The Warrior Bride (21 page)

There was the sound of labored breathing and perhaps the hiss of a question almost formulated.

“He helped with the repairs, me laird. Worked well and long, he did.” There were no more words for a long while, then, “Aye,” Shanks said. “He may be the one.”

Lachlan shifted his gaze to Rhona. “What one?” he asked, his voice low in the deepening darkness.

By the time Lachlan returned to Nettlepath, Rhona was standing outside the ancient manor house, but she was not alone. She was staring up at the roof, speaking to a man dressed in laborer’s garb, but before Lachlan even reached the house, he had been sent on his way.

She had taken the guise of a man once again, wearing the broad-brimmed hat and leather gauntlets that belied her feminine form.

“Who was that?” he asked when he approached her. She scowled at him, and he wondered suddenly if there had been an odd tone in his voice. Not jealousy, of course, but something else.

She drank the last of her ale and rose to her feet. “I’ve no more idea than you, champion.”

Lachlan watched her walk to the hearth and stretch her hands toward the fire, but he noticed that her attention was tilted toward the two old men not far away.

“Me laird Giles…” Shanks’s voice quaked when he spoke, but there was none of the scathing derision reserved for Lachlan. Nay, for Rhona, he had naught but respect… and barely hidden adoration. “I have changed the rushes on the floor of your chamber and opened the window to freshen the air.”

“You are kind, Master Shanks.”

It may have been a smile that stretched the old man’s thin lips, Lachlan realized. But perhaps he was only experiencing a bit of gastric discomfort.

“And I have warmed water for your bath. Mayhap your lad could carry it hither for you.”

“Certainly,” she said and turned rapidly away from the two. “Champion.”

He rose slowly to his feet. “I tell you,” Lachlan said, passing her and speaking low. “This game gets old.”

She shrugged. “There is none to make you play.”

He grunted a response, wrapped his hand in a towel and, grabbing the metal arm that held the pot, swung the thing out of the fire. In a matter of moments, he had dumped the boiling water into the metal tub and not much later he had added additional water to cool it. It steamed with friendly repose into the air around him, filling the room with warmth.

“You’ll sleep in the stable this night,” she said, approaching from behind.

He glanced at her. She had removed her hat, but nothing else, and in the fading light, she looked as imperious as a queen, or perhaps a king.

“Mayhap,” he said. “After I bathe.”

She raised her brows at him. “Insolent for a servant,”

“Or even for a nobleman,” he said.

“Very well then. I shall wait elsewhere, but fetch a change of garments from the anteroom adjoining this. You smell like a draught horse,” she said, and turned to leave the room.

He took a whiff of his shirt, refrained from passing out and went in search of the clothes she had mentioned. The anteroom was filled with trunks, leather, oaken, and iron. He opened them, rummaged through the contents, and came up with two tunics and a pair of hose that would suffice until his commissioned garments were complete.

Padding back to the bedchamber, he put his hand to the latch… and found it locked. He swore to silence, thought for a handful of seconds, then set the garments on the floor and exited the house.

Rhona’s window was no more than twelve feet above the ground, and it was no great task to scale the wall. He did so without making a sound. In fact, she didn’t even turn when he slipped into the room and crossed the floor. Instead, she sat in her tub, her back to him, her shoulders gleaming wet and luscious in the candlelight.

”The poor gentleman.”

She jumped as if she’d been shot from a cannon.

“Damn you, MacGowan!”

He could not quite help but grin, though he thought it might be poor judgment on his part. The girl had a fondness for her dirk.

“Rather jumpy this eve, aren’t you, Rhona? Mayhap ‘tis your guilt getting the better of you.”

She raised her chin, but he noticed that her arms were crossed tightly against her chest. Lucky arms.

“And why should I feel guilty?” she asked. Loosening his belt, he slipped his tunic over his head.

“Probably for many reasons,” he said. “But most recently for being too selfish to share your bath.”

“If you dislike playing the servant you can run home to your mother, champion.” Her tone was still disdainful, but her expression was not so certain. She gazed at him narrowly as he dumped his shirt onto the floor.

He approached the tub, not because he could trust himself there, but simply to see her eyes go round. “Does he know, sweet Rhona?” he asked and retrieved the soap from its place on the nearby stool.

She neither reached for it nor tried to catch it when he dropped it into the water. Instead, she let it sink along her leg and settle beside her bottom. Lucky soap. “Does who know what?” she asked.

“Your nobleman,” he explained. “Does he know you are too selfish to share your bath?”

“He’s not the sort to encourage sharing.”

His mind buzzed. “I have heard the same of the Douglas from others.”

She watched him for a long second. “The Douglas?” Was she toying with him or did she truly not realize what he was referring to? “Is he not a bit long in the tooth for you, lass?”

”The Douglas,” she said again.

“Aye. Archibald, the sixth earl of Angus. The queen’s husband, divorced these many years.” He watched her. She said nothing. ”The king’s abductor?” he explained.

“I know who he is,” she said.

“And yet you go to him?” He could feel his anger rise, despite himself. Perhaps it was because the man was a traitor to the crown of Scotland. Or perhaps not.

”This I tell you, MacGowan,” she said. “I would sooner kill the Douglas with me own hand than go to him now.”

There was passion in her voice. Was it feigned? ”Then the gown was not for him.”

“Ahh, you are a hard one to fool,” she said. “Even for a Highlander.”

He let the insult wash over him. ”Then who?” he asked.

“‘Tis not for you to know.”

Emotion welled up in him. Merciful saints, she was a handsome maid. The candlelight glistened on her alabaster skin and her eyes were as bright as heaven’s own stars. Aye, she’d labored like a slave this day, and yet tonight she looked like nothing more than a nobleman’s pampered daughter. Why that stirred him he didn’t know, but perhaps it was his own upbringing that made it so, for his parents had been careful not to allow him to get above his station.

He drew a deep breath and steadied his thoughts. “I will know,” he said, and she smiled.

“That I doubt.”

”Then move over, lass,” he said and reached for his belt.

It came away in his hands. “What are you doing?”

“I am coming in,” he said. “Nay.”

“It will be a squeeze,” he admitted, and eyed the narrow tub dubiously.

“You cannot.”

“What will you do, lass? Fight me for the space? Or scream for Master Shanks? I don’t doubt the old bastard would try to rescue you, be you maid or man this eve, but…” He shrugged. “The door is barred.”

“Get out of me room.”

“I would but it seems you’ve left your dirk out of reach. Very thoughtless for a warrior,” he said, and stepped closer.

She tilted her head up at him. Her eyes snapped like firelight in the shadowed room. “Mayhap you would find I do not need it.”

Intriguing, he thought, and stopped beside the tub.

What was she going to do? Bite him? He wouldn’t doubt it, but judging from his body’s reaction, he didn’t find the thought necessarily distasteful. Perhaps now would not be the best time to disrobe. She might well be flattered by the view.

. “Who is the fortunate gentleman you’ve set your sights on?” he asked again. His voice was impressively low.

“Are you threatening me, MacGowan?”

“Aye.”

“With what?”

“You’ll soon find out if you fail to answer me question.” He supposed he would too.

She gazed at him, then shrugged, and he stood like a statue, wondering what the hell to do next. Her brows were raised, her eyes steady. Honor dictated that he drop his plaid.

Her eyes popped open and she stiffened. For a moment he expected her to make a lunge for her knife but she did not. He took a tentative step toward her.

“The marquis of Claronfell,” she said. He stopped in his tracks. “Laird Torpin?”

Her gaze sprinted downward. His cock throbbed, and her eyes lifted, rather slowly, he thought, back to his face.

“You know him?” she asked. Her tone was husky now.

“We’ve not met,” he said. “But I’m told he wooed Anora afore Ramsay came along, and I’ve met one of his knights. Sir Charles, I believe his name was.”

“Where?”

“Why do you go to Claronfell?”

“‘Tis none of your affair,” she said. He glared at her but she raised her brows. “What now, MacGowan? You’ve naught else to remove, unless you plan to peel off your skin.”

“You know little of men, lass, if you think that disrobing is the worst I can do.”

The room was silent. Her gaze skimmed him from bow to stern, then returned to his face. “‘Tis not true,” she said. “I know a good deal of men, for I am one. Remember?” “‘Tis difficult at times. Tell me why,” he said and, reaching for a towel, wrapped it about his hips.

Her eyes darted down again. Was there disappointment in her face? “Why what?”

“Why do you don maid’s clothes for the marquis and none other?”

“‘Tis like a man to assume it would be for a man.”

“Ahh,” he said, “Another of the sage Hunter’s lessons about the evils of a man’s vanity.”

“Just so.”

“If not for a man, then who?”

“Could it not be that even lassies deserve some attention?”

He scowled at her. “What?” he said but she seemed to be concentrating hard on the water that surrounded her.

He stared too. There was little to see actually, for her knees were drawn tight against her chest and her arms were set atop them. Still, it did funny things to his heart.

“What lassies?” he asked, doing his best to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

He was surprised when she answered. ”The marquis’s daughters.”

“Torpin has daughters?” He was trying to see some connection.

“‘Tis not so surprising, surely. Half the population of Scotland is female, after all.”

There was anger in her tone and he scowled, uncertain of the reason. “And what has that to do with you?”

“Nothing surely. They are only girls. I am certain the marquis has seen well enough to their care since their mother’s death. After all, he is not only a man, but a noble.”

His mind ticked along, trying to piece together this erratic puzzle. But when those same pieces fell into place, it hardly seemed possible.

“Nay,” he said.

She shifted her gaze rapidly to his, saying nothing. “You do not plan to…” He paused, still thinking. She didn’t help the process, but shifted slightly, drawing his attention to any part of her being that might happen to escape her arms.

“Get out, MacGowan,” she said. “I am ready to rise.” He didn’t even respond, but sat upon the rim of the tub. “You plan to care for his children?”

There was something in her eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would think it was fear.

“Girls?” he said. “A nursemaid? You?”

“Tell me, champion…” Her tone was deep and somewhat disconcerting. “What surprises you more, that I would be able to care for children, or that I would think girls worthy of the trouble?”

He watched her carefully. His erection, by the by, had not eased in the least. Also disconcerting. “Of the two of us, laddie,” he said, “I would say you are the one who thinks girls unworthy. After all, ‘tis not I who abhors them so that I abandoned me own sex.”

“I did not say it was because they are unworthy.”

“Why then?”

She did not answer. Indeed, she shifted her gaze away. “Mayhap I did so because I could. And yet, as simple as not, I can become a woman.”

“And care for another woman’s babes?”

“You think I cannot?” Her voice was challenging, her eyes the same.

“Would you even recognize a bairn if you saw one?” “I’ve seen children afore.”

“Truly? Shanks said you did not play with the other villagers for they were afeared of you even when you were a wee bit of a thing.”

“I do not want you speaking to Master Longshanks.” There was true anger in her tone now. Why? Perhaps it would behoove him to speak to the daft old man more, no matter how onerous the task.

“Leave him be,” she warned. “He has seen trouble enough.”

“And the marquis’s daughters have not?”

She glared at him. “You think I would be such a horrible nursemaid?”

“How daft do you think me, lass?”

She gritted a smile. “Those aren’t taters between your thighs.”

His jaw dropped and then he laughed, throwing back his head as he did so. “Shall I be flattered that you noticed?”

“Most probably. ‘Tis the best you shall get from me and I see that you are needy.”

He could only guess what she meant by that so it was surely best to ignore it altogether, for if he thought in sexual terms… well… it was hard to think at all. After all, she was right, they weren’t taters.

“I but meant this,” he said, “you are not going to

Claronfell for benevolent reasons.”

“Nay?”

He shook his head.

“Then perhaps I still hope to marry well. After all, I am not quite in me dotage.”

His gaze skimmed her shoulders. Despite her best efforts he could still see the high portions of her breasts. Sigh. “Nay,” he agreed, “not quite. So you plan to nurture his children and gain his title.”