Border Fire (45 page)

She threw it, and he caught it easily. He ducked his head under and came up shaking it. Drops of water flew everywhere, glittering in the sunlight. He lathered his whole head, then moved to shallow water and stood up, a gleaming wet, muscular god. Janet stared, thinking how much she had missed him. He had lost weight, and his body was pale everywhere. Even his arms, which had been deeply browned from the sun, had faded almost to match the whitest parts of him.

Remembering her plan, she wrenched her gaze from his still splendid body and soon spied the clothing he had shed in a pile near the riverbank. Shrubbery and May trees grew close to the river there, and she carefully tucked her bundle in the fork of one, where it would stay dry and out of sight. Then, strolling to the pile of cast-off clothing she began to gather it into another bundle, boots and all. Leaving only his sword and dagger, she turned away and walked back into the shrubbery to the thicket of trees. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was still scrubbing, clearly enjoying himself, glad to be clean again at last. Smiling, she stepped back into the shrubbery, out of his sight.

Moving cautiously so that he could not tell from waving bushes exactly where she was, she moved upriver from him, listening, aware that he had already taken longer than expected to notice that she had gone. Clearly he felt safe from attack, even though they were out of sight of the castle ramparts. Had he been as alert as usual, he would have noted her movements the minute she turned away.

Insight stirred, and she wondered if he purposely was ignoring her to attend to his own needs. He probably thought that she was worried about whether he really meant to beat her, wondering if he would really make her cut the very switch that he would use. Doubtless he intended to keep her guessing.

By the time he shouted her name, she was far enough up the river to suit her purpose. Quickly she stripped off the male clothing she still wore and folded it in a neat pile on a warm rock, setting her boots and dagger beside it.

“Jenny,” he roared, “answer me! Where the devil are my clothes?”

Managing a smile, pretending that she was not frightened half out of her wits, she turned and stepped into the water, instantly realizing that Tip’s notion of warmth and her own were many,
many
degrees apart. But she was naked now, and if any of Quinton’s men heard him shouting, the two of them would soon have unwanted company. She had to hurry.

Without sparing another thought for Quinton’s anger or the temperature of the water, she plunged in and came up sputtering. The icy water took her breath away, and she realized that its temperature might chill her plan before she could put it into action. She could not let that happen. Swimming toward the middle, she let the steady current carry her downriver. The current was not particularly swift, for just there the river flowed wide over shallow sandbars on both sides.

She saw Quinton before he saw her. He stood near the riverbank in calf-deep water, hands on bare hips, glaring at the thicket of shrubbery as if his anger could force her to materialize out of thin air.

She could see that the current quickened not far beyond him, for there were rocks on the Broadhaugh side, and water foamed around them. Thanks to Hugh’s teaching years before, she was a strong swimmer and she knew how to work with the current to keep from being swept away, but it would do her purpose no good to let the water sweep her too quickly past Quinton. If he had to chase her down the river, his anger would only increase.

She whistled and had the satisfaction of seeing him start. He looked right and left, then up the river, but his gaze passed over her because he was searching the banks of the Teviot. She whistled again.

“What the devil?” His voice carried easily to her ears. “Jenny?”

She waved.

“What the devil!” He stepped impulsively toward her, and either slipped or stepped into a hole, for he stumbled into the water and came up gasping for air. He quickly found his feet again, however, and dove after her. When his hands closed around her ankles from beneath, she screeched and tried to kick free.

He held her easily, and the next thing she knew, his hands were at her waist, and then he had turned, bringing one arm around her shoulders, so that her head rested against him. With a few strong strokes, he was in water shallow enough to stand again. His body measured itself against hers, and she leaned on him.

“Are you all right?” he growled into her ear.

“Aye, I’m fine.”

“Where the devil are my clothes? For that matter, where the devil are yours?”

His hand moved to one bare breast, and she gasped. “Yours are yonder on the bank where those trees are. Mine…” She chuckled. “Mine are up the river. I thought only of surprising you, not of how I would get back to them.”

“Faith, lass, I ought to beat you here and now. Was there ever before such an impulsive and foolish wench, I wonder.”

“We should be in the water or out of it, sir. Did you lose the soap?”

“I did not. It is on that rock in plain sight. Do you want it?”

“Aye, since I’m wet. Those clothes I borrowed are not much sweeter than yours are.”

“Then you can leave them where they are.”

“Quinton! Would you have me parade through the bailey in my skin?”

“Don’t tempt me, Jenny. You deserve whatever I choose to do to you.” He moved to fetch the soap as he spoke, and she hunkered down in the water, since it felt warmer now to be in it and out of the breeze.

She hoped he was teasing her. Surely he would not make her walk naked back to the castle. Looking back toward where she had left her clothing, she wondered if the current was gentle enough to let her swim against it.

“Don’t even think about swimming back,” he warned, wading toward her with the bar of soap in one outstretched hand. “You’d only wear yourself out.”

She reached for the soap, but he held it away, out of reach.

“Don’t tease me, Quinton. This water is little more than melted ice.”

“Then the quicker we get you washed, the quicker you’ll get warm again. Stand up, lassie.”

Involuntarily, she glanced toward the river bend and the thicket of trees that hid the castle from sight.

“No one will come unless I shout for them,” he said. “Now then, you can stand up, or if you’d rather, you can go and cut me that switch.”

“I left my dagger with my clothes.”

“You can use mine.” He waited, arms folded across his chest.

Slowly, grudgingly, she stood.

“Hold out your arms.”

Glaring now, she obeyed him, and he soaped her arms, beginning with the fingertips of her left hand and lathering soap to her shoulder. Then he did the same to the right arm.

“You can put your arms down now, and turn around,” he said.

Shivering, she obeyed. “Hurry up,” she said. “I’ll be a block of ice before you’re done.”

“Then we’ll have to think how to thaw you out, won’t we?”

The edge in his voice kept her silent while he lathered her back, buttocks, and thighs. Soon, despite the cold water swirling at her feet, the sun began to warm the rest of her.

“Turn again.”

She hesitated.

“Now, Jenny. Turn and look at me.”

She turned, eyes downcast at first, but when she saw that he was aroused, she looked up in surprise.

He was grinning. “What you do to a man is probably proscribed by the kirk, lass,” he said. “Come nearer now.”

She forgot the cold water, moving closer so that he could soap her breasts and her belly, thinking now only of the sensations he stirred in her body with the soap. He moved the bar lower, to the juncture between her thighs, and his fingers tickled and penetrated, making her moan softly and lean toward him. His free hand was at her right breast, sliding over the nipple, teasing it, moving to her throat and then down to the left breast. The bar of soap and the fingers of his right hand went on with their busy work, teasing her, making her squirm and arch against his hand.

“We’ve got to rinse the soap off you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I want to get inside where it’s warm to continue this.” With that, he picked her up and walked right into the deep pool with her, holding her close while he swirled water over and around them both to rinse away her soap. “Now, show me where my clothes are.”

“Mine, too,” she said as he helped her from the water. Walking gingerly over loose pebbles, roots, and other debris on the riverbank, she took him to the tree where she had left the bundles of his clothing.

“Here,” he said, handing her the shirt that Tip had sent for him. “Put this on.”

“But my clothes—”

“We are not going to tramp upriver to wherever you left them just to fetch those filthy clothes,” he said.

“But—”

“No,” he said flatly. “Tip can find them himself, and you are never to wear them again, Jenny. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, sir, but please don’t make me go back naked.”

“Then put on that shirt.”

Reluctantly, she obeyed him, then chuckled when the hem of the shirt reached her knees and the ruffles on its sleeves hung inches below her fingertips.

“You’ll set a new fashion,” he said, chuckling, too.

“I am not decently clad, though,” she said, “and what will you wear?”

“The doublet, breeks, and jacket will suffice. You can wear my netherstocks to keep your legs warm, and the cloak. No one will see that I am barelegged under my boots and breeks. Tip sent enough clothing for a midwinter’s night.”

“I told him you would be cold,” she said as she sat on a boulder to draw the knitted hose over her legs. When she had tied them, he draped his cloak over her shoulders. Though knee-length on him, it hung respectably to her ankles. “I’ve got no shoes,” she said. “If you’d just be so kind as to fetch my boots and dagger—”

“You won’t need them,” he said, fastening his breeks.

“I can’t walk back in your netherstocks. They don’t provide enough protection for my feet. Moreover, I’ll snag them on things.”

“You’d better not. That pair cost me five shillings!”

“Well, but—” The protest ended in a shriek when he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Quinton! Put me down!”

“I cannot have you snagging my hose, sweetheart. Be quiet now. You’re making my ears ring.”

“I won’t be quiet! Put me down, sir!”

In response, he smacked her backside.

Gasping, she fell silent at once.

“That’s better,” he said amiably. “You’d have had the garrison out with that screeching of yours. Now, see if you can behave yourself until we get back inside. I want to get warm again.”

Comforting herself with the knowledge that her predicament could be much worse, Janet held her tongue, but she vowed that one way or another she would get even with him.

She shut her eyes when they entered the bailey through the postern gate, ignoring the shouts and laughter that greeted them. Quinton carried her inside and up the twisting stairs. When they reached the master’s hall landing, she opened her eyes when a servant said, “Master, Cook says ye can ha’ your supper straightaway.”

“Tell Cook to keep it warm,” Quinton said without pausing. “I’ve business with my lass before I eat.”

Janet shut her eyes again tightly, fearing that if she did not she would see the lad’s look of astonishment or—worse—his amusement at seeing his mistress carried in buttocks foremost like a prize of war.

Up more stairs they went until they reached Quinton’s bedchamber. Opening the door, he stepped inside, still holding her. “Go away, Tip,” he said.

Wishing she were the wildcat he had more than once called her, so that she could growl and scratch, Janet scarcely breathed as she felt Tip pass them.

“Welcome home, master,” he said politely. “Good evening, mistress.”

The sound that issued from Janet’s throat in reply sounded more like a growl than any human comment.

Quinton set her down. “I believe those are my clothes, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s see now. Shall I watch you take them off, or shall I do it for you?”

“Come, hold me fast, and fear me not,

The man that you love best.”

J
ANET’S KNEES FELT WEAK,
and she watched Quinton warily. “I do not know which you would prefer,” she said, striving to sound calm and scarcely able to hear herself over the thunder of her heartbeat.

His eyebrows shot up. “So my preferences are important to you, are they?”

“Quinton, I—”

“Answer me, lass. Tell me how important my will is to you.”

She could not follow his moods. Just before they left the river, he had seemed cheerful, but now she was not certain what he seemed. Swallowing, she reminded herself that he had been in prison for weeks. Not only that, but he had fought Hugh, had ridden from Carlisle to Hermitage and then to Broadhaugh, and he had taken a chilly swim before carrying her back to the castle. He could not have much strength left. Even if he were to punish her as he had threatened earlier, she would likely survive the ordeal with only minor bruising. And the plain fact was that he no longer seemed to be thinking about punishment.

Drawing a deep breath, she said, “You are important to me, sir, more than you can know.”

She saw his lips twitch, and she could definitely discern a gleam in his eyes, but he shook his head. “I do not hear you saying, however, that my preferences are important to you.”

Reassured by the twitch and the gleam, she took a chance. Meeting his gaze, she reached for the clasp that fastened his cloak at her throat, released it, and shrugged the garment off, letting it fall to a pool of dark wool at her feet. Then, holding his gaze, she lifted the hem of the shirt enough to reach the lace points for the baggy netherstocks, which she had simply tied round her thighs. A push sent first one then the other to join the cloak. Stepping out of the pool of clothing, she fingered the shirt lacing, then paused.

The hunger in his eyes was clear. He waited.

She did not move.

“Take it off, lass,” he murmured.

“Perhaps.” Still watching his eyes, she licked her lips invitingly and moved her hand from the lacing to touch her breast. Brushing one finger against a fold of the material there, she let her hand turn, so the backs of her fingertips brushed the nipple. She heard him inhale. The only other sounds were the movement of a curtain stirred by a breeze through the open window and the distant murmur of the river.