Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (16 page)

“I must protest, my lord,”
Yvette hissed under her breath, unnerved by his frank appraisal. “You have taken the charade too far.”

“No’ far enough, I’m thinking.”

Deciding to put an end to his mock loveplay, Yvette deliberately swiveled on her stool and struck up a conversation with Diarmid who sat on the other side of her.

To her relief, the rest of the meal passed without incident . . . that is until Fergus laid the platter
of tansy cakes upon the table.

Cocking his head to one side, Iain stared at the colorful confection, Yvette having tinted the minted cream which topped the cakes a pale green.

“Where are my honeyed oatcakes?” Iain gruffly demanded, his dark brows drawn together.

Yvette nervously cleared her throat, wondering if she’d gone too far wi
th her culinary inventiveness. “I bade Eara not to prepare the oatcakes.”

“Ye did
what
?!”

An expectant hush suddenly fell over the g
reat hall. No doubt the assembled throng feared that if the laird’s pleasure was disturbed, so too his domain. Only Laoghaire, seated on the other side of her brother, dared to snicker.

Striving for a calm
that she did not feel, Yvette said, “I thought to tempt your palate with tansy cake instead. Because you are a man of refined sensibilities, I knew that you would welcome the opportunity to broaden your—”

“I am no’ so refined that I don’t
recognize offal when I hear it,” Iain bluntly interjected as he reached for a piece of the tansy cake. That said, he took a bite.

Yvette
held her breath as she nervously waited for a verdict.

When the harsh planes of Iain’s face
suddenly softened with what could only be described as a beatific expression, his kinsmen loudly cheered and shouted.

“Like manna from heaven,”
he enthused between mouthfuls of green tansy cake.

Yvette
raised a piece of the cake to her own lips. Until that moment she hadn’t realized what great pains she’d taken in preparing the sumptuous meal. To have her accomplishments thusly praised imbued her with a sense of satisfaction, affirming that she’d created something of worth and value.

‘Tis a most agreeable feeling
,
she thought happily. One that she’d never before experienced.

Still smiling,
Iain reached for another piece of cake. “Such a tantalizing confection makes me almost glad-hearted that ye are in my kitchen rather than my bed.”

“I, too, prefer this arrangement,”
Yvette seconded.

Raising his hand, Iain gently rubbed his knuckles across her cheek.
“I said
‘almost
.
’
If given the choice between eating sweet concoctions and lying between your soft thighs, I would gladly choose the latter.”

“But last night you said
—”

“
I know what I said last night. I’ll no’ take ye to my bed if ye’re unwilling.”

Relieved
, Yvette’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “You
are
an honorable man, Iain MacKinnon.”

“
Mmph! What I am is a foolish man for letting ye slip through my fingers wi’ naught but a kiss between us.”

At the mention of that brazen kiss on the parapets, Yvette’s
gaze self-consciously dropped to her lap. Though it had been ‘naught but a kiss,’ she’d been stunned by that illicit burst of passion. She’d not thought herself capable of such wantonness, still in a quandary as to whether she was genuinely attracted to the earthy Highlander, or whether hers was a passion born of dependency.

Seven
days ago, I did not even know his name. Now he is the seed to my chaff
.

“If you must know . . .”
Yvette hesitated, choosing her words with great care. “Your restraint has raised you considerably in my estimation. And while I did think you a barbarian at first, I now know you to be a better man than that.”

Iain stared
at his half-eaten tansy cake. “But still I am no’ a good man. In the last week I came verra close to killing, beating and raping ye. My sins are great, indeed.”

Acting on a heartfelt impulse, Yvette reached
over and took hold of his hand. “But you did not kill, beat or rape me. Each time, though you were tempted—”

“Provoked!”

“—you took the honorable path,” she continued, ignoring his aside.

“It wasna me,”
Iain muttered, turning his hand so that he could strum his thumb across her knuckles. “’Twas those damn wee angels.”

“I beg your pardon?”

At seeing her puzzled expression, Iain smiled and said, “My father used to claim that there are wee angels perched on a man’s shoulders who whisper in his ear, coaxing and cajoling him to rise above his bestial nature.”

“A wise man your father.”

“Aye, that he was.”

Yvette reached for
Iain’s half-eaten piece of cake. Smiling, she raised it to his lips. “Finish your cake . . . or I will think you do not like my cookery.”

When
Iain obediently opened his mouth, Yvette nudged the tansy cake between his lips.

“God’s teeth!” Laoghaire loudly exclaimed, banging her fist on the cloth-covered tab
le. “Is that all it takes for ye to forget Hamish MacKinney’s death, one English slattern with a piece of sweet cake?”

No sooner were those contemptuous words uttere
d than Iain grabbed his knife. Snarling something in his native tongue, he violently jabbed the blade into the table, the bone hilt waggling to-and-fro. Then, turning to Laoghaire – who heatedly yelled at him in Gaelic – Iain lurched to his feet.

“Silence!” he bellowed.

Although the command was intended for his sister, not so much as a whisper could be heard in the great hall, every head slewed toward the high table. Even the belligerent Laoghaire was cowed into silence.

“I will say this
only one time:
this
woman had naught to do with Hamish MacKinney’s death,” Iain avowed, placing his hand on Yvette’s shoulder for emphasis. “Hamish died a warrior’s death. The way he always wanted to die. He never wanted to become a stoop-shouldered white beard. He fought bravely. He died well. And his death
will
be avenged.”

Yvette’s throat tightene
d with unshed tears. She had not asked for, nor expected, Iain’s protection.

“’Tis true that Yvette Beauchamp is my hostage,” Iain continued, squeezing her shoulder as
he spoke. “But you
will
accord her the respect that is her due . . . or ye’ll answer to me!”

Unable to fall asleep,
Yvette restlessly turned on her lumpy, oat-filled cot.

A thin band of moonlight streamed through the partially opened shutter, throwing wraith-like shado
ws onto the nearby stone wall. Torn asunder with conflicted emotions, slumber’s sweet bliss eluded her.

Iain’s unexpected announcement in the gr
eat hall had moved her deeply. More than she would have thought possible. Not only did he proclaim her innocence, he’d placed her under his protection. Because he was the MacKinnon, his power absolute, Yvette would no longer be harassed with accusing glances and spiteful whispers.

And
for that she was grateful.

A
lthough she was also admittedly suspicious, having now begun to wonder if Iain’s motives were as noble as they first appeared. The man made no secret of the fact that he wanted to bed her, prevented from acting on his lust by one simple word:
‘No.’

However, s
hould he transmute her ‘no’ into a ‘yes,’ he could gain the prize without penalty.

Suddenly hearing a footfall on the circular stair
s outside her alcove, Yvette immediately reached under the mattress for her jeweled dagger. Her heart pounding against her breastbone, she nervously fumbled as she pulled the blade from its sheath. The length of wool plaid that hung at the entry of the oriel provided a small measure of privacy, but absolutely no security.

When the footsteps came to a sudden halt on the other side of the plaid curtain, Yvette knew with a woman’s sure certainty the ident
ity of the unseen nightwalker. ’Twas the laird of Castle Maoil.

Taking a deep breath
, she tightened her grip on the dagger, prepared to enforce her ‘no’ at knifepoint, if need be.

As the length of plaid started to move to one side,
Yvette clamped her lips together, stifling a frightened whimper. In the pale moonlight, she caught a glimpse of a towering figure standing on the other side of the drawn curtain . . . just before the curtain fell back into place.

A heartbeat later, she heard footsteps heading in the direction of Iain’s bedcham
ber.

Releasing her grip on the dagger, Yve
tte exhaled a pent-up breath, offering a quick prayer of thanks to the ‘wee angels’ perched on Iain MacKinnon’s shoulder.

“Christ’s blood!
Ye hold that claymore like ye were a hunch-backed crone woman!” Iain barked at a red-faced youth who was engaged in combat practice with the men-at-arms. “How d’ye expect to defend yer clan against the MacDougalls wi’ such a faint-hearted swing?”

“Jesu, but ye’re in a surly temper,” Diarmid remarked as he
nimbly sidestepped a spinning quintain that was set up in the training area.

“If I’m in a foul temper, I have good reason to be,” Iain muttered, his gaze settling on the dark-haired woman who stood on
the other side of the bailey. Having decided that Castle Maoil’s garden beds were insufficient, Yvette was busily engaged overseeing the planting of a newly-configured kitchen and herb garden.

Good-naturedly slapping him on the back,
Diarmid said, “Ach, women. Truly the bane of our existence, are they not?”

“
Aye. Not to mention that she’s surely tried my patience.” As well as his self-control, Iain’s nights having become one long tortuous stretch in which fitful sleep mingled with erotic dreams of the bewitching Yvette, his cods aching from the want of her.

Yvette had
now been at Castle Maoil for four weeks. Any day now her whoreson of a father would pay the ransom. At which point she would depart from the Isle of Skye.

Four w
eeks
. And still she spurned him, Iain angered that he could be so besotted with a woman who steadfastly refused his bed.

And for wha
t reason?
he wondered. While he wasn’t a vain man, he’d yet to meet the lass who didn’t find him brawn and well-fashioned.

Perhaps Diarmid with his t
awny locks is more to her liking
.

Just then, o
ut of the corner of his eye, Iain noticed the way that Diarmid avidly watched as Yvette, seed bag in hand, bent over a newly plowed furrow.

Damn
you, cousin!

“We are in for a long, cold night,” Diar
mid remarked, finally tearing his gaze from the other side of the bailey.

“Aren’t they all?”
Iain muttered under his breath, his thoughts still fixated on the dark-haired beauty.

“I meant there looks to be a wicked storm brewing in the western sky,” Diarmid clarified, a knowing smirk on his face.

“I know what ye meant, damn ye! And, aye, it does look ominous,” Iain concurred in a less contentious tone, belatedly realizing that he was taking his frustration out on the wrong person.

“A month has come and gone.
We will soon have Lyndhurst’s reply,” his cousin said off-handedly, having accurately gauged the direction of Iain’s thoughts. “When that day comes, I will be sad to see Lady Yvette take her leave. The keep has greatly improved in appearance under her watch. As has the food served in the great hall, with so many tasty morsels ye’d think we were dining at King Edward’s English court.”

“Mmph
,” Iain grunted.

“Och, man, d’ye think I
haven’t noticed that every night since Lady Yvette arrived ye show up in the great hall freshly bathed, smelling like a sprig of heather, with your cock standing on end?”

“For all the
good it’s done me.”

Barely able to bite back his laughter, Diarmid said, “Some women are no’ so partial to the smell of heather.”

Rather than reply to his cousin’s jest, Iain again turned his attention to the woman in question. As he watched Yvette direct Fergus on the proper way to transplant geraniums, his gut twisted into a hard knot.

He wanted Yvette so fiercely
that his longing had a taste to it.
Tart. Musky. And decidedly tangy
. All mixed with a mouthwatering sweetness.

Diarmid was right.
He had only to look at Yvette and his cock stood on end. Furthermore, despite his best attempts to hide the truth, his cousin had correctly guessed early-on that Iain’s relationship with Yvette had yet to be consummated.

Tearing his gaze from the kitchen garden,
Iain glanced at his training kinsmen. Most had stripped to the waist; and all of them were covered in a wet sheen.

“Damn ye, Robbie!
That’s a battle-ax ye’re wielding, no’ a farmer’s hoe!”

“Don’t ye think ye’re being a wee bit hard on the
lads?” Diarmid remarked.

Iain shot his cousin a
stern glance. “When did war become an easy pursuit? Ye know full well that the MacKinnon is the Lord of the Isle’s
ceancath.
And as Lord of the Isle’s war leader, I must be ready for the summons if and when it arrives.”

“So ye think it will come to that, war between
Scotland and England?”

“Aye, how can it not?
” Iain said resignedly. “Robert the Bruce and Edward Longshanks canna agree on the color of the sky, let alone who should rule Scotland.”

“Even if the Bruce wanted to rule his new kingdom, how can he when Longshanks
has put a bounty on his head?” As he spoke, a deep furrow appeared on Diarmid’s brow. “The wily English king has offered to pay gold, lands, and title to the first Highlander who brings him Robert’s head. ’Twill turn many a loyal Scotsman into an English lackey, I fear.”

“And that murdering cur Sibbald MacDougall intends to collect the bounty, having vowed to capture the Bruce and take him to London in a hangman’s cart,” Iain hissed, anxious to settle his blood debt with the degenerate turncoat.

“So that’s the reason why Sibbald was so far from his ancestral lands when we did battle with him at the auld standing stones,” Diarmid remarked. “He was hunting for the Bruce.”

Iain nodded, the memory of that misty morn stil
l weighing heavy on his heart. “Aye, ’twas a bit of bad luck that we crossed paths wi’ him.”

“Bad luck for him, don’t ye mean?”

“And for us. Hamish’s death was a high price to pay for a chance meeting.”

Suddenly wearing an uneasy expression
, Diarmid shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “Er, speaking of high prices –” his cousin reached inside his tunic, extracting a sheet of rolled parchment –“Lady Yvette requested that I order some foodstuffs, the bill for which arrived earlier this morning.” Clearing his throat, Diarmid handed the parchment to Iain. “I, um, thought ye might want to, er, inspect the bill of sale.”

Iain unrolled the
parchment, squinting as he scrutinized the neatly tallied numbers.

Within moments
he cursed aloud –
fiercely, crudely
– before his face turned as red as the newly planted geraniums on the other side of the bailey.

“And wha’ do I do wi’ the water after I pour it over the laird’s hands?”

Yvette took a deep breath before she explained to Fergus,
yet again,
the duties of a castle ewerer. “After you pour the water from the pitcher, you will hand Lord Iain a towel. A
clean
towel,” she clarified. “Then, when the laird is finished washing his hands, you will remove the basin of soiled water from the table.”

“But wha’ if the laird
already washed his hands before he entered the great hall?”

Striving for patience, Yvette said,
“That does not matter. It is the ritual that is important.”

“Aye, mistress
.” With a dubious look on his weathered face, Fergus politely bobbed his head before picking up a basket of pheasants which still needed to be dressed for the evening meal.

Stepping over to the hearth, Yvette inspected the pork joint roasting on the s
pit. The young half-naked varlet, whose job it was to continually turn the spit, greeted her with a gap-toothed grin.

“Do not forget to baste the meat with the spiced wine
that I earlier gave to you,” she reminded the freckle-faced lad. “It will help to keep the meat tender.”

“Aye, mistress.”

Running a household is much like commanding an army
, Yvette thought to herself as she next headed toward the large trestle table on the other side of the kitchen. And, as she’d learned over the course of the last four weeks, she derived great satisfaction in efficiently managing a keep.

About to instruct Eara in how to prepare almond milk, Yvette instead turned toward the kitchen doorway, surprised to hear an
unexpected flurry of loud voices. She was even more surprised when Iain stormed toward her, a sheet of parchment paper grasped in his right hand.

Coming
to a sudden halt in front of the trestle table, he scooped a handful of nuts from an open sack.

“What are these?” he gruffly demanded
to know, extending his arm in Yvette’s direction.

Wondering why he would even care,
Yvette shrugged and said, “Those are almonds.”

Iain
flung the nuts back into the sack. He then glanced at his sheet of parchment paper. “Almonds . . . aye, shipped all the way from Persia.”

Paying him no mind
– she did, after all, have a meal to oversee — Yvette stepped over to where Eara sat at the end of the table.

“After you remove the nut from the shell, you will use the mortar and pestle to crush the almonds into a fine powder,” she instruct
ed in a measured tone. “Then you will mix the powdered nuts with water and simmer the concoction over a hot fire. After it has simmered, strain the mixture through a cloth sieve and use the liquid to make a creamed codfish.”

“Aye, mistress.”
Proving herself an eager pupil, Eara banged a mallet against the tabletop, deftly cracking open several almond shells with the single blow.

Finished issuing her instructions to the kitche
n maid, Yvette turned to Iain. “Your arrival is most propitious, my lord, as I wish to discuss with you several proposed changes to the household staff.”

Rather than the attentive expression
that she had expected, the remark instead met with a wintry reception, Iain’s brows drawing together in an ill-humored frown.

“There will be changes made, to be certain,” he growled
as he extended a hand in her direction. “And
this
is the first thing that I want changed.”

Sliding two fingers under the chin strap of
Yvette’s barbette, he gave a forceful tug, yanking the piece of white cambric off of her head.

Yvette stood motionless, too stunned
to protest the transgression. Wide-eyed, Eara gaped at the two of them, almonds flying pell-mell through the air when her mallet missed its intended target.

“That’s much better,” Iain said, tossing the
bit of fabric onto the table. “Ye’re too young to be covering yer hair.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Yvette folded he
r hands in front of her waist. “I am a widow of four and twenty,” she primly informed him. “And even if I were not, such head garb is appropriate given that I am the castle’s châtelaine.”

“It made
ye look like a bloody nun.”

“
My appearance should not be your concern. I oversee your keep. Nothing more,” Yvette added, worried that Iain was on the verge of bringing up the dreaded subject of who slept where at night.

In fact, s
he was certain that was his intention, Iain staring at her with a blatant hunger. Like a man desirous of breaking an extended fast.

“Mayhap I am a glutton for punishment,”
Iain said in a husky whisper, the words intended for her ears only. “For it is sheer torture to gaze upon ye and know I canna have ye.”

Shamefully aware that they were being observed by half a dozen kitchen scullions, Yvette decided to retake cha
rge of her domain. She suffered an inexplicable weakness where Iain MacKinnon was concerned, nightly looking forward to sitting beside him at the high table. And though she didn’t wish to be his whore, she derived a strangely perverse pleasure from pretending thus for the benefit of his kinsmen.