Bride of the Black Scot (2 page)

“Only what I hear, m’lady.”

“From a reliable source, I am sure.”

“From a clansman of the Black Scot himself.”

“You have talked with him?”

“I was there when he presented himself to the king and gave
the Black Scot’s reply to the king’s suggestion of a betrothal between you.”

Juliette’s eyes rounded with fascination. “You were there?
Tell me, what did you hear?”

“It was not something I would like to repeat, m’lady.”

“I am of a strong constitution, captain. I will know what
the Black Scot thought of this betrothal.”

“The messenger said the Black Scot would sooner affiance
himself to a sack of wet barley than to a whey-faced Englishwoman with a
backbone of jelly and no more resourcefulness than a fresh-laid goose egg.”

Juliette laughed. “Well, he will be pleasantly disappointed
then,” she said, “for I might be fair of skin, but I’ve backbone enough to face
the likes of him without flinching, and as for resourcefulness…” She gave the
captain a knowing look. “With six conniving younger sisters, I could be nothing
but.”

Captain Morrison coughed discreetly and Juliette knew he was
trying hard not to laugh. “It grows late. The men are ready to eat,” he said.
“Shall I have food sent to you?”

Before she could answer, the pounding of horses’ hooves
shattered the stillness. She looked beyond Captain Morrison, still unable to see
anything, but hearing the thunderous sound growing louder, interspersed with
voices.

Suddenly, a band of men on horseback burst out of a wooded
glen and descended upon them with great swiftness.

In a moment that was both wonderful and terrifying, Juliette
looked up to see the horde thundering toward them as the most magnificent black
horse and rider crashed through one of their tents, the canvas flying out
behind him like the wings of some giant mythological bird. With similar grace,
the other horsemen tore through camp, following close behind their leader,
pulling their horses to a rearing stop just a few feet from the spot where
Juliette and Captain Morrison stood.

She stared up at them, too struck by their sheer
magnificence to speak. They were beings from another world, another time—wild
and dangerous, free and without restraint. Something deep within her soul
stirred, and she felt as if she had lived all her life for this one moment.

The black-clad leader of the group looked with haughty
disdain at the English soldiers who surrounded them before pinning his cold,
blue-eyed gaze on Juliette. For the briefest moment, time was suspended, the
man’s great black cape swirling magnificently about him, his ebony horse
tossing his head and pawing the earth that seemed to quake beneath her own
trembling legs. The second their gazes met, something within Juliette leaped
and she knew, knew without a doubt, that this raven-haired man with clothes as
black as the night was the same man she had seen—and seen a great deal of—at
the pool.

The black devil impaled her with a look that suggested he
had seen a great deal of her as well. The idea was preposterous, of course; she
had been too well hidden. Yet his knowing look made her glance away. But not
before she saw the sardonic amusement on his face.

That look made Juliette confront him squarely and without
fear. It would not do for these men of the Black Scot to report to her
betrothed that he was about to marry a weakling.

With a creaking of saddle leather and harness, the
black-cloaked leader urged his horse closer and drew him to a stop just inches
from her. He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the pommel of his saddle as
his gaze swept over her. “I ken
this
is the betrothed of the Black
Scot,” he said in a powerful, threatening voice.

‘This is Lady Juliette Pemberton,” Captain Morrison said.
“And who might you be, sir?”

With one graceful movement, the dark stranger threw a leg
over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He was tall and slender. His black
velvet doublet and breeches fitted him well—too well—and she wondered if he
wore the black of mourning in defiance to the king’s banishment of the tartan.

It wasn’t his tight breeches that drew her attention,
however, but the sensual mouth beneath the hawkish nose, the raven hair that
hung to his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, the devil’s own blue-black
eyes that seemed in harmony with a face that might have belonged to the Roman
deity of the underworld.

“Stephen Gordon at your service,” he said.

“You are a kinsman of the Black Scot?” Captain Morrison
asked.

His smile was mocking. “The Gordons are all clansmen, but I
ken it could be said that I am closer to our laird than anyone,” he said,
drawing his gaze from Captain Morrison and giving Juliette the once-over before
stepping closer and taking her by the chin, tilting her face toward the fire.

The moment his fingers made contact with her skin, she
jumped as if touched by a red-hot brand. He took no notice, studying her as
casually as he might a peddler selling hot cross buns.

“You hide your fear well,” he said.

Her heart hammered in her chest; her palms grew damp.
Breathing became something of a labor. “I see nothing to fear,” she replied,
praying the sound of her knocking knees did not reach his arrogant ears.

He had the audacity to laugh and her first impulse was to
take her revenge against his shin, but she surmised such an attempt in soft
slippers would only crush her toes. There would be another chance, when she was
wearing riding boots. She returned his stare. “Were you hoping I would be
afraid of you? Is that why you came dressed in black and tore down half the
tents in camp as you arrived?”

His smile was wicked. “You seem remarkably determined in
your refusal to show fear, mistress.”

“Fear is bondage.”

“And pride consoles the weak.”

“We shall see,” she said, tilting her chin up and keeping
her gaze steady on him.

“Aye,” he said. “I ken I like nothing better than a
challenge, lass.”

Towering over her as he did, she thought him unbelievably
tall. His face was half hidden in shadow, but the firelight revealed his
sensual mouth curving in a slow, satisfied smile. Was he toying with her?

“Then consider yourself challenged, m’lord.”

“Proceed with caution, lass. Only a fool rides headlong into
the unknown.”

Perhaps she
was
a fool. She had been looking for
adventure, a diversion from the boredom of the English court. But now, standing
in the presence of this man, she realized her folly. She had once seen a cat
stand idly over a mouse, purring deeply in its throat, just before it struck so
swiftly she did not see it move. This was no game he was playing.

Still, strength would serve her better than weakness. It
remained to be seen if the strength would be real or feigned.

Stupidly, she looked straight into his eyes and wondered if
she would ever be able to look away. His eyes were so dark a blue that they
looked black, unfathomable, against his sun-darkened skin. She had been right
to liken him to Lucifer. As she watched, his eyes seemed to change, illuminated
by a light from within that blazed brilliantly silver. Her breath caught in her
throat. The trees around them seemed to grow still with expectancy, the mist
that had plagued them for two days hanging motionless. Even the fire seemed to
grow dim.

She needed the assurance of something living, knowing she
could not command her own cowardly voice. She looked toward Captain Morrison.
Blessedly, the dear man seemed to sense her distress.

“We have tarried longer than we expected,” the captain said.
“We were told you would meet us here two days ago.”

“We were delayed,” Stephen said, offering no further
explanation.

“We are two days behind schedule and the king is anxious for
our return,” Captain Morrison replied. “He awaits word that our mission has
been completed, that Lady Juliette has been delivered safely into the hands of
the Black Scot.”

The devil’s expression was mocking now, and he nodded in
understanding, as if taunting the captain with the knowledge that they were
uneasy on Scottish soil.

Captain Morrison’s face went suddenly red with
embarrassment. “Of course it would be foolish to expect you to escort a lady at
such a late hour. Please join us for a light repast. Afterward, there are some
documents that will need your hand. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us to depart.”

Stephen Gordon frowned. “Documents?”

Captain Morrison nodded. “To attest that Lady Juliette was
delivered in good health and without harm into your hands.”

Before Stephen Gordon could look back at her, Juliette
spoke. “I grow weary. You do not require my presence. I will retire now.”
Giving the Scot a direct look, she could not resist adding, “Pray continue your
discussion of me.” She had gathered her skirts and turned away when the Scot’s
voice rang out, stopping her.

“Ready yourself, mistress. We leave in a few minutes.”

She spun around, remembering Edith’s warning that the Scots
would take their revenge out on her body. “Leave now!” she cried. “Do you mean
to exact my punishment already?”

His eyes glittered with silver fire. “You expect punishment?”
He smiled. “Have you done something wrong, lass?”

“I am English,” she said. “I thought that reason enough.”

His expression darkened and she wondered if she had gone too
far.

“I am not in the habit of making war with women,” he said.

“Yet you expect me to travel with you now…at this late hour,
like some fat, obedient cow you have just purchased?”

“The comparison is yours,” he said. Then without further
discussion, he ordered, “Make yourself ready, mistress. Direct my men to your
belongings. We leave in half an hour.”

He turned back to Captain Morrison and Juliette realized she
had been well and truly dismissed. She began to sing under her breath.

“There were two
cats at Kilkenny;

Each thought
there was one too many

So they
quarreled and they fit,

They scratched
and they bit.

’Til, excepting
their nails

And the tips of
their tails,

Instead of two
cats, there wasn’t any.”

He turned toward her. “Did you say something?”

“I was singing.”

“Sing something else.”

“As you wish.”

He looked as if he were waiting for something. When she
remained silent, he said, “You surprise me, lass. I would have thought you had
more mettle. You offer me no challenge?”

She recognized a master at verbal sparring. He had the
advantage for now. She would wait for a better time to even things between
them.

“You have nothing more to say?” he asked.

‘The devil is seldom outshot with his own bow,” she replied.

Stephen watched Juliette duck into her tent. Standing beside
Angus, he saw a worried frown stretch across his friend’s ancient forehead.

“You didna tell the lass the truth about who you are, lad,”
Angus said. “Do you think that wise?”

“Aye…for the time being.”

“I dinna ken what harm it would be to tell the lass the
truth. You canna keep it from her forever.”

“No, but I can keep it from her until I am certain why she
is here.”

“You suspect treachery from the lass?”

Stephen turned to look at him. “We are dealing with the
English, are we not?”

“Aye,” Angus said, nodding. “And you suspect everyone…even
the lass?”

“Especially the lass, until I have reason not to. She may be
as innocent as we were led to believe—chosen on a whim of the king’s, a name
selected to barter, an innocent pawn in a game of politics between two
long-standing enemies. But she might also be coming for a different reason
entirely. She could be a spy for the king, sent to bring about my downfall.
I’ll no take to wife a woman who is capable of putting a knife between my
shoulders while I sleep. I have lived with treachery enough to know I can trust
no one. I will know where her loyalty lies before I tell her I am the Black
Scot.”

“She is a comely lass,” Angus said, scratching his chin,
“and abundantly dowered.”

“Aye,” Stephen said, “but I care far more for her loyalty
than her wealth.” As he spoke, Stephen let himself remember, his mind picking
out details—a fall of golden hair in a thick braid down a back, full breasts,
small waist, oval face, eyes so blue a man could swim in them. She was not
beautiful enough to take his breath away, but she was comely. He had a flash of
memory of her at the pool, standing in waist-deep water, her nakedness calling
out to him. Aye, her body bore the classical perfection her face did not
possess. A comely lass with a body a man could worship. If she proved to be
loyal, he would be more than satisfied.

But Stephen had been seduced by such beauty before. Seduced
and betrayed by a woman, as had his father before him. Treachery seemed to run
in the veins of the women whom the chiefs of the Gordon clan took to wife.

A woman’s betrayal had ended his father’s life. Stephen
himself had barely escaped death at the hands of the faithless woman he had
wed. He would not risk his heart or his life again.

“Loyalty is worth more to me than a comely face,” he said at
last.

Angus shrugged. “Perhaps this time you will have both.”

“Aye, perhaps I will,” Stephen said. “Either that or I will
have neither.”

A sturdy mare was brought for Juliette to ride, a surefooted
chestnut of gentle disposition, according to Angus. He gave her a boost into
the sidesaddle and rode beside her for the first part of their journey into the
darkness that lay beyond the bright fires of the English camp.

Shortly after they mounted, Juliette noticed they aimed
their horses toward the distant mountains, where the white-globed moon hung
low, as if it was too heavy to climb higher. From time to time she stole a
glance at Stephen Gordon, who had taken place behind them. He seemed so stem
and distant—untouchable even—garbed in his black clothes and cape. She
remembered the way she had first seen him and felt a twinge of regret, for she
had liked him ever so much better when he was naked.

Strange, how I could feel closer to a man when he is
without clothes than I do when he is fully dressed…

She felt the impact of Stephen’s gaze upon her. Again she
thought of him naked at the pool, and felt she had the advantage. She gave him
a sweet smile that said
I know something you don’t know.

He returned it with a smile that seemed to say,
I know
something as well.

Her composure was shattered. Her thoughts flew back to the
pool. She recalled the moment when he had looked in her direction and her whole
body had suddenly felt warm.
He couldn’t have seen me. I am certain I was
too well hidden.

Still, the thought brought added heat to her face and she
turned away.

She could have sworn she heard him chuckle just before he
dug his spurs into his horse’s sides. She watched his back as he pulled ahead
of them and disappeared into the darkness.

The moon was high in the sky when at last they drew rein.
Six of the fifteen men led the pack animals to a road they had come upon. As
she continued down the trail with the remaining eight, she glanced at Angus.
“Where are the others going?”

Angus did not speak. Juliette repeated her question. “Pardon
me. Could you tell me where those men are going with my belongings?”

“The pack animals will fare better on the main roads,”
Stephen said, seeming to appear out of nowhere, riding his horse between her
and Angus. “We will make better time on the trails. If all goes well, we should
reach Craigmoor Castle a good two days ahead of them. Dinna fret over your
silks and satins, mistress. They will be well guarded, even at the risk of
men’s lives.”

As a child Juliette had been taught that anger in a world
controlled by men was only a waste of time, that a woman had more effective,
diplomatic ways to get what she wanted. But looking at this towering man, she
did not think diplomacy would gain her one whit. Besides, she had never much
followed what she had been taught.

“I was not fretting over the safety of my garments,” she
said. “I was merely asking their destination. Clothes can easily be replaced.”

A grim smile played on Stephen’s mouth. “You think the Black
Scot would be so charitable?”

“I cannot speak for the Black Scot since I have yet to meet
him. I can only surmise that a man honored and respected as the chief of his
clan would be kind and honorable to the woman he took to wife.”

Whatever principles Stephen Gordon held to, admitting he was
wrong was apparently not among them. In spite of that, she felt some
satisfaction when his face turned dark and glowering. Not one to bask overlong
in sweet victory, she looked past Stephen to where Angus rode silently, half hidden
in the darkness. “Does he ever speak?”

“Only when he has something to say, or he feels it is his
place to do so,” Stephen said, nodding at Angus, who took off at a gallop.

Stephen inclined his head in the direction Angus had taken.
“Let us ride,” he said.

She remained stubbornly where she was.

With a
swoosh
, Stephen drew his broadsword. Juliette
saw the flash of moonlight dancing off metal before the blade swept toward her
in a descending arc. She had no time to react, only to fear.

The broadsword swept past her, the flat side coming down
against her horse’s rump. The horse reared, then jumped, and broke into a
gallop, heading down the trail Angus had just taken, the sound of Stephen
Gordon’s cursed laughter ringing in her ears.

After what seemed like hours of riding at a full gallop, her
posterior growing numb, they slowed enough to cross a narrow stream and then
began to climb upward. The trail narrowed, forcing them to go in single file.

She was thankful it forced them to slow their pace, which
did little to ease the ache in her joints.
Faith! Are these Scots always in
a hurry?

Once, Juliette paused long enough to look behind her, her
gaze moving over the column of men to locate Edith. She was bouncing along on a
small but sure-footed pony, and judging from her expression, she was praying
her heart out. Juliette could not help but smile.

The smile faded when Stephen said, “Keep moving, lass. We
are in MacBean territory.”

His tone was softer than it had been earlier. She had been
right to stand up to him. “Is that bad?” she asked.

“Aye, it can be bad, if they see us. We are small in
number.”

“Why did you not bring more men?”

“That is an English habit…legions marching into battle,
drums rolling, their red coats brilliant in the sun.”

“Do you answer every question with platitudes?”

He shrugged. “More men is a sure way to draw their
attention,” he said. “Satisfied?”

She nodded “I am always gratified to receive an honest
answer,” she said. “Are you an enemy of the MacBeans?”

He laughed. “If your name isna MacBean, then you are their
enemy. Have you no heard that the clans are always fighting each other? Today
we are enemies of the MacBeans and the MacAlpins. Tomorrow it might be the
MacDuffs and the Sinclairs.”

“Why would they attack you? You carry no valuables. What
could they possibly be after?”

“You, mistress.”

His words sent a shiver through her. “Me?” To her shame, her
voice was lost somewhere between a croak and a warble. She tried again. “Surely
they would not wish to anger the king by abducting me.”

“After you were forced to marry one of their clansmen, they
would expect the king to be more lenient toward them.”

“But Scots hate the English. Why would any Scot go out of
his way to have an English wife?”

His eyebrows rose. “They would see the sacrifice of marriage
to an English lass as a fair exchange.”

“For what?”

“Security. For gaining the favor of King George. You are a
pearl of great price, mistress. The clan so favored with your marriage would
hold considerable power and influence.”

A pearl of great price…
She almost laughed out loud
at the thought. What would her dear, beloved father say if he heard such
poppycock? Why, in England, there had been times when her father would have
gladly
given
her away. She chewed her lip and considered the prospect of
being taken by yet another band of Scots, just when she was settling in with
this one. Faith! She could not help wondering if she would spend the rest of
her days being kidnapped and bartered about, for it did seem that was all these
bloody Scots thought about. Suddenly marriage to the Black Scot sounded like a
blessing. The Scots might be barbarians, but at least they were Christian
barbarians. Once she was married, she would no longer be fair game.

The idea of being fair game to anyone did not sit well with
her.

“Are you worried about the MacBeans, mistress?”

“You are here to guard me, so there is no reason to be
afraid. However, I am not enamored of the idea of being kidnapped. How about
you? Are you afraid of them?”

She realized immediately she had said the wrong thing. His
dark look told her that this man did not like being called anything that even
vaguely resembled a coward. She opened her mouth to explain what she’d meant,
but he cut her off with a curt answer.

“I am no coward, mistress, but I am no fool either. We are
only eight men. I respect their large numbers,” he said, putting spurs to his
horse and riding off.

Her mouth still hanging open, she watched him go, thinking
he had such a subtle way of ending a conversation.