Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (10 page)

"I've no time to attempt to find my guards," she said, and tried to wrench her foot away.

He snatched it back onto his knee and managed to rip a strip of cloth from her underskirt at the same time.

"What do you think you are doing?" she rasped, realizing a moment too late where his hands had been.

He grinned as he began to wrap the rag about her heel. "You must be eager indeed to see your betrothed, if you cannot even wait for me to bandage your feet."

"What can I say?" she asked flippantly. "The thought of him sets my heart aflutter. I cannot bear to be away from him a moment longer."

"So he is such an exceptional lover?"

She sighed.

Anger ground through Liam, but he stifled it. "Huh!" he spat, dropping her bandaged foot to the ground only to retrieve the other one. "There is no betrothed."

"What are you talking about?" She almost managed to wrench her foot from his grasp.

"You haven't been so frivolous since..." He paused. In his mind he remembered once again when she had come to him as a young girl. But even to humiliate her, he had never found the strength to besmirch those memories. "You're not the frivolous sort, Rachel. And so I wonder, where do you rush off to in such a hurry?"

His question was accented by the rending of cloth again. She jumped at the sound, glared at him, but kept her foot on his knee.

"It may be I don't think of the sanctity of marriage as a frivolous thing, Liam," she said. "Indeed, I
am
to be married. And I go to him even now."

"Maybe. If he's dying."

"What does that mean?"

"Not since you were old enough to tend a wound did you rush about like this for any reason other than someone's failing health."

"Little you know, Liam," she said. "It so happens I've long wanted babes of mine own. And despite my... well..." She paused and somehow managed to give him a prim look despite her disheveled appearance. "Despite my vast experience with men, I've decided to marry before creating a child."

"How moral of you."

"Aye. Laird Durilock thought so."

"I've no doubt." He dropped her foot to the ground.

She tipped her ankle with a scowl. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I was born a bastard," he reminded her. "Shoes don't come with the title. Now tell me where you're bound?"

"I already said." She tried to rise to her feet, but he still held her ankle. Tilting her slightly off balance, he spilled her back onto the log.

"Hear me well, Rachel. We've some rather nasty men after us. And I, for one, would like to know why."

"What men?" she snapped, waving her arm to the side. "I see none."

"They come," he assured.

"They?"

"You know who?"

"Warwick?" she scoffed.

"Don't say his name!" Liam hissed, panic filling him.

She laughed. Actually laughed. "So you really do believe he's still alive."

"Did you think I was jesting?"

"Liam! Tis madness. He cannot possibly have survived the fire at Kirkwood Castle. But if he did—why would he wish me harm? He's a nobleman. A—"

"Aye! He was once a nobleman!" Liam said. "Indeed, he was once wealthy, an advisor of kings.

And thus you would trust him I suppose? Because he is one of your own?"

"He is dead."

"He is not. He is after you, and I wish to know why. Why the hurry, Rachel? Where are you bound?"

Her expression was solemn. "Do you suppose..." Her hand crept to Dragonheart. "Are they after the amulet?"

Terror smote Liam. Twas the answer he'd considered a hundred times since she'd saved his hide. The only answer that seemed logical. But that was impossible. He shook his head. "He couldn't already know you have it. He couldn't. Could he?"

Their gazes met in silent fear.

But Rachel finally laughed, breaking the spell as she jerked to her feet. "You've been telling wild tales so long that you finally believe them yourself, Liam. I am bound to see my betrothed.

Nothing else."

"Aye," he said, rising beside her. "And I am the King of Kalmar." -

It was nearly dark when Rachel stopped abruptly ahead of Liam.

"What is it?" he hissed.

"Did you hear something?"

He shook his head but remained silent for a time, listening. Then, "Hoofbeats."

Her nod was quick, her expression hopeful, but he dared not be so optimistic. Instead he held up a hand for silence, then quick as his aching body could manage, he slipped through the woods toward the sound of the horses.

It wasn't long before they came to a road.

She turned to him, her expression shocked. "There's been a road here all the while?"

"I can only assume it hasn't moved on your account."

"Then why the devil did you not tell me—"

He shushed her. "Let me do the talking."

"What?"

He nodded toward the distance. Nearly a quarter mile away a white cob was pulling a covered dray toward them. Behind the wagon, two men rode on horseback. "You stay hidden."

"Why?" Despite everything, the wearing miles, the mud that sucked at their feet, the torn bodice she'd covered with a scrap from her hem, she managed to sound haughty.

He bristled. "Maybe with your new-found low morals, you think yourself quite presentable, but I beg to differ."

"I suppose you believe yourself—"

"Just—" He held up a hand in grinding frustration. "Just let me do the talking," he hissed, and she finally acquiesced and settled into the brush.

Liam immediately stepped onto the road and held up a hand in friendly greeting. There was little point in waiting until the dray was upon him and scaring the poor driver to death.

"Whoa, Siegmund," called the man who held the reins. Twas obvious by both his voice and his garb that he was Italian, a narrow fellow of middle age dressed in dark hose and a red, slashed doublet. Beside him sat an older man with a gray, short-cropped beard. He had one hand thrust rather suspiciously beneath his doublet.

Liam didn't spare a glance for the riders behind, for it was clear by both their bearing and their garb that they were guards of sorts, and therefore beneath the dignity of the character he was just now assuming. Gathering his energy, Liam tried his best smile. But just now even his best smile was a little strained and the men looked wary.

"Is something amiss, lad?" asked the older fellow. His tone was friendly enough, but his hand didn't appear from beneath his jacket.

"Aye," Liam said, assessing the two quickly. They were men of business, these two merchants.

The younger fellow had a touch of arrogance about him—a lady's man perhaps. The older chap was no stranger to wealth.

It was an easy enough task to cover his Irish brogue with an English accent, and simpler still to hold his body just so, like a man of means—not too cocky, but not too lowly either. "I've had a spot of trouble and hoped you could help me."

"Trouble?"

"Aye. I am Archibald of Horsham. I was on my way to Coventry to meet with Lord Windsley when I fell on hard luck."

"Brigands?" asked the man who held the reins.

"Nay. I fear twas my own impatience." He managed a sheepish grin. "Tis said that women and haste most oft make fools of men."

"I suspect twas not a woman this time."

"If it were I would not look so forlorn," Liam said, "for tis far better to be made a fool by a woman than to be made a prince by a man, aye? As it was, I fear I made a fool of myself. I knew the river was too high to cross, but I was in a rush to meet with Windsley. My mount lost his footing on the way across, damned near drowned me."

The older fellow eyed Liam's plaid with narrowed eyes. "You do not speak like a Scot."

"Indeed, I am not. But my hose were torn asunder during my wild ride in the river. Twas purest luck that let me find this bit of woolen. I fear the Scot what lost it may not have been as lucky as I."

"Indeed."

"I suppose I should be glad that I am still alive and that I've not lost everything. But I do hate to approach Lord Windsley in such shabby attire," Liam said, and reaching under his tattered tunic, pulled out the purloined purse. "Thus, I thought you might be able to help me."

"Damned Italians," Liam said and reached around his bundle of new purchases to hand Rachel half a loaf of round bread.

"Blessed Italians," she corrected, immediately tearing into the dark loaf. "Had they seen my guards on the road?"

"I didn't ask. They charged me a king's ransom for what I have here. I dared not think what they would ask for information." In truth, he
had
been afraid to ask, lest he arouse suspicions. After the eerie incident on the ferry, he vowed to trust no one.

"Had they seen any trouble?"

"Nay. Eat this," he said, handing her a slab of cheese as he took a swig from a bottle of wine.

"There's a village ahead."

"Village?"

"Aye. Five or so leagues down the road, they said."

"Then let's make haste," she ordered, but he shook his head.

"Not in those clothes."

"You bought me clothing?"

"
Aye,"
he said, and pulled an array of garments from beneath his arm. "Put these on."

"They had garb for
me?"

He shrugged. "Call me Liam the lucky. I thought you were in a rush."

She turned away and hustled deeper into the woods.

Liam waited to don his own newly purchased clothing, for he could easily predict the second she would reappear. She didn't disappointment him. He controlled his grin with an effort admirable even for an Irishman.

"I fear your humor is sadly lacking," she said.

"Oh?" Still, he didn't allow himself to grin.

"These are men's clothing. As you are very well aware."

"Oh, that. Aye, I knew."

She stared at him. A lesser man might have called it a glare.

"Why?" It was a single word pronounced with neat diction.

"Think on it, Rachel," he said, taking another swig of wine and finishing off his own half a loaf.

"Your life is endangered by a crazed—"

"I've no time to listen to your wild tales."

He raised the bottle, silencing her with the movement. "If you choose not to believe tis the wizard who follows you, tis your right. But you cannot deny there was evil. You have the gift. You must have sensed it."

She looked as if she would like to, but she did not.

"Someone is after you, Rachel," he said, wishing he could afford that grin he had denied before, but finding the mood sadly lacking as he remembered the terror on the ferry. "Someone wishes you ill.

They know who you are. They know how you look. And they know where you are hiding." He let his words fester in silence for a moment. "And you are in a great rush to be away on a mission of your own. A secret mission." He watched her eyes carefully, waiting for her denial. But she said nothing. "You cannot afford to be caught, whether it be the wizard who follows you or some other.

Tis your decision, of course, but the daughter Lady Fiona raised would not endanger another because of her own vanity. Fiona's daughter would don the clothes, assume the disguise, and pray for safekeeping."

Rachel raised her chin slightly and remained silent for a moment, then, "I'll give you this, Liam, you are more manipulative even than I knew."

His grin surfaced now and he gave a shallow bow, holding the bottle upright so that it wouldn't spill. "My thanks."

"I meant every word," she added graciously, and he laughed as she turned back into the woods.

Liam donned his own garments quickly. It was simple clothing, dark hose, a rust-colored belted tunic, and shoes that almost fit. Unexciting, except for the cape. It was a lovely piece, made of forest green cloth that seemed to shift hues when it moved, casting it from green into an indescribable gray.

Around the wide hem, pewter spangles had been hooked into the fabric.

Liam swirled the cape around his shoulders, admired the way it flared and settled, tied the dark cord around his neck, and waited.

But apparently, Rachel was not so familiar with men's clothing, for it took her awhile to reappear. Liam couldn't help but smile at the implications of the delay, but when she finally stepped into his line of vision, things didn't seem so amusing.

Her devilish lips were puckered and her brow the same. "Tell me again, Liam, what you did hope to accomplish with this costume?" she asked. But in an instant, her brows rose. "And what, pray tell, are
you
wearing?"

"Tis my new garb," Liam said and skimmed her form. The red doublet with the black tunic that showed through the slashed sleeves had looked quite different on the narrow man who drove the dray.

True, it had seemed a bit ostentatious with its tightly cinched waist and ridiculously wide shoulders.

And true, he had not seen the black hose that accompanied the garment, but somehow he'd never thought it would make her look like... this.

He swallowed hard, skimmed the incredible length of her slim legs and tried not to imagine what soft, delectable treasures the ridiculously large codpiece hid.

"Tis so the villains will not... notice you," he said.

She nodded primly, like a lady at a fine ball. But somehow he could not help but imagine how she would have looked moments before with the black tunic barely covering the pale moon of her buttocks, caressing the slim tops of her thighs. It would have been so simple to slip his hand beneath the hem, to feel her satin-soft skin, the bristle of her most private hair. To...

"And? Will it work?"

He snapped his wayward thoughts to a shuddering halt and tried to ignore the ache of hard desire in parts no longer hidden by his oversized sporran. "What?" he asked, a bit more breathlessly than he had planned.

"Will the disguise keep me from being noticed?"

Was he drooling? he wondered hopelessly. "Of course not!" he said, and threw his arms out in wide relief. "You've not put on the hat yet."

"Oh! There's a hat!"

"Aye," he said, and stepped forward to plop the plumed, wide-rimmed beauty onto her head.

She gritted a smile at him. "Well?"