Taming the Barbarian (15 page)

He was somewhat surprised to find her following.

Behind them, Treun’s demanding trumpet had turned into a pleading whicker.

Killian snorted. Damned pathetic was what it was. ‘Twould be a cold day in hell before he would lower himself to those depths.

“Ye can put her up in there,” he rumbled, and motioned toward the remains of a stone stable. By the looks of things, it had once been a fine structure, but time and neglect had taken their toll. Still, he had managed to repair the walls of a small portion and replace the timbers to keep the rain at bay. Unfortunately, a door was sadly lacking. A single tree trunk, denuded and crooked, served as a gate between the enclosure and freedom.

Leading the mare inside, Fleurette removed the bridle while Killian lifted the timber. She left the saddle in place and stepped through the opening before he slid the plank into place behind her.

She turned. He glared at her, completely uncertain what to do next. She stared back, her brows slightly raised and her nose in the air.

“Shall we go in out of the rain?” she asked.

He glanced up and realized somewhat belatedly that it had indeed begun to sprinkle. Turning toward his tilted door, he pushed it open.

She stepped through like a reigning princess, then stood to the side, surveying the room.

There wasn’t a great deal to see. Indeed, he had accomplished little more than clearing the rubble. His nooning fire still smoldered. Desperate for something to do with his hands, he squatted by the hearth and stoked the embers with a half-burned branch. They sparked to life. He nudged in a bit of kindling, blew up the flames, and added a few split logs. The fire was crackling gently when he straightened and turned.

Lady Glendowne’s gaze snapped upward, and he wondered idly where she’d been looking. Surely she wasn’t interested in the likes of him. And yet he could not deny the feelings that swarmed through him at the sight of
her
. It did little to improve his mood.

“Are ye about to tell me why ye’ve come?” he asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I’ll admit I’m pitchkettled.”

She raised her brows at his choice of words, but didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, she scanned the room again. “I am told this cottage was once a fine hunting lodge.”

He watched her roam to the window and glance out. Perhaps a pelt had been scraped to transparency and placed over the opening at one time, but nay. Animal hides were no longer used for such things. Instead, the English had windows that were covered with glass not unlike that of a fine bottle. The strangeness of it made his head hurt.

“My husband’s grandfather enjoyed it a great deal.”

He watched her, and she turned finally to look at him.

“Perhaps you were unaware that this was one of several pieces of property that once belonged to Lord Glendowne.”

He didn’t respond, but checked a black kettle for water, then placed it over the fire.

“Briarburn was a fine estate, stretching from Lord Gardner’s property to the Nettle and beyond.”

He lifted his gaze to hers.

“The manor house was crafted from the very stones found in the quarry here.”

She was a relatively small woman, he realized, though she somehow managed to seem quite tall. Her spine was as straight as a spear, her gloved hands clasped in front of her pleated skirt as if in silent supplication.

“Indeed, the house was built more than a hundred years ago. Thomas resided at Glendowne for the most part, but he and his family very much enjoyed Briarburn.” She drew a careful breath. “Surely you can see why—”

“So ye cherished him?”

Her lips remained slightly parted, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “He was my husband, Sir Hiltsglen. Indeed, he was a respected—”

” ‘Tis na what I asked,” he said, walking to the window and leaning his shoulder against the stone wall. It felt cool against his bare flesh, reminding him of his state of undress. But he would not show his discomfort, not to this cool maid. “I but wondered if ye cared for him.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then flitted it away. “Of course.”

“Then he was good to ye? Kind?”

Did her face go pale? Did her eyes look haunted?

She pursed her lips. “Are ye a married man, Sir Hiltsglen?” she asked.

Memories assaulted him. Memories of a maid with golden hair and quicksilver eyes. But his thoughts were torn asunder by pain. He winced at the tearing reminder. “Nay,” he said, and locked the shattered memories carefully away for further inspection.

“Nay?” she asked. “Nothing else? No explanations? No regrets?”

“Nay.”

For a moment her eyes narrowed as if in thought, but she smiled in a moment and took a careful breath. “Sir Hiltsglen,” she said, “I have been a widow for some years now.”

Seven. That much he knew, but little else. And even that bit of information was difficult to believe, for she looked as young as a coddled child. Unless one looked into the depths of her evergreen eyes.

“My husband was taken from me quite tragically Indeed—”

“Why do ye avoid me questions?”

“I do no such—”

“I would but know if he was kind. If ye were content as his wife.”

“Why?”

Why indeed? He would like to think he only meant to learn what he could, to find his reason for being drawn to this place and fulfill his duty, but he feared there was more, something deeper. Yet he could not admit it. But when he looked into her eyes, he could not wholly deny it either, for her softness and strength drew at him like velvet cords. He lifted his shoulders, as if attempting to shrug off the bonds. “I… ‘Twould ease me mind to know.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Why would you care, Scotsman?”

He would not. He dare not. And yet he did. “A lass such as yourself…” He tried to stop the words, but he had ever been a man who spoke the truth. “I would that ye be happy.”

Some emotion crossed her face. It seemed almost like pain.

“But I dunna think ye are,” he added.

She brightened immediately, but the expression was slightly askew. “You are entirely wrong. I have much for which to be thankful.”

He watched her in silence.

“My business is doing well.” The words were rushed. “My stable… Well, you have seen my horses.”

He nodded slowly. “They are a handsome lot.”

“Aren’t they?” She seemed to relax a mite. “My Juliet shall bear her first foal in quite some time. And
Fille
…” Her eyes were bright again. There were secrets she was hiding. As well as pain, but she was woman who could adjust, who could find her stride and make the best of things. “
‘t
thought, perhaps, when she is a bit older I might mate her with your Treun.”

He said nothing, for she was entrancing.

“I’ll pay you,” she added quickly. “Even though he should have been mine at the outset.” Something shone in her eyes. Humor maybe. Teasing, and he found he wanted nothing more than to fan it into a smile. To hear her laugh, but there were things he must do, or he himself would be lost.

“Did ye have yer steeds when yer husband yet lived?”

“I…” The light in her eyes was abruptly doused. She cleared her throat. “Thomas was not particularly interested in horses.”

“Where then did his interests lie?”

“With his clubs,” she said, then closed her mouth tightly, as if she’d not meant to loose the words.

“His clubs?”

She shrugged as if it was of little interest. “I did not begrudge him his time away. Indeed I was glad—” she said, and stopped abruptly.

The silence felt heavy.

“I am sorry,” Killian said, “that he was not what ye wished for.”

She blinked, lost, but in a moment, she rallied and laughed. “You’re entirely wrong.”

“Often,” he said, “but not this time, I think.”

“You’re wrong,” she repeated, and her voice was brittle.

“Why did he na get ye with child?”

Her eyes widened, and she hissed a tiny intake of breath as if startled. Mayhap ‘twas not proper to speak of such things, he realized, but he could not help but wonder. Surely her childlessness was not for lack of effort on her husband’s part, for no man could help but long to see a child at her breast.

“I hardly think that any affair of yours,” she said. Her voice was cold, cold enough to spur him back to the matter at hand, his reason for being there, his mission, which he must not fail.

Killian narrowed his eyes, watching her, remembering that women were dangerous, no matter how fragile they seemed. “A landed gentleman like yer husband would have longed for an heir,” he said.

Did she seem unusually pale suddenly? Did her eyes seem as wide as the moors in her stunning face?

“Perhaps he did,” she said. “But—”

“Did he blame ye for yer empty womb?”

Her lips moved again, then, “I want this land back, Hiltsglen,” she said, straightening her shoulders with a snap. “I shall give you a fair price. Indeed, you will make a fine profit.”

” ‘Tis said he drowned in yon river,” he said.

Her lover’s lips were pursed. “Yes,” she said. “That is true.”

He watched her. “Could he na swim?”

She shifted her eyes to the window and back. “I am not entirely certain whether—”

“Ye never swam together?”

“No.”

“Did he na wish to?”

“Whyever would he?”

“Because ye would feel like heaven—” He stopped his words and fisted his hands. God’s truth, he was a dolt. “The river is neither wide nor deep,” he finished lamely.

She blinked. ” ‘Twas a rainy season.”

“And yet ye were upon a boat with him.”

“I…” she began, then drew a deep breath, her eyes still wide, her hands still clasped. “Have you been spying on me, Sir Hiltsglen?”

” ‘Tis said he was fond of spirits.”

Her nostrils flared as if she were angry, but did her hands tremble slightly? “Why have you come here?” she asked.

He shrugged as he pushed himself slowly away from the wall. Not toward her. God no. He had enough troubles as things were. ” ‘Tis a bonny spot and as good a place as any. Why do ye stay?”

“This is my home,” she said. “I’ve little reason to leave.”

“I thought mayhap the memories would be too harsh for ye to bare. With yer beloved gone.” He watched her closely. ” ‘Twould it na be simpler to find a place in London? A place where the memories dunna haunt ye. Somewhere more manageable for a wee lass such as yerself?”

“A wee lass such as myself,” she said, and narrowed her eyes at him.

Perhaps he should be warned by her tone, he thought. Perhaps he should retract the statement before he found her wee fist firmly planted in his as of yet unmolested eye, but there was something about her expression that intrigued him.

“Might you think me incapable of managing Briarburn on my own?” she asked.

He stared at her. If the truth be told, he doubted there was much that was beyond her ability. “Na a’tall,” he said. “I but thought ye might tire of being alone on that grand estate.”

“I am hardly alone,” she reminded him. “Unless you think a woman is bereft until she is duly wedded and bedded.”

“Did ye share his bed then?”

“What?” she asked, and all but stumbled backward.

“Yer husband,” he said. “Did ye share his bed, or did ye always sleep in the wee chamber at the end of the hall?”

She licked her lips. Killian watched her tongue dart out and in. Something curled up tight in his gut. Damn it to hell. There had been a time when he’d considered himself strong. But perhaps a few centuries of celibacy weakened a man’s resolve.

” ‘Tis none of your affair where I choose to sleep,” she hissed.

“So ye share yer bed with others?”

She snapped upright. “How dare you?”

“I would but know,” he rumbled, and knew he should back away, should hold his tongue, but emotions stormed through him like an angry wind. “Are ye yet true to yer husband’s memory, or do ye favor one of the preening fools ye call men?”

“And I suppose you think yourself a true model of manhood,” she snarled, and stepped forward.

He watched her come. “Mayhap na a model, but a man for certain.”

“True manhood is not determined by the size of his…” She skimmed his bare torso and jerked her head toward him. “Chest. Or the… the… strength of his arms.”

“Nay?”

“Nay!” she spat. ” ‘Tis decided by a man’s wit. His education. His good taste.”

He scowled. “Ye are looking for a man what tastes good?”

“Don’t play daft with me,” she hissed, and grabbed the plaid where it crossed his bare chest. “I’ve known your sort in the past, and I’ve no wish to know one again.”

Her knuckles were pressed against his chest. His heart beat like a hammer against her hand. “And what sort is that, lass?” he asked.

Her face was lifted toward his, her eyes gleamed and her small teeth gritted. “The kind that needs to overpower. To possess. To control,” she said, and shook her fist in his plaid.

He stared into her eyes. “So ‘tis ye who wishes to tek control?” he asked.

Her lips parted. “Perhaps I do,” she whispered, and forced her fingers to open on his woolen. Battle waged in her eyes, but she took a deep breath and struggled for calm. Her hand trembled slightly against his skin. “Would that be so wrong, Scotsman?”

He tried to think, but she was so damnably close, so fair, so horribly alluring. “Mayhap that answer is determined by what ye would do with that control, lass.”

Her lips parted again. Her gaze slipped to his chest, and her fingers opened fully against his flesh. Beneath her hand, his skin burned on contact.

“I just want…” she began, then stopped. She was breathing hard, and her fingers, soft as the morning air, slipped over his nipple.

He jerked, but managed to think, to breathe, to function. “What is it ye want?” he gritted.

“I just want,” she began again, but suddenly she was rising on her toes. Her lips brushed his, and then there was no longer any hope for coherent thought.

He yanked her up against him. She came with a growl, her fingers hard against the back of his skull, her other hand raking the plaid from his chest. He pressed her backward. Where the hell was the bed? He stumbled a few feet. She was struggling with his belt. Her hand brushed his erection.