Teresa Medeiros (16 page)

After several minutes of eyeing the narrow cot and waiting in vain for her heart to slow to its normal rhythm, Tabitha dragged the furs onto the floor and curled up at Colin’s side with Lucy nestled between them.

CHAPTER
13

C
olin awoke the next morning to find the woman gone and the sheath on his belt empty.

He sprang to his feet, his outraged gaze sweeping the deserted tent. “That miserable little thief!”

He examined the hem of his tunic to find the emerald necklace still nestled within its secret pocket. Apparently, Tabitha’s devotion to the stolen trinket hadn’t been sufficient to keep her by his side. She had sung for him as sweetly as any troubadour, luring him into a deep and dreamless sleep, then fled.

The sight of the pelts lying in a rumpled nest on the floor did little to improve his temper. He snatched them up in his fist, bringing them to his nose. The fur was warm, her scent still fresh.

He hurled them to the floor, determined to hunt her down before she reached the sanctuary of some shepherd’s croft or kirk. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with her once he caught her, but several diabolical possibilities were already circling through his mind.

He ducked out of the tent, trusting that Ewan would have tethered his stallion within easy reach. The beast laid his ears back and pranced in place, sensing his master’s agitation. He should be thankful the wench hadn’t
stolen his horse as well. He felt naked without a blade, but he would have felt doubly so deprived of his mount.

He had the horse untethered and one foot in the stirrups when he heard it. He cocked his head to the side, frowning in bewilderment. At first he thought it only a haunting echo from the previous night, but then it came again—a faint ribbon of melody unfurling on the morning breeze. Leaving the horse with a reassuring pat, he stole through the underbrush, drawn by that elusive thread as if it were a siren’s song and he a spellbound sailor rushing willingly to his doom.

Brushing aside a pine bough, he emerged from the shadowy copse, seeking the source of that beguiling melody.

A shaft of morning sunlight struck him between the eyes like a mace. He blinked to restore his vision, then wished he hadn’t as the sight before him wrung a bellow of mingled rage and horror from his throat.

Tabitha had never dreamed that warbling a mocking rendition of “Someday My Prince Will Come” would bring an enraged Scotsman charging to her side. Her first instinct was to cover her breasts with her hands. But that was before she remembered she was fully clothed. She’d simply looped the gown’s cumbersome skirts through her legs to reveal a pale calf lathered with the coarse brown soap she’d borrowed from Magwyn that morning. A thin trickle of blood was inching through the soapy froth toward her ankle.

She might have run from Colin’s furious approach if she hadn’t been standing in the middle of a pool, the hilt of Colin’s dagger in her hand, one foot braced on the flat rock where Lucy sat grooming her furry little tummy.

He charged right into the pool, sending a cascade of waves splashing over the rock. Lucy jumped up and shook herself, shooting him a chiding glance.

He spread his arms in a desperate appeal. “Good God, woman, have you pudding for brains? What in the holy name of St. Andrew do you think you’re doing?”

Tabitha glanced down at her exposed calf, then at the dagger in her hand. “I’m shaving my legs.”

“Och!” Colin’s wail couldn’t have been any more heartrending had she plunged the dagger into his heart. He shook his head, looking even more reproachful than the bedraggled kitten. “Have you no respect for a man’s blade, lass? I suppose I’ll wake tomorrow to find you pruning your toenails with it or chopping onions for haggis. ’Tis a pity Brisbane took my best sword. You could have used it to plow a field or dig for grub-worms.”

Realization was beginning to dawn. Although she’d never been exposed to the consequences of such intimacy, Tabitha had read on-line articles in
Cosmo
about husbands throwing tantrums when their wives borrowed their face razors to shave their legs. It was rather reassuring to learn that men had evolved so little in seven centuries. She might have laughed had Colin’s expression not been so appalled.

She decided to test her theory. “Didn’t you use this very dagger to shave your face yesterday?”

He stroked the morning stubble on his jaw indignantly. “Aye, but I’ll not use it again. You’ve ruined the blade. ’Twould probably slip and cut my throat.”

Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Just as I thought.” She swished the dagger in the water before handing it to him, hilt first. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before I borrowed it.”

He tested the blade against his thumb, glowering at her when it failed to prick his skin.

She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t glare at me like that. Your dagger did more damage to me than I did to it.”

He looked concerned. “Are you wounded, lass?”

She splashed away the soap, wincing at the sting of the icy water. “The way you came charging out of the woods at me, I’m lucky I didn’t amputate my foot. I thought you were a bear.”

She’d barely taken one limping step toward shore before he tucked the dagger into his belt and swept her up in his arms. Tabitha gasped, afraid he was going to drop her. But he easily handled her gangly form, reminding her that there were far more differences between men and women than simply height. Such as the well-defined slabs of muscle in Colin’s shoulders, back, and arms.

As he lowered her to a weathered tree stump, she untangled her arms from his neck, annoyed at the feeling she was clinging to him like a child. “There’s no need to call 911. I just nicked myself shaving. If I only had a pinch of toilet paper to stick on it …”

He dropped to one knee and dabbed at the shallow cut with a clump of moss. Even after the bleeding was stanched, his warm palm lingered against her calf.

“Why would you do such a thing?” he asked softly as he studied the results of her handiwork.

Tabitha felt nearly as bewildered as he sounded. “I told you I was sorry. I shouldn’t have borrowed your dagger without consulting—”

“ ’Tis not the dagger that troubles me.” His hand began a slow ascent, his inquisitive touch raising goose-flesh on her freshly denuded skin. “ ’Tis your legs. Why would you wish to shear the down from them?”

She was reluctant to admit that she’d always been
somewhat vain about her legs. Even though she kept them sheathed in Dockers or tweed most of the time, they were still her best feature—long, supple, and slender. They’d never seemed longer than they did at that moment, with Colin stroking his way toward her thigh with mesmerizing thoroughness. She almost came off the rock when his callused fingertips grazed the sensitive skin behind her knee.

“It’s a custom where I’m from,” she blurted out. “All the women do it.”

His fingers tarried at her knee, but his gaze rose to her face, making her wonder if he had felt the violent throb of her pulse.

“There were women in Egypt,” he said, his voice disarmingly husky, “who honored such customs. Most of them had migrated to the brothels from the Sultan’s harem. Some had been slaves, others cherished wives. They scented the hair on their heads with jasmine, but kept every other inch of their flesh as smooth as silk and oiled with sandalwood so a man would know no hindrance to his touch and a woman no hindrance to her pleasure.”

His golden gaze mesmerized her. She tried to draw in a breath, but it stalled in her throat, stymied by the glimpse of sensual decadence his hoarse revelation afforded her. A sensual decadence he couldn’t have learned from an X-rated web site or the dog-eared pages of some men’s magazine.

She had a vivid vision of Colin sweeping across the desert on his stallion, his white robes billowing behind him, the sun caressing his swarthy skin. He swung down off the horse and ducked into a perfumed bower where a bevy of sultry-eyed
Playboy
centerfolds awaited him on a bed of silk pillows, their flawless skin glistening
with oil, their gold bracelets jingling a melodic welcome as they drew him into their embrace.

Disgruntled, she brushed his hand away and jerked down her skirt. “I can assure you, sir, that I didn’t use your precious dagger on anything but my legs. I’m sorry if you don’t approve.”

She launched herself off the stump only to have him seize her by the hand and bring her up short.

He rose to his full height, drawing their lips into dangerous proximity. “I don’t approve.” He hesitated just long enough for her to bristle anew. “But I like it.”

If he’d tempered his confession with a grin or a leer, Tabitha might have been able to come up with a retort. But his somber expression unnerved her. Her Uncle Sven had taught her how to fend off a mugger, not how to deny a battered knight who was gazing at her as if he were a lonely sultan and she were the most beautiful harem girl in all the world.

Her eyes drifted shut, inviting him to take what she was too much of a coward to offer. His lips had barely grazed hers when she remembered she no longer wore the amulet to shield her from catastrophe.

She sprang away from him, horrified to realize she might have been only a kiss away from turning him into a three-toed sloth. Frustration made her lash out. “Telling your people that I’m your woman doesn’t make it true. Women aren’t possessions to be claimed and bartered.”

He raised an eyebrow, reminding her that in this century, women were exactly that. “I meant you no dishonor by offering you my protection.”

“You also offered me my necklace for a song. Or has the price risen? What is it now? Your kingdom for a kiss?”

He took a step toward her. “Would you pay, my lady?”

She took an instinctive step backward, terrified that she would.

His lips quirked in a rueful smile. “I thought not. I suppose you’ll just have to earn back your treasure by proving yourself worthy of my trust.”

“And just how do I do that?” she asked.

“Not by sneaking out of my pavilion at dawn and scaring the bloody hell out of—”

He averted his eyes and blew out a massive sigh, revealing more than he’d intended to. Tabitha suddenly understood his desperate charge through the brush. He had yelled at her the way a parent might yell at a lost child they’d found licking an ice cream cone down at the police station instead of lying on a slab at the city morgue.

He dragged a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “I didn’t mean to bellow at you, lass. If you’ll fetch the kitten, I’ll make amends by having Ewan draw you a proper bath.” He started to turn away, then drew the dagger from his belt and pressed its hilt into her palm. “ ’Twould be best if you didn’t prowl the woods unarmed. Not with Roger somewhere out there just waiting to pounce.”

As he ducked back through the bushes, she shook her head in amazement. No one in New York had probably even noticed her disappearance yet, but Colin had missed her immediately. She started to smile, but her pleasure rapidly dwindled as she imagined him searching just as frantically for her after she had disappeared into the future.

How long would he search before realizing she was gone forever?

• • •

As Tabitha sank chin-deep into the steaming bathwater, she would have forgiven Colin almost anything.

Anything except being so adept at stealing past the defenses she’d spent twenty-three years erecting.

She ducked beneath the water, then rubbed soap into her hair as if to scrub away the disturbing thought. The round wooden tub was much humbler than the sunken marble whirlpool she was used to, but after two days with no bath, it was sheer bliss. Lucy perched on its edge, batting the stray soap bubbles into submission with her tiny paws.

Sunlight dappled the tent walls, dispelling Tabitha’s ridiculous fears from the previous night. She’d probably just heard some village woman’s infant stirring fretfully in its sleep. Even now, she could hear distant shouts and laughter, but she was confident no one would dare disturb the laird’s lady in her bath. The thought made her giggle.

She might have lingered in the bath all morning if the water hadn’t begun to cool. She climbed out of the tub, wincing as she finger-combed the tangles from her thick hair. If she could have coaxed Colin out of the amulet at that moment, she wouldn’t have wished for anything more dramatic than some cream rinse and a blow dryer.

Her nape began to tingle with unease. It seemed her privacy had been only an illusion. Someone was watching her.

Snatching up one of the rough linen towels Ewan had left, Tabitha whirled around. She was alone. Alone except for the suspicious hump lying beneath the furs on the cot—a hump Tabitha would have sworn wasn’t there when she climbed into the tub.

Resisting her first instinct to bash it with something
heavy, Tabitha crept over, lifted a corner of one pelt, and peeped underneath.

An elf peeped back at her.

She dropped the pelt. “Why shouldn’t there be an elf?” she muttered. “I’ve met knights in shining armor and evil barons, even heard baby ghosts. Why should an elf be so inconceivable?”

But after several seconds of pensive thought, her natural skepticism prevailed. She swept back the pelts to find a child huddled on the cot. The upturned nose, green eyes, and tangled snarl of hair didn’t belong to any woodland sprite after all, but to Magwyn’s daughter Jenny.