Highland Conqueror (5 page)

Jolene blinked slowly in shock, then shook her head. “That is quite unacceptable. I cannot possibly share a room with a man. It would be highly improper.”

“And sharing a camp with six men is acceptable, is it?”

Of course it was not, but Jolene suspected she would rather have her feet roasted over hot coals than admit that. She certainly could not tell him the real reason she did not want him sharing her bedchamber. The very last thing she wished him to know was that she had been looking forward to this time alone, time away from his side, to try to tamp down the growing attraction she felt for him. It was odd, but she felt as if sharing a bedchamber with him would be far more intimate than sleeping next to him on the hard ground had been.

“There is only one bed,” she said and wondered crossly why simply saying that word should make her blush.

“Aye, but dinnae fret. Tis a big one.”

Before she could respond to that a knock at the door announced the arrival of her bath. Jolene wanted to continue discussing the matter, but instinct warned her not to do so in front of the maid and the two lads helping her. It quickly became obvious that she was thought to be Sigimor’s wife and Reynard their son. When Jolene recalled the somewhat belligerent welcome she had first received, she decided that misconception was probably for the best. When the maid set up a privacy screen before the rough wooden tub, Jolene fought the urge to scowl at it and Sigimor. She had the distinct feeling he did not intend to leave the room even as she bathed.

The moment she and Sigimor were alone again, she put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Well?”

“Weel what?”

“Should you not leave now to have your own bath?”

“Ah, weel, there is only this one. The lads will bring up another bucket or two of
hot water for me in a wee while. Liam and the others wished to bathe, too, and the inn only has the two tubs.” Sigimor moved to sprawl on the bed next to Reynard and then cocked a brow at Jolene. “Weel, set to it, lass. Dinnae let the water cool too much. Oh, and try not to make the water smell like flowers.”

Jolene opened her mouth to vigorously argue, then closed it. Every instinct she had told her the man would not be moved and the hot bath she craved was waiting. Casting him a hard glare, she collected her lavender-scented soap, picked out some clean clothes, and then stepped behind the privacy screen. The screen was better protection than trusting him to turn his back as he had at the stream. This journey was proving highly injurious to her sense of modesty.

Despite her annoyance, she gave a hearty sigh of pleasure as she sank into the hot water of the bath. For a few moments she just sprawled indecorously in the soothing warmth, but then her innate sense of courtesy and fairness reared its troublesome head. The man deserved to find the water cold, she thought crossly as she began to wash, but she would have to be satisfied with thoroughly scenting it with lavender. Her mood was much improved by the time she had bathed, dressed, and rubbed her hair with the drying cloth until it ceased to drip. She sniffed the bath water, and was still smiling over the scent of lavender rising from it as she stepped around the screen.

“I smell flowers,” Sigimor said as he picked up the buckets of hot water the boys had just delivered and moved toward the bath.

“French lavender,” Jolene replied as she sat before the small fire to comb her hair dry. “A very fine soap.”

Heaving a loud sigh, Sigimor set the buckets down by the tub then stepped closer to her and held out his hand. “I have no soap.”

“I left mine to dry on the small stool by the bath.” She met his scowl with a sweet smile, biting back the urge to laugh.

Once behind the screen, Sigimor added one bucket of hot water to the bath, leaving the second to rinse the soap from his hair. He stripped off his clothes, stepped into the bath, and sighed again as the soft scent of lavender wafted all around him. If he did not avoid his brother and cousins until the scent faded, he was certain he would have to knock a few of them down to silence the teasing. He cursed when he picked up the soap and noticed how strongly scented it was, then nearly cursed again when he heard Jolene’s badly smothered laughter. As he bathed he made a vow to himself to always carry his own soap, manly unscented soap.

By the time he finished his bath, helped Jolene bathe Reynard and rinse out their clothes, their meal was brought in. Sigimor gave Jolene one hard look to silence any jests, then sat on the bed with Reynard as the bath was cleared away. It proved impossible to tear his gaze from Jolene as she nimbly braided her damp hair. He had never favored dark hair on a woman, but Jolene’s thick, shining black hair made him ache. He wanted to see it spread beneath her slim body upon his bed linen as she welcomed him into her arms. Liam was probably right. He probably did stink of wanting her. The desire to make her his was proving too strong to fight.

Concerned that his arousal would become too obvious, Sigimor turned his attention to Reynard. He helped Jolene feed the boy and settle the child on the small bed the innkeeper had provided, then turned his attention to his own meal. Just when he felt himself in control again, he looked across the small rough table to see Jolene lick a drop
of wine from her lips. He inwardly groaned as his desire returned in full force.

“Did Liam happen to say just how near Harold is?” Jolene asked as she began to peel an apple with a particularly ornate dagger Peter had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

“Closer than I would like,” Sigimor replied.

“Oh. We have lost our lead then, have we?”

“Most of it. The fool must be near to killing his horses or he is changing his mounts all along the way.” He watched her pale and admired the way she kept the fear he could see in her eyes under control. “Dinnae look so stricken. I suspected that, if he followed us, he would follow hard. We cannae keep such a brutal pace.”

“Because of me and Reynard.”

“Mostly Reynard. If ’twas just ye, I would tell ye to gird your wee loins and suffer silently. Reynard is a strong, healthy lad, but still too young to endure a hard race to Dubheidland.”

Jolene looked at a sleeping Reynard and sighed. The boy was already very weary. It was but one short step from there to a fever for a child. She would like to race far ahead of Harold, but Sigimor was right. Such a small child could all too easily suffer from such a travail.

She was trying to think of some compromise when the maid arrived to clear away the remains of their meal. It was time to sleep and Jolene was sharply reminded of the fact that there was only one bed. The look upon Sigimor’s face told her there would be no compromise here, either, but she felt compelled to make her objections known to him.

“You could bed down on the floor,” she said.

“When there is a clean, soft, big bed at hand? Nay,” he replied, then shook his head when she looked ready to argue. “Harold is nipping at our heels, lass. Ye and the bairn cannae be left unguarded. Nay, nor can ye be left unguarded in this place where all ken ye are an English lass and are nay too pleased about it. Now, get into bed. Ye need your rest, as do I. I will sleep on top of the bedcovers and ye can sleep safely beneath them.”

Although she was still displeased with the arrangement, she walked to the bed and stripped down to her shift. It was very modest, revealing little more than her gown, but she still felt a blush heat her cheeks as she scrambled beneath the covers. Modesty, she told herself sternly, had little place under such circumstances. Until they got to Dubheidland, Sigimor and the other men had to stay close to her and Reynard. Bowing to a woman’s well taught and, perhaps, excessive modesty was a foolish thing to expect of them.

She inwardly grimaced and quickly closed her eyes when Sigimor stripped down to his braies. Seeing him in nearly all his strong, male glory only reminded her of the real reason she did not want to share the bed with him. The temptation to touch the fine body was strong. Giving in to that temptation would bring her a whole new set of problems. She was just wondering if this was some sort of divine test of her morals when she felt him move close to her. Jolene opened her eyes to scold him only to find him leaning over her, his handsome face very close to hers. There was a look in his rich green eyes that caused her insides to clench with what she very much suspected was lust.

“Was there something you needed to tell me before we sleep?” she asked, pleased at how calm and polite she sounded.

“Nay. I will just take a wee goodnight kiss first.” He grinned when her eyes
widened, then kissed her.

Jolene put her hands against his shoulders, intending to push him away, only to be distracted by the feel of his smooth, warm skin beneath her palms. She started to curl her arms around his neck, feeling a little desperate to hold him close, when he pulled away. He gave her a brief smile, wished her a good sleep, then turned away onto his side with his back toward her. It was a lovely back, she thought as she struggled to ease the pounding of her heart, cool the fire in her blood, and cease panting. Broad, strong, and unmarred. When she saw how it moved as he breathed evenly and calmly, she decided that, at this precise moment, that beautiful, manly back would look even lovelier with the hilt of her dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades.

A yawn so mighty it caused a twinge in her jaw and made her eyes water escaped Jolene as she stumbled through the trees and brush in search of a place to relieve herself. It was all Sigimor’s fault she was so tired. After giving her a kiss that had made her feverish, he had turned over and gone to sleep. Tense with needs she did not fully understand and all too aware of how blithely she could give the man the virtue so well protected for three-and-twenty years, she had been unable to sleep until close to dawn. Jolene doubted she had gained more than a few hours of sleep before a far too cheerful Sigimor was rousting her out of bed. She did not understand how the man could stir her hitherto unawakened passion one moment and, in the next, have her fondly thinking of how many ways she could torture or kill him.

After seeing to her needs, she looked around and felt a tickle of alarm. She could neither see nor hear the Camerons. Worse, she had been so tired, so thoroughly caught up in her thoughts, she had neglected to watch where she was going, or how far. Glancing up at the sky, she tried to recall Peter’s lessons and guess which way was north. Since they were riding into the Highlands, Jolene felt north was the direction to go in. Praying she had chosen correctly, she started to walk.

It was a long while before she accepted the fact that she was going in the wrong direction. The trees were growing thicker, but the wood had been sparse where she had left the others waiting for her. Taking a deep breath to calm her growing fear, she moved on, telling herself that she must have gone deeper into the wood than she had realized or, perhaps, was only a little off the path she had taken.

Just as she began to think it might be wise to stop walking and start bellowing for help, the trees began to thin out. She heard the faint jingle of a horse’s harness and the low murmur of men’s voices. Relieved, she hurried toward the sounds, ignoring a voice in her head that warned her to be cautious. That warning grew more strident as she trotted toward the clearing she could see just ahead of her, but she refused to heed it. It was just the remnants of her fear of having gotten lost, she told herself. A faint smile curved her mouth as she thought that her unease was probably caused by the thought of the lecture Sigimor would surely give her for having taken so long.

The smile on her face disappeared abruptly as she trotted into the clearing. She should have heeded her instincts. Some part of her had obviously been alert enough to notice that there was something wrong, something alarming about the voices she had been running toward. They were English.

Later, she told herself, she might be able to laugh over the way she and the three men in the clearing gaped at each other in astonishment. She had a brief, inane thought that someone needed to teach a few Scots how to count. There were only two men with Harold, not twelve. Then the frantic call to flee that howled through her mind finally reached her body. Cursing, she bolted, but Harold and his men had obviously shaken free of their shock a heartbeat faster than she had.

Jolene had the strong feeling she could not win this race, but she had no intention of surrendering meekly. She intended to make Harold sweat hard for his prize. Her only consolation was that Reynard was still out of Harold’s reach.

Harold and his men proved to be a lot quicker than she would have guessed them to be. They kept blocking her chosen route of escape or turning her away from it. Jolene
soon found herself doing little more than running in circles. Then, for one brief moment, she saw a clear path into the wood. Just as she charged for it, Harold threw himself after her. Jolene cursed as his body slammed into hers from behind. She hit the ground so hard she was surprised she was still concious. She wanted to throw off Harold, but found herself struggling to breathe instead.

“I cannot believe you simply walked into my hands,” Harold said as he took her dagger from its sheath at her waist and stumbled to his feet.

Unconcerned with her dignity for the moment, Jolene flopped onto her back and drew in several deep breaths of air. “It was not quite that simple,” she managed to say.

“Where is Peter’s little bastard?”

“Peter’s
heir
is well out of your murderous grasp.” Her breathing more normal at last, Jolene slowly sat up.

“Is he? I have you now. That will make it much easier to deal with the problem of the boy.” Harold grabbed her tightly by the arm and yanked her to her feet. “Where are your cursed guards?”

“Do you truly think I would be here if I knew? I got separated from them, lost in the woods.” She gave him a cold smile. “Shall I call for them?”

“You do and it shall be the last sound you ever make for I shall cut out your sharp tongue. In truth, ’tis something to consider, for, although I could certainly find some pleasurable use for your tongue, permanently silencing you holds a great appeal.”

The chill of that threat would take a minute to shake off, she thought as he dragged her toward a small fire. He pushed her down and she bit back a curse as her backside hit the ground hard. Two rabbits roasted on a spit over the fire and Jolene realized the men had intended to pause in this clearing for a while. That could prove to her advantage for she felt certain the Camerons would soon start looking for her.

“M’lord,” said one of the men, a tall, thin man with a badly pockmarked face, “should we not move from here?”

“Why?” asked Harold as he sat down close to Jolene.

“Those Scots cannot be far away.”

“Far enough and we will hear them if they approach. We will wait here for the rest of my men as was planned.”

“M’lord—”

“We will wait here. Jesu, Martin, we hold the woman. E’en if those fools stumble our way before the rest of the men arrive, we have her as our shield. Now, fetch me my wineskin.”

Jolene breathed a silent sigh of relief. Martin was silenced, his reasonable concerns ignored. She was heartily thankful for Harold’s arrogance for it would keep her settled in one spot making it easier for the Camerons to track her down. Now all she had to worry about was Harold’s other men and Harold himself. She prayed Sigimor and the others would find her before either of those became too great a threat to her.

“She has been gone too long,” Sigimor muttered, glaring at the woods Jolene had walked into.

“Women take longer,” Liam said as he offered Sigimor a drink from his waterskin.

“Nay this long.” Sigimor took a deep drink of water, handed the waterskin back to Liam, and idly scratched his chin as he continued to scowl at the trees.

“She might be, weel, ill. She did look a wee bit pale. And, verra tired.” Liam eyed Sigimor closely.

“Why are ye looking at me like that?”

“Ye spent the night with her in a room with but one bed. Did ye—”

“Nay! I shared the bed with her beneath the blankets and me above. Nay more.”

He tried not to think about how much
more
he had wanted and still wanted. Sharing a bed with her had been a torment he was not eager to repeat. At least, he thought, not until she let him beneath the covers with her. And they were both naked. He would touch that beautiful skin, feast upon those perfect breasts—. Sigimor quickly pushed those images from his mind. It had not been wise to give into the temptation to kiss her again. Not only had it made him so aroused sleep had been a long time in coming, but all day he had been tasting her on his mouth. His only consolation was that he was almost certain she shared his passion.

That thought made him frown and increased his concern for her. Jolene was a well-born virgin and, if the innocence of her kisses was anything to judge by, unaccustomed to desire. Could she have fled from that, feared it so much that she would try to get away from him? A heartbeat later, he shook aside that thought. Jolene might be innocent, but she was no weak-spirited, easily frightened maid. If she did feel the desire that flared between them as strongly as he did, she would fight it or accept it, not run away from it. Nor would she leave Reynard behind or risk putting either of them into Harold’s grasp. Something was wrong. Sigimor was certain of it.

“Why didnae ye bed her?” asked Liam. “Ye want her.”

Sigimor turned his scowl on his cousin. “She is an English lady and a virgin. I may nay be the wondrous, chivalrous courtier ye are—”

“Why did that sound like such an insult?” Liam murmured, smiling faintly.

“But,” Sigimor continued, ignoring him, “I do ken that ’tisnae verra gentlemonly to seduce a lass like her. In truth, seducing a lass has ne’er been something I much liked. A bit devious, I am thinking. Unkind, too.”

“Mayhap. There are certainly enough lasses about willing to bed a mon just for the pleasure of it or for a wee bit of coin to keep most men satisfied. Then again, some lasses just like to play the game.”

“Jolene wouldnae like such a game.”

“Nay, she wouldnae. She is a lass one marries.”

“Right now she is a lass who is missing. I am going to look for her.”

“Ye could embarrass her if ye stumble upon her at an ill-chosen moment.”

“She will recover. I cannae stand here fearing to offend her modesty when she could be lost, ill, or worse.”

Sigimor was pleased when Liam gave him no further argument. He ordered his cousins David and Marcus to stay with Reynard and the horses. With Tait and Liam, Sigimor started into the woods to look for Jolene. It would indeed be embarrassing if they caught her still tending to her personal needs, but he was willing to risk such an uncomfortable confrontation. Every instinct he had told him that something was wrong.

The worry, even fear, he felt surprised him. It was strong and it ran deep. It was born of far more than his debt to Jolene’s brother, or to her, or even a natural need to protect a woman. They had known each other for only a few days and yet she had obviously become important to him. He could understand feeling an immediate desire for
an attractive woman, but this was a little puzzling. He felt he ought to have known her longer, more thoroughly, and more intimately to cause him to feel such concern and fear over her safety and well-being.

It was also puzzling that he felt no need to try and cure himself of this strange affliction. He certainly felt no urge to put some distance between them before it got worse or more complicated. From the first moment he had seen Jolene, he had felt possessive of her. Small, dark, and impertinent though she was, he had thought
mine
and still did. She felt
right
, even when she was glaring at him, fury enlivening her silver-gray eyes.

Once he got her back by his side, safe and hale, Sigimor knew he was going to have to think more deeply about what lay ahead for him and Jolene. It was easy to see all the complications, such as her being English, but it might be time to start studying all that was right, such as the knee-trembling desire she could stir within him. He had never felt the like before and he should stop trying to ignore the importance of that. And, he
would
get her back, he vowed as he scowled at the trail she had left.

“The fool lass left here and walked off in the wrong direction,” he said.

“Do ye think she means to walk back to England?” Tait asked, only partly joking.

“To Harold? Nay, she has simply gotten herself all turned about. She probably didnae watch where she was going carefully enough and is now lost.” Sigimor looked at Liam. “How close to us was Harold?”

“Too close and drawing closer,” Liam replied. “Yet, I wouldnae have thought he was already breathing down our necks.”

“But he could be and she is walking toward him, isnae she?”

“So we had best nay just start bellowing her name,” Tait murmured as he joined Liam and Sigimor in continuing to follow her trail. “Might be why she isnae bawling like a lost lamb.”

“Could be pure, stubborn pride, too,” Sigimor said. “I have watched her go the wrong way, turned her about, and had her try to convince me that was the way she wished to go if but for a wee moment. As we left the room at the inn, she turned left instead of right toward the stairs. When I pointed out the right way, she told me she was just satisfying her curiosity about how many rooms were on that floor.” He exchanged a brief grin with his companions. “Nay, she is lost and I fear she has wandered a long way refusing to admit it. I but hope that is the only problem.”

Following Jolene’s trail was not easy for she was obviously possessed of a light tread, leaving only the faintest sign of her passing when she left one at all. Time was slipping away and each minute that passed in which Jolene was not safe at his side, Sigimor felt his fear grow. There were other dangers out there beside Harold. He finally sent Liam to scout the area up ahead of them to be sure they were not walking into any trouble as they searched for her. Although it was somewhat satisfying to know his companions now shared his concern, Sigimor found little comfort in their increasingly grim expressions. He promised himself the privilege of lecturing Jolene until her head throbbed, then turned all his attention back to hunting her.

Jolene glanced up at the sky and inwardly cursed. The day was fading fast. All too soon the sun would be setting. Escaping into the dark would certainly make it difficult for Harold to chase her down. Unfortunately, it would also make it difficult for her. She had managed to get herself lost in the full light of day. She would have little chance of finding
her way back to Sigimor in the dark. With her abominable sense of direction, she thought ruefully, she could end up in Wales.

The real trick would be getting away from a very alert Harold and his equally alert men. Jolene refused to think that it was impossible. All she needed was one small chance, one tiny miracle. Even if just Harold’s two men were thoroughly distracted for a moment, escape might be possible. Then she could strike Harold with the rock tucked under her skirts and make a run for it. One thing she could do was run fast and she had the stamina to do so for a long time. Just one little chance, she silently prayed.

“The moment we return to Drumwich, we shall be married,” Harold said, watching her intently as he spoke.