English, Elizabeth (22 page)

"No.
But don't stop—" he added hastily, and she saw a spark of humor in his
eyes, humor and something else she could not name but that made her face flame
even more hotly. "I think I might have bruised something after
all..."

"Where,
then?" She asked sternly, though for some reason she could not seem to
catch her breath.

"I'm
not quite sure. You'd best keep looking. Perhaps it's here—"

He
covered her hand with his own and moved it slowly across his warm brown skin.
The beat of his heart was strong against her palm. When her fingers brushed his
nipple he closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. Alyson felt her own
nipples tighten in response, and a cramp of something that was not quite pain
rippled downward through her body.

She
had forgotten all the others who stood watching. The world narrowed to the two
of them facing one another, their eyes locked, the waves of hot and cold chasing
each other through Alyson's body, the feel of his hand on hers and his flesh
beneath her palm.

And
then he jerked away.

"That
hurt!" he said, aggrieved.

"Well,
of course it did," she answered, suddenly remembering what she was about.
"You've bruised a rib—it may be cracked. I'd best bind it for you."

She
turned and saw Emma watching them, a long strip of fabric in her hands.
"Use this."

"Thank
you. Now sit still so I can get this tight."

He
raised his arms obligingly as she wound the bandage across his ribs. When she
leaned forward to pass it around his back, he pulled away with a yelp of
laughter. "Careful, there!"

"What,
ticklish?" She couldn't help but smile.

All
at once she was conscious of the intimacy of what she was doing. Why, all he'd
have to do was lower his arms and they would be embraced. As though he read her
mind he made the slightest movement forward, and she snapped, "Stay still,
please. I can't get this right unless you do."

"As
you will, lady," he answered, sounding suspiciously amused.

"Once
more around... and then I just have to tie it... there, 'tis done," she
finished with relief, standing and making a show of brushing at her skirt.
"So long as you keep this on it shouldn't hurt. If it does you must tell
me at once, especially if you feel pain when breathing or if you begin to
cough."

"Aye,
if it pleases you. What a fuss about nothing," he said, standing and
pulling the tunic over his head. "Thank you," he added over his
shoulder and Alyson nodded briskly before turning away.

She
imagined she could feel him watching her and reluctantly, almost against her
will, she looked back. Their eyes met and held in a long unsmiling glance. Then
Emma spoke to him and he turned to answer. The moment he looked away Alyson
turned and ran back to her cottage as though the devil himself were on her
heels.

No
sooner had Alyson gained the safety of her own
four walls when she began
to regret her hasty departure. Emma McLaran had actually spoken to her, though
whether as a peacemaking gesture or an attempt to embarrass her, Alyson
couldn't quite decide. Either way Alyson had been a fool to let the opportunity
slip away.

She
went out the door and back to the fire, but Emma was nowhere to be seen. Though
the other women pretended to ignore her, they did answer a direct question,
admitting grudgingly that Emma had gone back to her own home to tend her ailing
husband. When pressed, they pointed out the way.

Malcolm
walked across the moor with her, through a stand of alder trees and to a lovely
sheltered glade beside a waterfall where the Laird's dwelling stood. Like all
the buildings here, it was stark and simple, a plain tower built of heavy
stone. A neat, fenced pasture stretched behind it up the mountain, filled with
shaggy cattle. A flock of chickens pecked contentedly outside the door, where
four men lounged upon the stoop, resting from the games and drinking from a
stone jug.

They
barely moved to let her pass, but Alyson ignored their rudeness and knocked
briskly upon the door. A young girl opened it peered out, her round eyes
widening when she recognized their visitor.

"I'd
like to see Lady Emma," Alyson said firmly.

"Oh!
Aye, well—a moment, please."

The
girl shut the door in Alyson's face. She waited, her heart beating quickly as
she tried to imagine what she'd say to Emma. Should she tell her whole truth?
Or simply mention Clare's name and see what happened next? She wiped sweating
palms upon her skirt, praying that when the time came, she would find the
words.

***

Emma
tucked the shawl more firmly about her husband's
frail shoulders, then
pushed another pillow behind his back, propping him higher on the bed.

"Leave
off fussing, woman," he said impatiently. "I'm well enough. Just a
bit tired."

"I'm
not surprised!" Emma answered tartly. "Ye said ye'd stay no more than
half an hour—"

"So
I did," Hamish agreed. "But ye know as well as I do that this
afternoon wasna the reason—"

"Whisht,
now," Emma said uncomfortably, smoothing the coverlet with nervous hands.
"If it's rest you're wanting, then—"

"I
heard it again last night—and you did, too!" he finished, pointing a
gnarled finger at his wife. "Dinna trouble to deny it. Keening fit to
break my heart."

"The
wind in the trees, no more," Emma said, though she didn't raise her eyes
to him. Hamish covered her hand with his.

"Now,
Emma, we both know that's pure blether," he said gently. "Not the
wind, nor one of the serving girls, either, as ye told me yestere'en."

Emma
looked up at him at last with troubled eyes. "Then what, Hamish?"

"Ye
ken, hinny. Ye ken as well as I."

Emma
jumped up and began to pace the small chamber, then flung open the shutters and
breathed deeply of the summer-scented air. Turning away from the window, she
said in a low voice, "If 'tis in truth a—a spirit—and I'm not saying that
it is—would it be any wonder? Who'd have thought I'd ever speak words of
welcome to a Darnley! Aye, Hamish, I heard it, too, last night and every night
since Kirallen brought the Sassenach wench among us—"

She
broke off at a timid knock upon the door.

"The
lady of Kirallen to see ye," the serving girl Said.

Emma
gave an exasperated sigh. "What can
she
want here?" Is she a
bit thick, d'ye think? Tell her I'm not at home."

Her
voice carried clearly through the open window. The men seated on the stoop
burst into laughter, and Malcolm's hands clenched into fists. "She
shouldna have done that," he said, his voice shaking at the insult.

The
door opened and the serving girl looked out again. "Lady Emma's not at
home," she said with an impudent grin.

"I
see. Come then, Malcolm," Alyson added before the boy could speak.
"We've come at a bad time."

"Och,
aye, ye came at a bad time," one of the men mimicked, getting to his feet
where he stood swaying. "Ye hae no business here at all. Get off wi'
ye."

Alyson
walked down the path, past the field and back into the trees, taking slow, deep
breaths to keep the tears away. It had been foolish for her to try this, but at
least the attempt had been made. She had nothing to reproach herself with now.

"I
canna believe it!" Malcolm cried, stopping and glaring back. "How
could
she be as rude as that?"

"It
doesn't matter," Alyson said through trembling lips.

"Aye,
but it does! When my grandsire hears, he'll be—"

"Don't
tell him, Malcolm," Alyson said, whirling to face him. "Just let it
pass."

"But
why?" he demanded, hands fisted on his hips. "She was verra
wrong—"

He
broke off, looking over Alyson's shoulder.

"You're
right, Aunt," he said, tugging on her hand. "Quickly, now, we should
be getting back."

Turning,
Alyson saw the four men from the keep coming after them. She and Malcolm
hurried on their way, down the small path through the stand of alder trees.
They reached the other side ahead of the men, but as they stepped out on the
high moor, they found three more McLaran men approaching. Her heart sank as she
recognized Hugh McLaran's flaming head towering above the others.

"Do
not fear, Malcolm," Alyson said, tightening her grip upon his hand.
"Just walk by as if they aren't there."

They
were just passing the men when their pursuers burst from the trees, calling
after them.

"Slow
down, my lady," one man cried, his voice thick with drink. "Runnin'
awa' an' all—whisht, ye'd think we weren't fit to talk wi' ye."

"Go
on, Aunt," Malcolm said, turning back. "I'll hold them here."

Alyson
was quite ready to obey him, for she knew Malcolm safe enough. It was her they
wanted. But now the other men closed round her, and she realized they, too, had
been drinking. Alyson had enough experience with drunken men to know they were
at the worst stage—their judgment gone, the claims of hospitality forgotten,
but still far from insensibility.

"What
is it that you want with me?" she asked clearly.

"What
do we want wi' ye?" they repeated, seeming to find the question
unanswerable.

"Come,
Malcolm, we're expected," she said sharply, taking a few steps across the
grass. One man, bolder than the others, grabbed her by the arm.

"What
do we want wi' her, lads?" he cried. "What can anyone want wi' a wee
Sassenach bitch?"

That
set them all to laughing, and the man who'd spoken looked around, pleased with
the effect of his words. As soon as he took his eyes from her, Alyson drove her
elbow full into his stomach. He released her with a startled "Oof!"
and she turned to run, but was stopped by two other men who stepped into her
path. Turning again, she found herself surrounded.

"Let
her go!" Malcolm struggled to push between the men. "Ye dinna dare
hurt her!"

"Och,
laddie, we dinna mean to
hurt
her," a dark-haired man said, giving
Alyson a leering wink. "Run off now and find yer friends."

"I
willna!" Malcolm cried. "Let her go!"

"I
said get off wi' ye," the man said more sharply now, backhanding Malcolm
across the face. "This is no concern o' yours."

Malcolm
staggered, then regained his balance, blood streaming from his nose. Alyson
looked in the direction of the camp and jerked her head, signaling for him to
run. After just a moment's hesitation he obeyed.

"Come
now, sweeting," the man said, grabbing her about the waist. "We'll
let ye go for the price o' a kiss."

Hugh
McLaran took the jug from his lips and wiped a hand across his mouth. "A
kiss for all o' us!" he cried, sweeping her into his arms. She twisted
wildly in his grasp and he laughed, bending down to her, his arm so tight about
her waist that she feared her spine would snap. His breath was foul with
whisky, and she turned her head with a cry of disgust.

"Och,
she's got yer measure, Hugh!" a young man with curling nut-brown hair
called out. "Give her here, she'll no' be so shy wi' a sweet laddie like
meself!"

This
jest was greeted with roars of laughter and cries of "Wait yer turn!"

And
then a cold voice cut through the laughter. "I'll thank you to take your
hands from my wife."

"Ah,
Jemmy, don't be like that!" the pretty young man said. "We only
wanted to make her welcome."

"Get
your hands off her, Hugh. Now."

The
redheaded man released her. "Dinna take that tone wi' me, Kirallen,"
he growled.

"I'll
take what tone I like," Jemmy snapped, drawing Alyson to his side. She
stared down at the ground, tumbled auburn waves curtaining her face as she
tried to still her trembling. Jemmy put an arm about her shoulders, and she
leaned against him gratefully.

"Did
they hurt you?" he asked.

"No.
No, they didn't hurt me."

Jemmy
nodded and turned to leave. Alyson realized that he was not alone as young
Conal fell into step beside her.

"I
said dinna take that tone wi' me, Kirallen!" Hugh McLaran roared.
"Come back here and beg my leave before ye go."

Jemmy
ignored him and walked on, his arm firm around Alyson's shoulder. The McLarans
hesitated for an instant, then ran forward, shouting out their battle cry.

"Get
back, Maude," was all Jemmy had time to say before the two Kirallens were
engulfed in a swirling mass of red-gold tartan.

***

Alistair!"
Malcolm cried breathlessly. "Alistair, ye
must come at once—"

A
dozen men lay at their ease on the grass, a plaid spread between them. Alistair
shook a pair of dice in his hand, gesturing toward a pile of coins before him.
"Not now, Malcolm," he said. "My luck's in."