Highlanders (14 page)

“He is not rejecting her advances,” Rhoslyn said.

He unexpectedly looked up from Isobel and met Rhoslyn’s gaze. He said something to Isobel, then started toward Rhoslyn. Her heart pounded. She felt Isobel’s eyes on her and returned the woman’s bold appraisal. Rhoslyn thought she discerned a slight smile on her face and was startled when jealousy stabbed at her. St. Claire approached and Rhoslyn caught sight of his stare.

Her grandfather leaned close and whispered. “Does the man ever simply look at a body?”

Rhoslyn wondered the same thing. It seemed as if his eyes pierced to her very soul.

He stopped in front of Rhoslyn. “Seward.” He nodded at her grandfather, then said to her, “I am pleased to finally see you, Lady Rhoslyn.”

“I have been here all evening,” she said.

“Aye, but you have been so busy with the guests, we have had no time together.”

That had been her plan.

“You look beautiful.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw her grandfather’s brows raise. Warmth crept up her cheeks. Alec had told her she was beautiful. No, not beautiful. Lovely.

“Thank ye,” she said.

“Will you sit with me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but said to her grandfather, “Forgive me, Seward, but I have had no time with my wife.”

“I can remedy that problem.” Her grandfather grasped Rhoslyn’s arm. “Come along, St. Claire.”

Her heart jumped at the thought that he meant to announce that they were leaving the party to consummate the marriage. “Grandfather.” She choked out the word, then nearly sagged when he started away from the staircase that led to the upper floors. Seconds later, he veered around a group of women with St. Claire at his side, and she realized he was headed toward the musicians.

“Grandfather,” she said under her breath. “Ye will make a spectacle of St. Claire.”

They reached the musicians and Rhoslyn pulled free of him. “I am too busy for this nonsense.”

Her grandfather nodded to the man playing the lute, then leaned close to him and whispered something. The musician continued to play, then nodded when her grandfather straightened.

He turned to them and said over the music. “Do ye dance the reel, St. Claire?”

“Of course, he doesna’ dance the reel,” Rhoslyn cut in. “He is not a Scot.”

“We do dance the reel in England,” St. Claire said.

Rhoslyn looked at him in horror. “Do you realize what ye are saying? My grandfather intends us to dance.”

“‘Tis tradition for the newlyweds to dance during the wedding celebration,” her grandfather said. “And St. Claire said he hasna’ had any time with ye.”

“Dancing is not spending time together,” she snapped.

Her grandfather lifted a brow. “Ye prefer to retire to your husband’s bedchambers?”

“Mind your own business, Grandfather.”

The music ended and the musicians struck up a reel.

“There is no sense in fighting,” St. Claire said. “It is best we follow tradition.” He extended his right arm and Rhoslyn wanted to box his ears.

“We canna’ dance just the two of us,” she said.

“Others will join once you begin,” her grandfather said.

She shot him a fulminating glance before placing her hand on St. Claire’s arm. He led her forward, and the guests parted. He stopped, took two steps away from her, then bowed as if he truly was in King Edward’s court. Rhoslyn curtsied, then rose as he grasped her fingers in time with the music. He surprised her by turning in a tight circle, then gliding gracefully to the left. St. Claire released her and they danced several steps right as if skirting other dancers. Guests took the hint and three couples joined them, Lady Isobel being one of the ladies.

Rhoslyn stepped back from St. Claire and the women fell into line alongside her with the men opposite. Lady Isobel, Rhoslyn noticed, had placed herself at the far end where, Rhoslyn estimated she would pair with St. Claire for a dance down the center of the other dancers.

They all danced forward to within inches of one another, then back. Rhoslyn glided to the middle where the man to her opposite left met her and grasped her fingers as they turned a tight circle. The ladies faced one another and bobbed around each other, back to back in a circle, then fell back into line. The men did the same and Rhoslyn caught St. Claire’s eye. A corner of his mouth ticked up and he shrugged. She couldn’t help a laugh and the smile reached his eyes.

A nervous flutter skittered across the inside of her stomach. This man was the Dragon. The dragon Duncan said would aid his king in bleeding Scotland dry. The same dragon who only this afternoon chased a goat and rescued a peasant’s wedding dress. Rhoslyn startled at the unexpected memory of his hips between her thighs when she’d straddled him.

Her stomach flipped as the men fell into line. St. Claire and Lady Isobel stepped back on opposite sides when the rest of the dancers clasped hands and began circling. From the corner of her eye, Rhoslyn glimpsed Isobel’s gaze pinned on St. Claire. Ire whipped through her. She took a step too wide, causing the dancer to her right to stumble. The woman righted herself, and they came to a stop full circle, then separated into two lines.

St. Claire grasped Isobel’s hand and they skipped down the center of the aisle formed by the other dancers. Isobel looked up at him from beneath her lashes as they separated in front of Rhoslyn and the man opposite her. Isobel’s gaze remained on him. Rhoslyn stuck out her foot beneath Isobel’s swirling skirts. Isobel pitched forward with a cry. St. Claire whirled amidst screams and scooped her up before she hit the floor. The other dancers rushed to surround them as Isobel wilted against him. St. Claire started toward the nearest table.

“Are ye all right?” one woman asked.

“Poor thing,” Margery Kincaid said. “That was well done, Sir Talbot. She would have had a nasty fall if no’ for ye.”

Rhoslyn stared, stunned at her actions, and furious with Isobel—and St. Claire—all in one. What had gotten into her? A woman brushed past her and hurried after the group. Rhoslyn forced her legs into motion and followed. St. Claire stopped at one of the tables. Isobel looked like a small, fragile bundle in his arms. Her sky blue dress a soft contrast against his frame. He surely couldn’t help but notice the dainty fingers that fisted his shirt.

He lowered her into a chair, but she shook her head and clung to him. Rhoslyn rolled her eyes. Isobel was acting as if he had saved her from falling off a cliff instead of a tumble to the floor. He settled her on the chair, but she didn’t release his surcoat and he was forced to crouch beside her. He pulled back and she looked at him with tear stained eyes.

Rhoslyn hurried to the far end of the table where sat pitchers of ale. She filled a mug, then pushed through the crowd gathered around Isobel and St. Claire.

Rhoslyn wanted nothing more than to splash the ale in Isobel’s face, but instead, thrust the mug toward the hand that gripped her husband’s shirt.

“Drink,” she ordered.

As expected, Isobel released St. Claire and reflexively grasped the mug with both hands. St Claire rose and Isobel’s gaze jerked up to Rhoslyn, eyes stormy. Recognition flickered and the pique vanished.

“Thank ye, Lady Rhoslyn.” She took a tiny sip of ale and Rhoslyn had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

St. Claire stepped back and the ladies closed ranks around Isobel, cooing as if she’d been snatched from death’s door. Rhoslyn turned and found St. Claire beside her. He slid an arm around her waist and started walking. Rhoslyn hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.

“Are ye sure Lady Isobel will be all right?” Rhoslyn asked.

“She is well tended by the ladies,” he replied.

Rhoslyn snorted. “The ladies’ attention isna’ what she wants.”

“What does she want?” he asked.

“Dinna’ be naive,” Rhoslyn said.

“She does like the attention of men,” he commented.

“And they do no’ mind,” she shot back.

“Lady Rhoslyn, you sound jealous.”

“Jealous? Bah! I am sickened by such behavior. This is our wedding celebration, yet she fawned over ye as if you were a stable boy for the taking.”

“I would not go that far. Though I am pleased you remember this is our wedding celebration.” He navigated around a cluster of men. “Did your cousin remember that as well?”

Rhoslyn snapped her head up to meet his gaze. “What?”

St. Claire looked down at her. “Did he wish you well in your marriage?”

“He isna’ happy with the match.” There was no use denying the obvious.

“He was not happy when I forced him to vacate Glenbarr Castle,” St. Claire replied.

Rhoslyn stopped walking. “Ye forced him to leave? This has been his home for twenty years.”

“Would you have me keep an adder in my home?”

What had Duncan done to reveal his true feelings to St. Claire? 

“You are very free with calling my home yours,” she said.

“Our home, then. Would you rather he lived here at Castle Glenbarr?”

The truth was, she wouldn’t. She had never been overly pleased to have Duncan living with them when Alec was alive. But, as he’d said, he’d helped manage Alec’s affairs. Given his hostility toward St. Claire, she would have send him on his way if St. Claire hadn’t.

“He would no’ be happy,” she said.

St. Claire started forward again. He pulled Rhoslyn close and squeezed between two groups of men. “I imagine he would like to kill me.”

Rhoslyn stumbled. His hold around her waist tightened and she caught herself.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“I hit the mark, then?” he said.

“Hit the mark?”

“Duncan wants to kill me.”

It wasn’t a question. The man was too discerning. “If ye suddenly died, he would no’ shed a tear.” Rhoslyn caught sight of Andreana seated at the main trestle table and surrounded by several of St. Claire’s men. “I told ye that I didna’ want your men taking up with my women. That includes Andreana. A pack of your dogs have her cornered.”

He slowed and his gaze shifted to the group. Rhoslyn expected him to shrug off her concerns, but his eyes darkened and he steered them toward the group.

They reached her, and the men stepped back.

St. Claire released Rhoslyn, and said to the men, “You have better things to do than speak with Lady Andreana. Remember that in the future.”

The men scattered. Rhoslyn sat on the bench beside Andreana. St. Claire sat beside Rhoslyn. She glanced sharply at him, then turned her attention to Andreana. 

“You should no’ be spending time with St. Claire’s men.”

St. Claire began pouring ale into three mugs. Discomfort sent a ripple of awareness along Rhoslyn’s arm when his arm brushed hers.

“They were only talking to me,” Andreana said. “We sat in plain sight of all your guests.”

St. Claire set ale in front of Rhoslyn, then Andreana. “Your mother is right.”

Andreana frowned. “They did nothing untoward.”

“Aye, they did,” he said. “They know it is improper to approach you. Not a one of them is in a position to win your affections.”

“Because they are mere knights?” she asked.

He laughed. “Most are not even knights, Lady. They are simple men-at-arms. They should not deign to look in your direction.”

“There are some who say the same of you and Lady Rhoslyn.”

“Andreana,” Rhoslyn cut in, but St. Claire interrupted.

“When a king bestows land upon one of them and then betroths him to you, I will agree he is worthy.”

Andreana frowned.

“You will not encourage them,” Rhoslyn said. “Do you understand?”

“I gave them no encouragement.”

“A smile is encouragement enough for any man,” St Claire said.

His mouth twitched with amusement and he looked at Rhoslyn. She smiled before realizing the reaction and his smile broadened.

He returned his attention to Andreana. “A simple smile, my lady. Nothing more is needed.”

Chapter Twelve

It was true. A woman’s smile was enough to encourage a man to commit even murder. Tonight, however, Talbot was fortunate that Lady Rhoslyn’s smile had simply haunted him, which was enough to make him once again curse his brother to hell. If Talbot knew where Dayton was, he would ride an entire month to lay hands on him, then kill him. Talbot gave a private laugh. It would seem her smile had incited him to murder after all.

The reverie showed no signs of abating as Rhoslyn disappeared into the kitchen. She remained animated and busy, clearly intent upon staying up until the very last guest retired. But Talbot recognized the fatigue in the corners of her eyes and knew he was the reason she hadn’t sought her bedchambers.

He wondered if she might try to avoid the hunt tomorrow and sleep while he hunted with the guests. That he wouldn’t allow. Neither would he allow her to be so exhausted she fell from her horse.

Talbot finished the last of the wine he was drinking, then rose. He skirted the guests until he reached the kitchen, and went inside. The bustle in the room came to a halt and Rhoslyn looked up from the platter she was filling with meat.

Her brow furrowed. “Is there something ye need, St. Claire?”

“Aye.” He came to her side and cupped her elbow. “It is time we retired, Lady Rhoslyn.”

Her eyes widened, then her brows dove down in ire. Talbot easily guessed she wanted to tell him to go to the devil, but she was a highborn lady, and such ladies didn’t bare their feelings before servants...feelings that included the memory of a man who had violated her days before.

Mistress Muira entered from the pantry. She took the room in at a glance, then said in a clipped voice, “Back to work, lasses.”

The room jumped to life and Talbot plucked a piece of pork off the plate Rhoslyn had been filling and popped it into his mouth.

“Are ye hungry, St. Claire?” she asked.

“Nay. It just smelled too good to resist.” He shifted his gaze onto her. “Like you, my lady.”

To his surprise—and satisfaction—a pretty blush crept up her cheeks.

“Ye may go to your bedchambers, if you like,” she said. “I will join you there later. We have many guests still celebrating. I must see to them.”

Talbot poured a cup of wine from a pitcher. “You must see to them?”

“Of course. It is my duty.”

He emptied the glass and sat it on the counter. Then he pulled her close. Her head snapped up and Talbot bent and brushed his lips across hers in a gentle kiss. When he pulled back her eyes smoldered with fury.

“Come along, Lady Rhoslyn. Mistress Muira is capable of handling kitchen tasks.” He looked at the older woman.

“Aye, laird. I have things in hand.”

“Please send up wine to my chambers, Mistress.” Arm still around Rhoslyn, he led her across the room to the servants’ stairs.

He caught the furtive glance she cast at the women who, though bustling about their business, kept one eye on her. They reached the stairs and he urged her ahead of him. She marched up the stairs. Aye, he would never have to guess what this woman was thinking. There was some comfort in that knowledge.

Minutes later, they reached his chambers and she whirled on him. “What sort of barbarian are ye to maul me like that in front of the servants?”

He closed the door with a soft click. “Forgive me if I embarrassed you, my lady. I thought it best we assure everyone our marriage is not affected by your kidnapping.”

She frowned. “Ye could have said something.”

“Servants, maids in particular, can hear through stone walls,” he said. “I could not chance any of them overhearing.”

“There was no need for us to retire so early.”

“Early?” He lifted a brow. “Dawn is but three hours away.”

“Oh,” she said.

She stood as if rooted to the spot, and he had the suspicion she would stand there all night if it meant they didn’t have to share a bed.

A rap sounded on the door. Talbot put a finger to his lips and hurried across the room to the bed. He sat down and called “Enter,” as he began tugging off a boot.

A maid entered with a pitcher and two mugs. She set them on the small table near the hearth, then hurried out.

“Would you pour us some wine, Lady Rhoslyn?” he asked as the door clicked shut.

She remained frozen for a moment, then jerked into motion and crossed to the table. A moment later, she appeared beside him and extended a goblet. He dropped his second boot on the floor and took the wine. Rhoslyn took a quick step back and then crossed to the window. She opened the shutter and gazed outside.

“It is a beautiful night,” he said.

“Aye,” she replied, her voice wistful.

Talbot wondered how receptive she would be tonight if not for Dayton. He finished the last of his wine, set the goblet on the table beside the bed, then stood and unfastened his belt. He tossed it onto the bed, then pulled off his surcoat. Rhoslyn glanced his way, but said nothing. His shirt and undershirt followed, and she finally faced him. 

Her gaze shifted to the markings on his right arm.

“How old was your sister when she died?”

“Fourteen,” he replied.

“I am sorry. How did she die?”

“A fever.” He crossed to the table with the wine and refilled his goblet.

She joined him and he froze when she lifted a hand and traced a finger over the picture of his sister on his arm. Her light touch sent a skitter of gooseflesh along his skin.

“It is so smooth,” she said. “The skin isna’ marred at all.” She looked up at him. “It is as if the picture is a part of you.”

“It is,” he replied.

She stared for a moment before tearing her gaze from his and taking two steps back. “I have no sisters or brothers,” she said. “It canna’ be easy to lose a loved one.”

“You lost two loved ones.”

She nodded and took a sip of wine. “How long ago did your sister die?”

“Ten years,” he replied.

Her eyes lifted to his face over the rim of her goblet “Do ye ever forget?”

“Nay. But the pain does ease.”

“The shock has subsided,” she said as if speaking to herself.

“That is a start,” Talbot said.

“Do you still miss her?”

“Aye.” More often than he liked to admit. Talbot finished his wine in two big gulps and set the goblet on the table. He went to the door that adjoined the solar. “I will see you in the morning, Lady Rhoslyn.”

She frowned. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep in your bed.”

“But I thought...” She glanced at the bed, then frowned. “Are you going to leave your clothes strewn about your room?”

He shrugged. “What better way to make your maids think we were occupied with consummating the marriage?”

“But they will see my mussed bed.” Her mouth twitched in amusement. “St. Claire, you willna’ get a wink of sleep in my bed.”

“Why is that?”

“Because ye are very large—too large to sleep comfortably in my bed.” Her amusement vanished and he was startled when pain flared in her eyes. That emotion, too, disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she said, “Mayhap I should sleep in my own bed.”

Talbot recalled the cradle that had occupied a corner of the room when he’d arrived and remembered thinking the room had seemed oddly unused. Suddenly he understood. The babe had died in this room. In all likelihood, her husband had taken his last breath in that bed. How in God’s name was he to bed a wife in the very room where she had lost husband and son? How did a man bed his wife after his brother had raped her?

“As you wish,” he said. “Sleep in your own bed.”

She crossed to the door connecting to their private solar, then stopped and looked at him.

He nodded in the direction of the door. “Go, Lady. Rest well.”

Her brows drew down in uncertainty.

Talbot met her gaze steadily. “I may be English, but I am no barbarian.”

* * *

Rhoslyn awoke to a tap on her door. She burrowed deeper into the bedding. The door opened and she discerned the light pad of feet on the stone floor, then the carpet. The scrape of metal across stone followed, and she yawned at realizing one of the maids was tending the fire, which meant it was morning. She didn’t want to rise, but cracked open an eye anyway. Today was the hunt, which meant she couldn’t dally in bed. She looked through the open curtain at the foot of the bed, surprised the curtain was open. Hadn’t she pulled it closed last night?

Alana tossed two logs on the embers, then rose and faced the bed. She smiled, her gaze moving to Rhoslyn’s right. Rhoslyn followed her eyes and started at seeing St. Claire beneath the covers, his exposed back to her. For an instant she could only stare at the broad expanse of muscled flesh, beautiful, despite the scars, then Alana giggled and Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto the girl. She grinned, then scampered from the room. When the door closed, Rhoslyn braced her feet against St. Claire’s back and shoved.

“You will have to push harder than that to shove me out of bed.”

His deep voice, gravelly from sleep, startled her, and she froze, her feet still flat against his back.

“What are ye doing in my bed?” she demanded. “You gave me the scare of my life.”

“A bigger scare than the night I grabbed you from your horse as you fled your convent?”

Ire flared. Rhoslyn shoved at his back with all her might, but it was as if she pushed a stone wall. She grunted with the effort.

“A little lower, Lady Rhoslyn. You were right. This bed is too small. I have a kink here.” He shifted his hips.

Rhoslyn gave a frustrated growl and shoved harder—to no avail—then shoved the curtain aside on her side of the bed and leapt to her feet. “Are ye insane?”

He rolled onto his back and shoved his hands behind his head. Her breath caught at sight of his chest. Feather light hair trailed from his belly button to disappear beneath the blanket at his hips. Even in the shadows of the curtained bed, she could discern the ripple of muscle across his stomach. Alec hadn’t looked like that.

She yanked her gaze onto his face. “I thought ye were going to sleep in your own bed.”

“I did. But early this morning I crawled into bed with you. It will not do for the servants to talk about how we spent our wedding night apart.”

Her mind whirled with the thought of a true wedding night with this man. The long, hard length of him beneath her bottom when he’d held her on his lap at the inn was just a hint of what she could expect. He would be nothing like Alec. Her husband had been kind, gentle, and...and what? Not young, like St. Claire, that much was certain. Guilt and shock dropped in the pit of her stomach like lead.

“Ye didna’ say anything last night about getting into my bed,” she said.

He shrugged and Rhoslyn was torn between wanting to box his ears and wanting to stroke the markings on his arm again. She hadn’t forgotten how the muscled arm felt beneath her fingers. Her gaze shifted of its own volition to his right arm where his sister’s face was visible above the blanket.

Then her mind came to a screeching halt at the realization that his sister’s face reminded her of someone.

They rode out of Castle Glenbarr two hours later, a company of forty-five people and two hounds. A company befitting a king. Twenty of St. Claire’s guardsmen surrounded them. Six spearmen, five archers, one kennel master, her grandfather, eight guests, Andreana, St. Claire, and Rhoslyn. The dogs barked excitedly and the guests called to one another above the tramp of horses’ hooves.

She had never been on so fine a hunt, and wished she wasn’t on one today.

She, St. Claire, and her grandfather led the hunt, along with Lord Kinnon, riding at St. Claire’s right. She cast a furtive glance at St. Claire, who talked in low tones with the earl. He sat straight in the saddle as if born to it, which he probably had been. The chevaler strapped to his side and the bow slung over his back seemed almost a natural part of him. She could easily envision him pulling an arrow from the quiver tied to his saddle and felling a large buck before her grandfather could let fly his own arrow.

Years of training had refined his lean frame into a wall of muscle so that his shoulders looked impossibly broad in his red and gold jerkin. His shirt sleeves couldn’t hide the play of muscle in his arms. Rhoslyn unexpectedly recalled the strength of those arms around her when she rode with him on the way home from Stonehaven. Heat rippled through her at the memory of her bare bottom across his thighs—and his hard length flush against her thigh. He hadn’t acted upon his lust, as too many men would have.

A mental picture of Dayton St. Claire poised over her intruded upon the recollection. Her stomach knotted. Lust hadn’t driven him, at least not lust for her. Greed was what hardened his cock. A wave of revulsion pitched her stomach.

Rhoslyn gazed left, at trees that blanketed the hills ahead. St. Mary’s lay east, beyond the trees. How she longed to return. Frustration surfaced. The herb garden at the convent was Abbess Beatrice’s pride. There, Rhoslyn could find pennyroyal in abundance. Shame caused her to lower her head. God would surely punish her for thinking of using anything at the convent to end her child’s life. And if Abbess Beatrice could read her thoughts...