shall, then. And just to show that I won’t take unfair advantage, you need not wheel it the full length of the yard. Bannatyne, stand yonder by the well. Is that too far, madam?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now, tell the lads what to load into the barrow.”

“That will not be necessary,” she said.

“Not necessary! Do you think you can conjure a load out of the air?”

“No, sir.”

“Then where will you get it?”

In a firm, carrying voice, Mary said, “Climb into the wheelbarrow, Duncan.”

A
FTER A MOMENT OF
stunned silence, the men in the yard burst into laughter, many of them bending double or holding their sides.

The earl, laughing as loud as any other, finally contained his mirth enough to say, “By heaven, she’s got you, Duncan. If she wheels you in that barrow, you cannot possibly carry the same load back.”

Duncan was not laughing. That she had confounded him was clear. That he did not enjoy the men’s laughter was equally clear. His eyes narrowed ominously.

The laughter ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. An icicle falling from the stable eaves sounded unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence.

Mary gazed steadily back at her husband. “Well, sir?”

“You think you have been mighty clever, I expect.”

“I offered a challenge that you accepted, sir. If you are a man of your word, you will not back out now.”

Someone coughed.

“You men, get about your business now,” Duncan said.

“Willna ye let her push ye in the barrow, then?” Chuff said as the others began to stir obediently. Hearing his voice, Mary looked at him in surprise. She had not seen him return from the kitchen.

“I will not,” Duncan said. “You go and help the lads in the stables.”

In the split second before he grabbed her, Mary realized from his voice that he had stepped nearer, but she had no time to elude him before he scooped her up and put her over his shoulder.

“Put me down,” she cried, holding her hood off her face so she could see. “Whether you make me push you or not, I have won the wager, sir. Put me down!”

“I’m not convinced that you can wheel me in that barrow. You certainly can’t if I don’t cooperate, and I don’t mean for the pair of us to provide a spectacle for everyone, so there’s an end to it. And since you have wheeled nothing—”

“Unfair,” she cried, releasing her hood to pound his back with her fists. “Put me down, I say!” His hard shoulder cut painfully into her midsection, and the indignity of her position inflamed her temper again. Reaching back to grab a handful of his hair, she yanked hard.

He muttered, “If you don’t want to feel the flat of my hand on your backside, let go of my hair and behave yourself.”

Knowing that after what she had done to him in front of his men he would not hesitate to punish her before them, she let go of his hair at once, clenching her fists in helpless frustration, glad that her hood hid her face again.

She heard Neil say, “You know, Mary is right. You agreed to the wager. You even taunted her. I say she won fairly, and you should honor your pledge.”

“When I want your opinion, I will ask for it,” Duncan snapped. “Your cousin needs a lesson, and I mean to see that she gets one.”

Turning his back on them, he strode across the courtyard toward the main door, and Mary had all she could do to keep herself from bouncing painfully on his shoulder. His arm felt like a vise across her legs, but it was the knowledge that her backside, riding high in the air, would be the first thing seen by anyone he approached that made her want to murder him.

She could not remember ever being so furious with anyone, but at the same time, she feared what he might do. He had said he would teach her a lesson, and as her husband, he had every right to beat her. She had no doubt that Ewan would have done so under similar circumstances. Suddenly, the fact that she had married Black Duncan not just as a judicious recourse but for life struck her with stunning force.

As he carried her across the hall, she heard Serena exclaim in surprise, “Lud, Duncan, why are you carrying Mary? I heard all the ruckus in the courtyard, and I was just coming down to see what had happened. Has she been hurt?”

Mary shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see the derisive look on Serena’s face, or to see her at all for that matter. Not that there was much fear of either from her present position, she thought, not with the hood covering most of her face.

“It’s nothing,” Duncan replied curtly. “She is not hurt.”

Mary could almost hear him add,
yet.
The thought sent shivers through her body, and she made the mistake of opening her eyes when he started up the stairs. The first thing she saw was Serena standing below, in the center of the hall, grinning from ear to ear. “Witch,” Mary thought, squeezing her eyes shut again.

They met no one else, and in far too short a time, he stopped in an unfamiliar corridor. She felt him reach, then heard a latch click when he opened the door. A moment later, he kicked it shut behind them.

He stood still for a moment, and despite the lingering embers of her fury, she felt no desire to speak. She was uncommonly aware of his arm across her legs, of his shoulder beneath her belly, and she was uncomfortable, but she ignored these discomforts, too apprehensive of what would happen when he set her on her feet

She was looking down at a red Turkey carpet, richly patterned in blue, green, and gold. Though she had not seen it before, she knew she was in his bedchamber. The knowledge did not quell her apprehension, but she experienced new awareness, a physical sensitivity to her surroundings and to the man who had carried her there.

“You are very quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured.

She did not speak.

He shifted her so deftly off his shoulder to stand on the floor that she found herself wondering if he often carried women so. Before she could voice the thought, however, she detected concern in his eyes. It vanished even as she defined it:

“I thought perhaps you had fallen unconscious,” he said.

“No.”

“Take off your cloak.”

Silently, she let it slip to the floor.

Removing his sheepskin cap and shrugging off his greatcoat, he tossed them, along with his gloves and riding whip, onto the stool in front of his dressing table. “At least your temper has cooled a bit,” he said.

“It is not
my
temper that concerns me.”

“That is as it should be. I should have put you straight across my knee, lass. My father and the others will be laughing at me for weeks.”

She bit her lip at the memory his words conjured up of what she had dared.

His eyes narrowed ominously. “I hope you are not also laughing,” he said.

“N-no, sir.” She was struggling, though, and could not imagine how she had allowed her sense of the ridiculous to stir at such an inauspicious time. She looked away, no longer able to meet his stern, unyielding gaze.

“Mary, Mary,” he said with a sigh, “I had no notion of how impertinent you can be. I see that I must quickly cure you of that fault.” He sounded sorrowful, as if he genuinely regretted what he was about to do.

The tone caused her to look at him again, half expecting to see him pick up his riding whip. To her astonishment, she saw deep amusement in his eyes.

That did it. First she gurgled, still trying to repress pent-up laughter; then she gave way to it completely. Memory of the look on his face when she had told him to climb into the wheelbarrow painted an image in her mind that made her laugh until she had to catch hold of a bedpost to keep from collapsing.

Duncan watched her, shaking his head. Then he reached for her again, gently but inexorably drawing her upright and into his arms.

She leaned against him, weak with laughter, feeling his breath on her hair.

“Such impertinence,” he murmured. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Nothing horrid, I hope. I confess, I’m glad you no longer seem so angry.”

“I was, though, amazingly. Even Ian could not have infuriated me so.” In a more solemn tone, he added, “No man likes to be shown for a fool, lass.”

“I was angry, too,” she said to his chest.

“To think I used to believe you had no temper,” he said with a sigh. “I seem to bring out the worst in you, lassie, but you bring out the best in me. I wanted to throttle you, certainly to give you the skelping you’d asked for. Then I looked into your eyes, and I was lost. You looked so calm, so serene. Serena may bear the name, but she does
not
bear the characteristic. You give the word its true meaning.”

“Oh, Duncan, I was anything but serene at the time. For a moment I feared you
would
put me across your knee in front of your men.”

“Aye, well, I was sorely tempted,” he admitted.