Kilts and Daggers (12 page)

“Come now, Fagan. Don't tell me you're jealous because you can't throw a dagger like me or my sister.”

“I donna think many men could best Ravenna, lass, but I do agree with ye. Ye're verra dangerous with a blade.”

As she sheathed her weapon back under her skirts, she knew Fagan jested with her. “I know my aim isn't too accurate, but Ravenna says the only way for me to get better is to practice.”

“Aye, and ye do need
a
lot
of practice, lass.” When she slapped him on the arm, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he held up his hands in mock defense. “Donna be cross with me because I speak the truth.”

“Yes, well, I've learned that sometimes the truth hurts.”

“In all seriousness, donna give up. I've ne'er known ye to yield to anything. Ye are rather persistent, if nae a wee bit stubborn at times.”

“I could very well say the same of you.”

“I am nae denying it.” He stood and pulled her to her feet, gesturing to the tent. “'Tisnae much, but it will provide ye shelter if ye're chilled.”

“It's perfect. Thank you.”

“Do ye want something to eat? I have some dried beef and oatcakes.”

She walked over to the carriage. “Ravenna had the cook pack a basket for all of us. Can you help me reach it?”

“Aye, where is it?”

She pointed to the basket on the back of the carriage. “There.”

Fagan lifted his arm and reached for the food. The muscles underneath his tunic tightened, and Grace tore her gaze away from him. She'd spent so many hours trying to learn him by heart but knew she needed to shut out any awareness of him. When she couldn't resist another peek, she chastised herself for her foolish behavior.

At that moment, she realized the fates were laughing at her expense. The man was bent over, removing food from the basket. For God's sake, she heard herself swallow. Fagan's kilt rode low on his lean hips and his buttocks stuck out in front of her. She was a lady. She shouldn't be having such sinful thoughts about a man. That revelation quickly fled as Fagan leaned over even farther to reach something on the bottom of the basket.

Not being able to watch him any longer, Grace moved to his side. “Why don't you let me do that? You can gather your men to eat.”

He stood to his full height. “All right.”

Praise the saints, the man agreed. She didn't think she could bear watching his firm buttocks bobbing up and down anymore.

She finally sat with Fagan and a handful of his men around the fire. The setting sun was now replaced with the light of the moon. The land was quiet around them, even more so since none of the men conversed. The only sound came from the logs that crackled in the fire. Fagan stood and placed another piece of wood on the burning embers as she watched the flames rise and fall.

He sat on the other side of the fire, away from her. She tried to relax, but he held her eyes and she couldn't look away. He stared back in silence. Hugging her legs to her chest, she lowered her forehead to her knees. She sat in the same position for some time, and when she lifted her head, he was gone.

Grace stood and brushed down her skirts. She'd make one more visit into the trees before she sought her bed. She had just taken a step away from the fire when someone spoke.

“Lady Walsingham, do ye want to take a torch with ye?”

She turned, and the red-haired man pulled himself to his feet. “Calum, is it not?”

“Aye, m'lady.”

“No, thank you. I'll only be a moment.”

She retraced her steps into the brush. Fagan had cut down enough of those prickly plants that she should be able to relieve herself without injury. She'd made certain that she didn't wander too far into the woods and turned to make sure she didn't step too far away from the fire. She ran her boot over the ground to try to crush anything that stuck up from it. She couldn't imagine her nether regions coming into contact with those sharp thorns. After taking care of her personal needs, she stood and straightened her skirts.

A branch snapped behind her, and she jumped.

“Who is there?” The only response was another snapping branch a lot closer than the last one. “Fagan, if you're trying to frighten me, I will pull out my dagger. I don't think you want me to use it.”

When no one answered, she stood perfectly still. She dared not breathe. If that dastardly man thought to catch her unaware, she'd be more than happy to blacken his other eye. She didn't find this amusing in the least.

As a scraping sound came from a nearby tree, all sorts of images came to mind, and all of them were far from pleasant. Perhaps someone was sharpening their blade to use it against her. Then again, she'd also heard tales of supernatural occurrences in Scotland. Perhaps the sound she heard wasn't a person at all. When a specter suddenly came to mind, she knew she'd lost all sense of reason. She rubbed her boot along the ground and felt for a rock. She picked up the stone and tossed it toward the sound that she'd heard.

Branches and twigs snapped. Someone or something scrambled in the woods. Not being able to see the forceful sounds that echoed in the darkness, she shivered from a sudden chill.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye.

A large, menacing figure loomed toward her, and she froze. Her breath hitched in her lungs as she felt her heart pounding through her chest. She began to shake as fearful images built in her mind. When a chill, black silence enveloped her once again, she clenched her hand until her nail bit into her palm.

The darkened figure crept closer, and she forced herself to straighten her spine. That's when Grace reached the conclusion that she'd do the only thing she could think of to save her life.

She screamed.

Fagan had to remove himself from Grace's presence. When he realized he wanted nothing more than to touch her soft flesh and kiss her sweet lips, he decided to share his company with his mount and some whisky instead. He patted An Diobhail on the neck and took a much-needed swig, and then he took another. Ruairi had known that Fagan would need something strong to survive Grace's company the entire way to England. His friend had been kind enough to make certain Fagan was supplied with plenty of drink for his travels.

As the fiery liquid soothed his nerves, Fagan made his way over to his men to make sure they stayed at their post, even though he knew they did. He had to keep busy because every time he looked at Grace, he felt like he was punched in the gut. A shrill scream shot through the darkness, and he ran into the clearing.

Fagan and Calum clamored into the forest with swords drawn. Grace didn't move as they ran to her side. Calum held up a torch, moving from left to right, then stilled as an enormous red stag stood no more than a few yards away. How the noise or Grace's scream didn't frighten off the animal was a mystery, but when a branch snapped under Calum's foot, the deer leaped off into the trees.

“Gabhail aigir na frìthe?”
asked Fagan.
Taking
joy
in
the
deer
forest?

Grace clenched her teeth tightly, and that's when Fagan gestured for Calum to depart, but not before Fagan grabbed the torch. The lass continued to glare at him, frowning. She pointed her finger at his chest exactly like the first time they'd met.

“I don't even have to know what those words mean, but I'm sure they were not kind. So before you say another word, I thought the animal was one of the men from the beach. I am perfectly aware the vagrants left Scotland, but that was the first thought that came to mind.” She continued to speak in a clipped tone. “I'm weary. I've had enough excitement for one evening, and I don't want to hear anything further.”

He lifted a brow as she walked back to the clearing with long, purposeful strides. Following her, he placed the torch back into the flames as Grace sat on a blanket in front of the fire. She made every effort not to look at him, but that little nagging voice inside him refused to be stilled. The temptation was too great not to say anything. He found the perfect opportunity when she was about to crawl into the tent.

“Grace…” When he said her name, she turned and looked at him as if she dared him to say a single word. Deciding not to start another argument, he honestly tried to stay his tongue. But at the last moment, he found he couldn't resist. “Sleep well, my
dear
.”

“Arse.”

When Grace cursed him in the same tone as a Scottish warrior on the battlefield, he couldn't stay his smile. The lass had spirit. He supposed that's what he admired about her. As she snarled at him and entered the tent, he briefly wondered if she'd be lonely in there all by herself. That's when he hastily resumed his purpose.

The whisky would be his only bed partner this eve, as it had been for a fortnight.

* * *

And she thought sleeping in the same bed with Elizabeth and Kat was uncomfortable. All that was missing were flailing arms and legs kicking her in the gut. Although she tried to adjust her position many times, the ground was hard beneath her. She might as well have been sleeping on rocks. Maybe she was. All she did was toss and turn. To add to that misery was the fact that she felt like a bloody fool.

She always prided herself on not being a fragile flower, but now she had made an idiot of herself in front of the men. Could there be anything more mortifying than that? At least she'd stood her ground with the animal. She could very well have just cowered like Ravenna did every time she laid eyes on poor Angus.

Grace turned over onto her back and blew the hair away from her lips. Inside the tent was brutal torture. She was so hot. There was no circulation, and she felt as if she was suffocating. She wished Fagan would've let her sleep under the stars next to the fire, but she understood. She was traveling with ten men after all. She kicked the blanket off her legs and spoke between clenched teeth.

“I can't stand this anymore,” she muttered.

She made her way clumsily out of the tent and stood. Immediately greeted by a brush of cool air on her cheeks, she closed her eyes, letting the soothing breeze wash over her. A few of the men slept around the fire, but her eyes were drawn to only one.

Fagan's strong back faced her. Even through the dim light of the fire, she could see how broad the man's shoulders were. She couldn't say she was surprised by the brazenness of her open admiration, but she needed to continue to fight this confusing need to be close to him. But as quickly as that logic came, it went. Although she knew her behavior was wrong, her gaze still roved and lazily appraised him.

“Out looking for deer,
bhana-phrionnsa
?”

Grace grabbed the blanket out of her tent and spread it on the ground. “I can't sleep,” she whispered.

“At least close your eyes. The sun will rise in a few hours.”

When he turned over, she mentally sighed. How could she possibly sleep with the man facing her? She wasn't in the mood for games so she did the only thing that came to mind. She turned her back on him and closed her eyes.

Of course morning arrived faster than she would've liked because the next she knew, she heard Fagan's voice through the haze.

“Are ye going to sleep the day away?”

Grace had a difficult time opening her eyes, but when she'd finally managed what should've been the simplest of tasks, Fagan was already putting out the embers of the fire with a bucket of water. The sun was up and apparently so was she. She pulled herself to her feet, her back cracking in protest.

Fagan chuckled. “It will nae be long. Ye'll be back in your own bed before ye know it.”

“I count the days.”

She folded the blanket as the men cleared the camp. While the horses were being readied, she decided to make her escape into the trees. As soon as she turned her back, Fagan spoke.

“Be sure to call upon me if ye need anything. Mayhap if we're lucky, we'll be able to have something good for sup this eve.”

She heard one of the men laugh in response and presumed the sound came from Calum. If this was any inkling of how the day was going to be, she'd already had more than enough. She turned around and balled her fists at her side.

“Fagan…” When his eyes met hers, she pointed to her eye. “One more word, I dare you.” He nodded and looked away. She was certain the deer mishap would not be mentioned again, especially since Fagan's pride was now at stake.

When Grace returned, the men were ready to depart. The driver held out his hand to assist her into the carriage, and she gazed around for a certain Highland captain. She didn't see him, and she had to admit that she was disappointed. She stepped up into the carriage to find an oatcake placed on the seat. Although the man wasted no time to get on his way, at least he remembered to leave her something to break her fast.

Before long, she once again found herself settling back and looking out at the Scottish landscape. The mountains were vast, the land so green, and the sky was a beautiful blue. Heather carpeted the fields, and her mind suddenly burned with the memory of her first kiss with Fagan. She would never forget a single detail. How he held her, kissed her, and touched her. Pensively, she looked out at the clusters of pine trees and the small stream that snaked next to the trail, but she didn't see any of the sights before her. She realized for the first time in her life that her future looked vague and shadowy.

* * *

The skies blackened and rain pelted him in the face. Fagan lowered his head, and stinging drops in his eyes and on his cheeks prevented him from lifting it. He should've known better than to stop so early to sup. They ought to have traveled a bit farther. Perhaps then they wouldn't have been caught in the storm. He turned his mount around and reined in beside the carriage. Thunder crashed, and his mount shied.

“We cannae ride in this weather! We'll make our way to a crofter's hut beyond that pass!”

The heavy rain temporarily blinded him, and he couldn't see inside the carriage. He had to assume Grace nodded or was in agreement with his words. The trail was becoming too muddy for them to try to hasten their pace. He rode up to Calum, trying to shield his eyes along the way.

“We'll ride ahead to the crofter's hut in the glen. If I'm nae mistaken, I think the barn is still there.” There was a loud clap of thunder, and lightning split a nearby tree right down the middle. An Diobhail became skittish, and Fagan patted the horse on the neck.

When they finally reached the top of the glade, the barn was a welcome sight. As long as everyone had a roof over their heads, God had granted them a boon. Fagan looked over his shoulder. The horses were struggling, slipping in the mud. The heavy weight of the carriage didn't help matters. The coach would never clear the crest.

The men dismounted and smacked their horses on the rump. Fagan wasn't surprised when the mounts did not linger and trotted down the path to the field below. He gestured for the coachman to stop, and Fagan and Calum flanked the horses.

Grace shouted. “Do you want me to get out?”

“Nay! Ye stay where ye are.”

Another clap of thunder echoed through the glen, and the carriage horses became agitated, jostling in their harnesses. Fagan and Calum grabbed the horses' bridles and spoke in a soothing tone. Slowly, they coaxed the animals forward, but every time the horses stepped, they lost their footing.

“There is too much mud. I didnae want to do this, but I donna think we have a choice. We need to unload the carriage.” Fagan nodded to the driver. “Ye keep the horses steady.”

Fagan and Calum stepped around the coach and untied the two packhorses that trailed behind. The remainder of Fagan's men were starting to remove the trunks from the carriage when Grace called out.

“Are you certain you don't want me to get out? I will.”

“I'm nae quite ready for that yet, lass. Ye stay where ye are. Let us try this first.”

They unloaded everything they could from the coach and placed the bundles in a pile beside the trail. They'd have to come back for them later. Fagan and Calum walked to the front of the carriage, once again flanking the horses. After some gentle persuasion and a few more tries, the animals finally cleared the crest, and the carriage slowly descended into the valley below.

When they reached the glen, Fagan walked over to the carriage and knocked on the door. “Remain here until I come for ye.”

At least Grace was dry.

The men had already gathered a few horses in the barn. Since there wasn't enough room for more than three animals, some of the mounts had to stand out in the rain. For a few moments, Fagan stood under the shelter of the barn watching the storm, which did not appear to be letting up any time soon. But when he didn't hear another rumble of thunder, he led some horses into the trees and tied them off. At least he could give the mounts some sort of protection from the elements.

His feet, as well as the rest of him, were drenched as he approached the carriage and opened the door. Hastily, he brushed back the hair that dripped in his face.

“Ye're going to have to make a run for it.”

Grace gave him a compassionate smile. “You're soaked.”

“Aye. 'Tis what happens when ye're caught in the rain. Are ye going to sit there and watch me drown, or are ye going to come out?”

She leaned forward on the edge of the seat. “I don't think I have much of a choice.”

He extended his hand and helped her down, and she made a mad dash into the crofter's hut. The room was small, but at least it would keep Grace dry. He walked around, which took no time at all, and found kindling in the corner. Other than the old table and a chair that lacked stability, there was a pallet in the corner. This would have to suffice.

“My apologies that the accommodations arenae what ye're accustomed to, but 'tis dry. I'll make a fire for ye.”

She gave him a warm smile. “Please don't worry about me. I'm fine. Will your men all fit in the barn? You're all drenched.”

“My men have slept in worse.” When she shook off the rain from her skirts, he laughed. “Ye're barely wet.”

“Yes, I must thank you for—”

Before she could finish her words, he shook like a dog and sprayed her with water.

“Thank you for that.”

“'Tis my pleasure, lass.”

* * *

Fagan picked up a few pieces of kindling and stacked them to start a fire in the hut. His tunic clung to him like a second skin. Every muscle could be made out with little left to the imagination, and his long hair was draped to the side over his shoulder. Fagan Murray was a fine specimen of a man, and Grace didn't even realize that she'd licked her lips at the sight before her.

“Truly, that can wait. Why don't you put on some dry clothes? You don't want to catch something.”

“Nae until the fire is lit for ye.”

God how she prayed the darned thing wouldn't start. She could stare at that lovely view all night long. As soon as the idea popped into her mind, the kindle sparked. She suppressed a sigh.

“Thank you, but I could have waited until you were dry. What about my trunk and the other things you unloaded from the carriage?”

Fagan stood and brushed his hands together. “They can sit where they are until the morrow. Nay one will be traveling this eve, especially in this weather. Your trunk will be fine where 'tis, unless ye had something ye need now.”

She waved him off. “No, of course not.”

He looked back at the pallet in the corner. “I have another blanket in my bag. I donna think 'tis wet. I'll bring it to ye. Give me but a moment. I want to see to the horses. Some of them werenae too fond of the thunder and lightning. An Diobhail was a wee bit skittish.”