Warrior and the Wanderer (8 page)

“Come in.”

Ian stepped inside, and slammed the door behind him. “Want to tell me why you cut me?” he demanded.

“It was my duty,” she said, standing taller.

“Your bloody duty?” he shouted.

She placed a finger to her lips. “Wheesht! ’Tis a monastery. Speak in whispers.”

“Aye, aye,” he mumbled taking a step forward and wincing. “I’ll be quiet when I wring your neck.”

“I dinnae believe ye mean that,” she said crossing her arms in front of her.

“So you see through my hollow threat,” he said. “I just can’t believe that you stabbed me. The least you owe me is an apology.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I regret I used my claymore in such a manner.”

“That’s an apology?”

“Aye, ’tis.” She studied him. “Are ye in much pain? Can ye travel?”

“The pain is not as unbearable as this humiliation,” he said. “Blaze, would ye be so kind as to help me salvage my dignity by stealing my clothes from the poor box?”

Bess looked at Ian. That was no ordinary wool about his person. He wore a plaid. The background was a dark brown, like freshly turned earth, cross-hatched with the same rich green found in summer forests. She wondered where the brethren of this gentle abbey could have obtained it. After a battle no doubt, from the dead. She stole a glance at her claymore, wiped clean of Ian’s blood, propped in one corner of the chamber. She turned and looked Ian up and down. Now out of his well-tailored clothes and wrapped in the plaid, he looked like he could very well be a Highland warrior.

But the state of his kilt caused her to suppress a giggle. The garment wrapped his body in askew angles, more like the robes of an ancient Roman senator, than the
plaide mór
of a Highlander.

He slowly walked toward her, not his arrogant gait she was more familiar with. His wound made his pace arduous. A tail of the plaid dragged on the floor. How could he look so unkempt and be so handsome at the same time?

“I can’t wear this in public,” he said, holding his arms out, the plaid spread like wings from his body. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Bess smiled, her anger a distant annoyance. “D’ye wish me to save ye from humiliation? But I find it difficult to believe that ye dinnae ken how to wear the plaid.”

“About as much as I find it difficult to believe you tried to kill me,” he said.

“What is so difficult to believe, Ian MacLean? Ye betrayed yer promise to me that ye wouldnae escape. Ye are my prisoner.”

He moved close to her. “So you say. Then why don’t you tie me up again? Do things to me. I’m right here, right now. What do you say, Blaze? Let’s have some fun.”

She did not move. “Ye’re either insane or in need of a good exorcism, because ye are the oddest man I have ever met.” And the most intriguing.

Bess turned and stormed across the floor to the priest’s clothes press, a simple oak box with two doors. She opened the doors and stared at the several vestments inside. Running her fingers over the fine garments befitting a man of God, she paused at a simple linen tunic, the priest’s sleeping attire, and removed it from the press.

“This will do,” Bess said displaying her find to Ian.

“Do for what? I’m not joining you in this strange role playing.”

“Joining me is a certainty, Ian MacLean. Unless ye wish to—” She could not say the word “die”. Her conviction to that punishment for him was fading. He did not have to know it.

She handed him the tunic. He took it, gliding his fingers over the top of her hand, making her shiver warmly. She pulled away, tucking her hands in the folds of her skirt and watched him examine the garment.

“A bit more girth in the mid-section than I’m used to,” he said tossing it to the bed. “I guess I have to wear it until I get my clothes back.”

“Ye do wear your other clothes a wee bit snug,” Bess said, a blush immediately grew across her cheeks for the blatant observation.

Grinning, Ian began unwinding the plaid from his body.

Bess whirled about to face the press.

“I’ll see if there’s a belt within,” she said, voice shaky, not the solid timbre of a Highland chief.

“Aye, Blaze,” Ian teased. “Protect your eyes at all costs. Deny yourself what you really want.”

She cringed, considered turning and boldly facing his nakedness, while showing indifference. A distinct impossibility.

Bess found a rope belt typically worn by the brethren. She stood holding it in her palms, listening to Ian behind her shrugging off the plaid and putting the tunic on, imagining—

“Ye can turn around now,” he said.

Unsure of whether to trust him or not, Bess took her time. She was relieved to find him clad in the tunic. The hem, which would have reached the ankles on a man of ordinary height, touched him just below the knee. The pale garment was a stark contrast to the bronze hue of his flesh. He had not bothered to cinch the tunic’s lacings over his chest. Bess swallowed, averting her gaze to the plaid piled at his feet. She walked steadily toward him.

With an even gaze, she said, “I do this not for yer bidding, but to quicken the task. We must hasten from here…after we share repast with Father d’Auguste, of course.”

She knelt at his feet and began smoothing the plaid across the cold stone floor, felt him watching her every move.

“Ye’d best pay close attention,” she said, “because I’m no’ gonnae do this for ye again.”

“Too humiliating?”

“Should be humiliating for ye, to have me show ye how to properly dress yourself.”

“Actually, I find it charming, in a weird sort of way.”

Bess ignored the last comment and folded the bottom third of the plaid into thick pleats. She slipped the rope under them.

“Lay on the plaid,” she said. “Place yer waist at the rope in case ye’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, yer sarcasm tears me apart, Blaze.”

“If it would help to tear down yer arrogance then we’d be better served, and stop calling me Blaze.”

He grimaced as he folded his body down to kneel beside her.

“Your wound…,” she began.

“Is nothing,” he said behind clenched teeth as he lowered his body on top of the plaid.

He rested supine before her. Bess drew in a deep breath. She hovered over him, grasped the ends on the rope in her fists, tied it about his waist, and then adjusted the pleats under the belt.

Ian moaned from far back in his throat. Perspiration glistened across his forehead.

“Ye claim your wound is nothing, d’ye?” she chided, loosening the rope belt. Ian gave her a small forced smile.

She continued to dress him. Her fingers smoothed the wool over his hard waist, over his lean hips, and down the ridge of muscle on his thighs. Feigning indifference was the most difficult part of her task.

“Ye may stand now,” she said. “I’ll help ye.”

“No thanks,” he said struggling to sit up, “you’ve done quite enough.”

She ignored his protest.

“Bursting your stitches is no’ a sign of bravery, ’tis a sign of stupidity.” She took up his left arm and placed it over her shoulders. “Stand with me.”

“I can do it on my own,” he said.

“Ye’re just another arrogant bastard, a typical MacLean,” she said helping him anyway.

“Have you ever thought that all MacLean’s aren’t forged from the same iron as your husband?” he asked.

“Ye betrayed my trust, so aye, I do this all MacLean’s are alike,” she said.

“But what sort of man would I be if I didn’t try to escape?” he asked.

She paused. He had her there. Of course she expected he would try to escape. That was why she had chained and tied him up in the first place.

Ian on his feet, Bess took a step backward. She could not help but allow her gaze to fall down the long length of his body and discovered her task was not complete.

She bent down, and scooped up the rest of the plaid dangling from his waist and tossed it over his shoulder. He remained silent, a blessing, as she tucked the end of the plaid under the rope belt. Task done, Bess surveyed Ian, and her knees suddenly weakened.

Dear God, she thought, he’s the Highlander of my dreams, of my heart. He is the one who could make love possible, if he wasnae so arrogant and odd, and I wasnae so bound to my clan. If ’twas another time….

She boldly snuck a glance at his face that was twisted in his fight against the pain he received from her. No matter how hard she tried, she could not shove aside the guilt for her rash behavior of that morning. She looked at him. Beneath his devilishly becoming exterior, he wore his arrogance and wit as a tortoise wears its shell for protection, but from what?

She looked into his eyes. What was it about him? He was too different. She took a step forward and faltered a little. In a blink, he enveloped her in his arms, pressing her against his firm chest, not wincing from the pain this surely must cause him.

“Steady there,” he said softly, a tone she had not heard from him before. One she liked very much.

She stood in his arms, felt the beat of his heart against her cheek. Stepping away from him now seemed so very wrong. She remained where she was. Common sense be damned.

“I feel as if I’m standing between a nightmare and a dream,” he whispered. “Did you really sit by my bed praying I’d recover?”

“Father d’Auguste’s tongue is fair loosened beyond the sanctity of the confessional,” she said. “Yet, should I reply with truth, I fear ye would use it to tease me without mercy.”

Ian held her tighter. “No, Blaze, I won’t.”

“Then ’tis aye,” she found herself confessing. “I sat in worry beside your bed. Ye’re no use to me dead.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, tilting his head down, his breath brushing her face in soft waves. “For this first time since I met you I feel like playing along.”

He cupped her face with large strong hands. Brushed them back, threading his fingers through her hair. He pressed her body closer. Bess rested her head back into the cradle of his fingers, her mind screaming at her to fight the urge that tore over her heart. The voice that reminded her of her title and her duty was mercifully mute for this one sweet moment.

He pressed his lips hard, urgently against hers. She tried to pull away at the same time wondering if one wee indulgence of her heart would make her a traitor to her duty. Her curiosity was a greater power than the revenge that had consumed her body and spirit ever since that fateful day when she had met Ian MacLean in the most turbulent of circumstances a few days ago.

She knew of passionate kisses only from her dreams and imagination. She knew of this mysterious thing, and had not been made privy to the secret by her own husband, had thought but a moment ago that such a kiss was far beyond her reach…this, her first true kiss.

The bristles on Ian’s face scratched her chin as he sought deeper purchase with her mouth. In turn, she followed his lead with a hunger of her own. Her hands greedily found the back of his head. Her fingers dug into the thick locks of his hair, and she pressed him closer.

Her need was one that no duty to her clan could fill. Would they deny her this one forbidden pleasure?

Without considering what the answer might be, she mingled her tongue with his, tapped into the sweet taste, kissed him harder than he kissed her. Not to be outdone, so typical of his clan, he kissed her harder still. Her body vibrated with every beat of his pounding heart. He carried her further and further from her resolve.

She closed her eyes so tight. Her heart beat so fast, Bess feared she might faint. As if he read her mind, Ian laid her down on the bed. He pressed his body on top of hers, gliding his lips over her chin down to the base of her throat. She pushed her chin up, exposing more of her neck to Ian’s fervent kisses.

This man surely had to be the devil. And she had fallen prey to his charms. He moaned from way back in his throat. A confident sound. As if he had won. And he held her tighter.

She had fallen under his spell and he knew it. She should not be so weak.

Indignant fury at herself, at Ian’s bewitching charms suddenly claimed her. She slapped him hard, her blow unforgiving.

Her first instinct was to immediately apologize for hitting him, for the thin trickle of blood in corner of his mouth. But his arrogant look of victory kept her from doing any of those things.

She struggled out from beneath him, knowing she could only do so because he had allowed her to. She stood and smoothed her hands over her braid, doublet and skirts. After clearing her throat, she looked down at him laying on his side, toying with the hem of his kilt, threatening to lift it high enough to satisfy her curiosity—

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened them and was once again Chief of Clan Campbell of Argyll.

“Ye are still my prisoner. Ye will do as I wish.”

“Like kissing you?”

“That was a mistake,” she lied. “T’will no’ happen again.”

She turned away from him. Nothing short of a miracle would make her turn her back on her clan and seek Ian MacLean’s arms and his kisses. A Highland chief, a Campbell chief, had to make sacrifices, difficult ones, for the good of her clan, for the good of her heart.