Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (14 page)

“Are you all right, Lady Yvette?” Diarmid
inquired with a noticeably worried expression on his face.

“I am unharmed,” she informed
him as she made haste to cover the rent in her
léine
, several drops of blood having seeped through the linen fabric. Then, hoping to leaven the mood, Yvette forced a smile onto her lips as she said, “This is the second time in a sennight that you have rescued me from certain death. How I managed to live so long without your protection is a mystery to me.”

“And I will gladly
continue to give my protection as long as ye have need of it.”

Despite the fact that
Diarmid spoke in a courteous tone of voice, he had about him a searing intensity. In another time and another place, Yvette might have been flattered to have the admiration of so handsome a man. But circumstances being what they were, she could drum little enthusiasm.

“You are most ga
llant,” she said woodenly.

The Scotsman’s
wide mouth curved in a good-natured grin. “I dinna know about that. Only this morning I scribed the ransom demand to yer father; who will no doubt consign me to the fire pits of hell once he receives it.”

“
While I pray that doesn’t happen, I do hope that you sent the note with a brawn messenger astride a swift horse.”

“Are
ye in such a hurry to leave our fair isle?”

Since an honest reply would only cause offense, Yvette de
clined to answer Diarmid’s question. Instead, she said, “There are many here who will rejoice when I depart these shores.”

“Ach, don’t mind Laoghaire,” Diarmid said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “
She’s pulled that sword on me more times than I can recall.”

Not for one instant did Yvette believe
that
glib assertion.

“If you must know, I was referring to the laird,” she clarified as she reached
for a small crock of cinnamon.

“While I canna claim to know Iain’s mind,
I
will be sad-hearted to see ye leave.”

Unnerved by
Diarmid’s impassioned overture, Yvette fumbled with the lid on the cinnamon crock. “The kitchen pantry is not as well-stocked as it should be. Since you are the castle steward, may I give you a list of required foodstuffs that I would like to have purchased?”

Diarmid’s blue eyes opened wide, the young man clearly taken aback by the abrupt change in topic
. “Aye, ye may give me the list.”

“You will h
ave it no later than tomorrow. And I shall also require the household keys so that I may better see to my duties as châtelaine,” Yvette said in a brisk, businesslike tone of voice.

“I can take care of tha’ as well.”

“Very good.” After adding two pinches of cinnamon to the bowl, Yvette then made a great to-do of searching for a spoon. When Diarmid failed to take his leave, she pointedly glanced at him and said, “Is there anything else that needs my attention?”

“Er, no. Good
day to ye.”

Diarmid’s
green and brown kilt jauntily swung across his long, well-muscled legs as he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the entryway.

Watching him
depart, Yvette exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Although Diarmid MacKinnon had delivered her from a potentially dangerous altercation, she suspected that he’d done so because he had tender feelings for her; tender feelings that could come to naught. As soon as Lyndhurst paid the ransom, she would return to Glencova. Whereupon she would wed the aging Hugh de Ogilvy, her fate having already been decided by her cunning father.

Because she was
a lone woman in a man’s world, without friend or ally, there was nothing that she could do to alter her course in life.

Lost in her maudlin thoughts, several moments passed before she realized that
Eara, mashing walnuts with mortar and pestle on the other side of the table, was trying to get her attention.

“I mean no disrespect mistress, but . . . did ye ha’ a hand in killing the laird’s brother?”
the scullion maid hesitantly inquired.

Noticing that several heads
had suddenly swung in their direction, Yvette suspected that Eara had just asked the question uppermost in everyone’s mind.

“No, I did not have a hand in his death,” she replied,
purposefully raising her voice so that it would be heard on the far side of the kitchen. Then, hoping to alleviate the distrust and apprehension generated in the wake of Laoghaire’s belligerent accusations, she said, “And I am truly sorry that the MacKinnon Clan has suffered so grievously.”

Eara, a morose expression on her face, poured the crushe
d walnuts into a bowl of oats. “Aye, we’ve endured suffering aplenty these last three years.”

“
Because I have no knowledge of what happened that fateful day at St. Ives’ church, perhaps you could tell me how Kenneth MacKinnon met his death?” Yvette gently prodded.

“Och, I canna!” the maid exclaimed, vehemently shaking h
er head. “The laird ha’ forbidden us from ever speaking of tha’ day. And I should no’ ha’ made mention of it.”

“Then I will not speak of it either,” Yvette hastened to reply, well aware that Iain MacKinnon did not take kindly to having his orders disobeye
d.

A tense silence
soon fell between them, Eara no doubt worried that her indiscreet remarks might somehow find their way back to the lord of the castle. Silently cursing Laoghaire for spoiling the rapport that she’d worked so hard to achieve over the course of the morning, Yvette feared she’d have to build the bridge anew.

“What is that you’re making?” she
pleasantly asked Eara.

Drizzling honey into the bowl of dried oats and crushed walnuts, the scullion maid
said, “The laird likes his sweets. Tha’ being the reason why I serve honeyed oatcakes at every meal. He’s even been known to sneak into the kitchen late at night and pilfer from the honey pot,” Eara added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

Yvette couldn’t help but
chuckle, the image of the brooding laird with his finger stuck in the honey pot an incongruous one, indeed.

Having
earlier seen a crock of dried peppermint in the pantry, she was struck with a sudden idea. “Rather than honeyed oats, perhaps we should serve tansy cake with minted cream. That might better satiate Lord Iain’s hunger for sweets.”

“Aye, mine, too,” Fergus boisterously chimed in from the other side of the kitchen where he stood pounding a slab of beef that had
been designated for mincemeat pies.

“Perhaps we should bake more then one ca
ke,” Eara suggested.

“Perhaps we should,” Yvette
said with an agreeable nod, pleased that she’d been able to build another bridge.

Anxious for a moment of blissful solitude, Yvette hurriedly ambled a
cross the muddied bailey toward the postern door, the keys of the castle jangling at the end of her girdle.

All things considered, she’d mad
e a good start her first day. She’d overseen preparations for the main meal, as well as a late evening repast; she’d ordered the great hall swept, scoured and dusted; she’d had sweet-smelling heather strewn onto the floor of each and every garderobe; she’d had the bed linens stripped and washed; and, lastly, she’d inventoried the cellar storerooms and made a preliminary list of required foodstuffs to give to Diarmid.

Yea,
’twas a good start.

Made even better by virtue of the fact that she’d yet to set eye
s upon the lord of the castle.

Needing to escape the screeching
sound of cart wheels, squawking geese and screaming babies – sounds that were endemic to every castle in Christendom – Yvette inserted a key into the heavy wooden door built into the stone curtain wall. Because she’d been busily engaged in one task or another since early dawn, she now craved a peaceful respite. A few stolen moments to herself.

As she scrambled over the rock-strewn terrain, it suddenly occurred to her that
, if not for the fact she was on an island, she could simply walk away from Castle Maoil. Never to return.
And with none the wiser.
Not even Iain would be aware of her flight until it was too late, the man having arrogantly assumed that because he’d ordered her
not
to escape, she would dependably obey his command.

Longingly dreaming of escape
, Yvette stared at the opposite shoreline. While the low-lying hills and grassy knolls were within sight, mainland Scotland was frustratingly out of reach.

Perhaps
I can stow away in a fishing boat?

Curious to test the theory, she quickly made her way toward the winding trail that led to the strip of shore wher
e yesterday they’d disembarked.

As fate would have it
, the rutted path was deserted.

How long it took to descend th
e rocky hillock, Yvette knew not. She was far too intent on formulating her scheme to care about the passage of time.

Having concocted a grand escape plan, complete with a knight on a white charger who begged for the privilege of
rescuing her, Yvette was heartily disappointed to discover that there wasn’t a single skiff moored to the escarpment. There was only a bevy of whiskered otters frolicking in the gentle surf, waddling and splashing about with childlike abandon.

With a r
esigned sigh, Yvette took what pleasure she could from the moment, thoroughly enjoying the antics of the weasel-like animals that put her in mind of—

“Sweet Mary!” she screamed
aloud when an unseen assailant suddenly grabbed her from behind.

“Ye canna escape me,” a deep voice
menacingly snarled in her ear. “Ye should ha’ learned that by now . . . or do ye need another lesson?”

“How did you
know I was here?” Yvette angrily hissed as she tried to squirm out from Iain’s imprisoning grip.

“The guards on the battlements saw ye scampering down the trail like a wee fox trying to escape a hunter’s snare,”
the laird growled, letting her slip free from his grasp. “’Twas easy enough to give chase wi’out ye knowing it.”

Outraged
, Yvette spun around to face him. “You followed me!”

“Aye. I was curious to know what
harebrained scheme ye had in mind
this
time.”

“I merely wanted a breath of fresh air,” she hedg
ed. Then, hoping to turn the tables on him, Yvette gestured to the straits behind her. “This is an island. How could I possibly have escaped?”

Iain gl
anced at the mainland that was clearly visible on the other side of the waterway. “Mayhap you are a good swimmer.”

At hearing
that, she chortled derisively. “And mayhap I can sprout wings and fly away since
that
is as likely to occur as my braving the open seas.”

A frown materialized on Iain’s face.
“Sarcasm does not suit you, woman.”

“My sarcasm suit
s me just fine,” she retorted. “I think it is
you
that it does not suit.”

Straightaway, t
he frown on Iain’s face turned into a glower. “What man wants to listen to a shrew’s harangue? Only yesterday I ordered ye
not
to stray beyond the curtain wall. Yet here ye brazenly stand as if ye were queen of the isle.”

Striving to remain calm in the face of
Iain’s mounting anger, Yvette, opting for a more placating tone, said, “You may rest assured that I can not escape you because I can not escape the island. It is as simple as that.”

“I think ye could
escape the isle easily enough,” he stubbornly argued. “All ye’d have to do is stand on the headland, pull yer skirts above yer waist and wiggle yer creamy white arse. In no time at all, ye’d have a score of randy fishermen more than willing to row ye across to the other side.”

Without considering the ramifications of her actions, Yvette raised her hand and soundly
slapped Iain across the cheek.

In the next instant,
the laird’s face contorted into a mask of naked fury.

Fearful of the dire repercussions she would reap because of
her impetuous act, Yvette turned on her booted heel and took off running.

And though
she ran as fast as she could, a heavy weight soon slammed against her backside, the momentum sending Yvette sprawling to the ground, Iain landing directly on top of her.

Crushed beneath him,
Yvette’s breasts were painfully flattened on the turf, her left cheek smashed against the prickly undergrowth. Wheezing unevenly, she tried to draw breath. Unable to do so, she frantically tried to move; only to discover that she couldn’t do that either.

C
ompletely immobilized beneath Iain’s much heavier weight, she was able to feel the thud of his heart against her spine.

“I . . . c-
can’t breathe,” she somehow managed to gasp.

Wordlessly, Iain lifted his torso a few inches, allowing her enough room to pull a draught of much needed air into her lung
s.

No sooner did her breathing return to normal than Yvette
renewed her efforts to wiggle out from under him.

“I wouldna do that if I was you . . . it might put wanton ideas into my head,”
Iain murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt his lips move as he spoke.

The warning caused
Yvette to instantly still.

“Please let me up,” she pleaded
. Overwhelmed by Iain’s sheer size and brute strength, she was suddenly afraid that he might act on those ‘wanton’ impulses.

Mercifully
, Iain did as asked, rolling away from her.

Glancing at his face, Yvette could see that h
is earlier fury was now replaced with an insufferable insolence as he reclined lengthwise on the ground. Head propped on his hand, he proceeded to watch as she gracelessly pushed herself into a seated position. With his kilt bunched well above his knees, Iain gave every appearance of being a self-indulgent, half-naked savage.

But
Yvette wasn’t fooled in the least by his casual pose and negligent expression. Detecting an animal alertness lurking behind his calm facade, she was certain that the man was simply biding his time. Waiting for the right moment to pounce upon her.

“Are
ye hurt?”

Surprised that he would even care
, she wordlessly shook her head.

Unnerved by
Iain’s intent gaze, she shielded her eyes with her hand. After days of interminable rain and gray mist, the cloudless blue sky was near blinding in its cerulean blue intensity. A blue similar in shade to that of Iain’s deep-set eyes.

Foolish woman!
Yvette chided herself in the next instant, deeply ashamed that she was so enamored with his blue eyes; his chiseled cheekbones; the intriguing cleft in his chin.

Iain MacKinnon was
simply a man. No more. No less.

No, that
isn’t true
, she silently amended

Although
Yvette was loathe to admit it, the laird of Clan MacKinnon was unlike any man she’d ever known, possessed not only of an unholy handsomeness, but a stalwart courage and a keen mind. More importantly, he’d given her a choice. The first man to ever do so.

“Ye canna escape me, woman.
Surely, ye know that,” Iain said quietly.

Yvette
shrugged, too tired to reiterate her innocence. “One can always hope.”

“I’ll have the truth from ye, Yvette . . . did ye wander down here in the hopes of escaping?”

Plucking at a blade of sea-grass, she wound it between her fingers as she carefully considered her reply.

“In so far as I wanted to temporarily escape,”
Yvette said after a moment’s pause. “I found myself in need of a . . .” Her voice faded into silence, certain that her explanation would fall on deaf ears.

“Ye needed a wee respite,” Iain finished for her, su
rprising Yvette with his uncanny insight.

“Yea, that’s exactly what I needed. I couldn’t hear myself think over the barking dogs, the blacksmith’s incessant hammering, and the continual shouts of your men-at-arms
as they trained in the bailey. I longed only for a few moments of silence.”

“
I often long for a few moments of silence, as well.”

Encouraged by his reply, Yvette said,
“Then you understand why I left the castle?”

“I understand. B
ut that doesna alter the fact that ye disobeyed me.” When Yvette opened her mouth to object, Iain raised a hand to forestall her protest. “The next time ye long for a moment of silence, seek it in the chapel.”

“Is that where you seek your solitude?” she
inquired, recalling how he’d retreated to the sanctuary soon after their arrival at Castle Maoil.

Nodding, Iain said,
“I do some of my best thinking in there.”

“You do know that you should be praying not thinking whilst in the house of God,”
Yvette scolded, not unkindly.

“Aye.
And I also know that ye lied to me, woman.”

“I did no such
—”

“Ye said ye weren’t hurt,”
Iain interjected as he leaned toward her. Very gently, he poked his finger through the small tear in her bodice as he probed the dried clot of blood on her bosom.

“That happened earlier,” she
said nervously as he continued to lightly stroke her bare skin with his callused fingertip.

Removing his finger,
Iain popped it into his mouth and wet it. He then he used his moistened finger to wipe the dried blood from her skin.

Yvette’
s breath caught in her throat. In that instant, an illicit image of Iain, putting that same finger on her swollen nipple, suddenly flashed across her mind’s eye.

Finished cleaning the wound,
Iain carefully pulled her
arisaidh
over the rent fabric, Yvette at a loss to understand the reason for his unexpected tenderness.

“Diarmid told me that Laoghaire pulled her sword on you.”

“Laoghaire held me at sword point because she wrongly blames me for your brother’s death,” Yvette informed him, grateful for the opportunity to discuss the matter. “Given the fact that I have been wrongly accused of a crime that I did not commit, I would like to know what happened to your brother Kenneth at St. Ives church.”

Iain j
erked into a seated position, the tender Highlander vanishing before her very eyes. “You dinna have the right to even utter his name,” he hissed.

“Whether I speak his name or not, there are many in your household, yourself included, who wrongly blame me for his death.”

Abruptly turning his gaze toward the watery straits, Iain inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with each plaintive breath. In the distance a seagull loudly squalled, the mournful sound punctuating the silence that loomed between them. Like a vast, uncharted sea.

“I dinna blame ye personally,” he said at last, his gaze still focused on th
e shimmering water.

“Yet you hold me captive because of it.”

“Aye.”

“Am I never to learn the reason why I am being held prisoner?”

“You are not my prisoner,” Iain stubbornly refuted as he swiveled his head in Yvette’s direction. “You are my hostage.”

“Do not pla
y word games with me,” she retorted. “We both know ’tis one and the same.”

“Nay
, it is not,” Iain countered with a shake of the head. “If you were my prisoner, ye would be chained in the dungeon right now, with only the sound of dripping water to keep ye company. But since ye’re my hostage, ye’re afforded many freedoms. As for Laoghaire, I will have her apologize to ye.”

Yvette impulsively p
laced her hand on Iain’s forearm. “I pray thee do not speak to her regarding this matter. It is better that she not pay lip service to a sentiment that isn’t truly in her heart. She will resent me all the more because of it. If an apology is to be forthcoming, better that it be made of her own volition.”

“Then ye’ll be waiting for
Domesday to get it.”

“So be it.”

As she spoke, Yvette felt the iron strength of Iain’s muscled arm beneath her hand. Mesmerized, she stared at the striking contrast between her pale fingers and his sun-bronzed skin.

When
, in the next instant, Iain leaned toward her, a determined look in his eyes, Yvette hastily removed her hand from his person.

One side of
Iain’s mouth quirked upward in the beginnings of a wry grin. “Every time ye turn around, ye’re being assaulted by a MacKinnon.”

“Your cousin Diarmid has yet to assault me
,” she replied. “But given the day is still young, it could yet happen.”

Hearing that, Iain threw back his head and laughed aloud.

Which is when he suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, realized that he enjoyed Yvette Beauchamp’s company.

Sweet Jesu
. How can that be?

While it was one thing to crave her body, it was a different matter entire
ly to crave her companionship. And though he willed it otherwise, Iain continually found himself admiring her grace. Her keen wit. Her valiant determination.

Admittedly
, he did not want to like her. She was a Sassenach. The daughter of his enemy.

By hell! T
he woman had even gone so far as to slap me in the face.

Although
Iain readily acknowledged that he’d deserved it, having been an insulting oaf. Because of that, he’d let the transgression go unpunished.

In truth
, he desired Yvette Beauchamp more than any woman he’d ever known. Even when she’d been covered in grime, and had reeked of sea brine and horse flesh, he’d wanted her.

Just as
she wants me
.

While
some might deride that as a bold claim, Iain had felt Yvette’s yearning in every sideways glance that she’d given him over the course of their six day journey. Despite her resistance, he’d seen with his own eyes the fiery storm that lurked beneath her regal hauteur. It was a hidden passion that was waiting for a man’s touch, a man’s kiss, to bring to full bloom.

By all that
is holy, I want to be that man
.

As he continued to stare at
Yvette’s exotic beauty, Iain was suddenly put in mind of one of the fabled selkies; the Celtic sea creatures who bewitched mortal men with their sad, mournful beauty.