The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) (7 page)

Izzie sighed and shook her head. “I heard it.”

He grinned, and she felt the force of that roguish, I-dare-you-not-to-fall-in-love-with-me smile hit her like a fist in her chest.

Realizing that she didn’t want to take that dare, she followed the famous knight carrying the bundled up young peasant girl back into the building.

Randolph sensed Lady Isabel watching him, but she didn’t say anything until they were leaving the room.

“You gave her your cloak, didn’t you? I saw her try to hand it back to you.”

He shrugged. “I have others. She needs it more than me. The fur will keep her warm.”

“It must have cost a fortune.”

He didn’t say anything. It had, but he could afford another.

“I’m sure she will treasure it for…” Her voice dropped off.

For as long as she lives.

They walked down the stairs together in silence. There was no need to say anything. What
could
they say? It was sad, horrible, wrong, and far too common an occurrence. Randolph had been visiting poor houses and hospitals since he was a child. His mother had insisted that he be raised to have compassion for those less fortunate than himself. It was his duty.

But today hadn’t been just about duty. Something about the very sick young girl had touched him in a way that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

Maybe it was her stoic acceptance of death, and her strength in the face of all the hardship and injustices life had handed her. Or maybe it was because she was being struck down right on the cusp of womanhood—a time when she should be flirting and laughing with the village lads.

Or maybe it was because she reminded him of the older sister he’d lost to a fever a long time ago.

The two looked nothing alike—Annie was skinny, pale, and fair-haired, while Agnes had been dark, round, and brimming with vitality. But she’d been thirteen—probably a year or two younger than Annie—close enough to the same age to remind him.

Even after all these years, he still didn’t like to think about it. He’d cared for his sister with a fierceness he’d never felt since—for anyone. So he pushed the memory aside, returning his attention to the woman beside him.

He could tell something was bothering her, but it wasn’t until she stopped at the bottom of the stairs that he knew what it was.

“I owe you an apology.”

Randolph stiffened, guessing what she wanted to apologize for. “It isn’t necessary.”

He had dismissed her accusations as soon as she’d made them—or at least as soon as his initial anger had a chance to cool down.

He knew how to laugh, damn it. He didn’t take himself too seriously. And he sure as hell didn’t always say what he thought people wanted to hear. She’d made him sound like a fraud—an
uptight
fraud, blast it.

It was only because her words were reminiscent of old accusations Erik “Hawk” MacSorley used to make that it had angered him at all. He’d been the butt of too many “poleaxes up the arse” jests from Hawk when they’d first fought together nearly eight years ago—right before Randolph made the biggest mistake of his life.

He’d given his vow of loyalty to his uncle Robert the Bruce, but after the English had found Randolph and some of Hawk’s men on an island where they’d taken refuge, Randolph had switched allegiance. He’d been taken prisoner and hadn’t had much choice in the matter—indeed, he’d escaped execution only because of his friendship with the Earl of Pembroke—but expedient or not, he’d broken his word.

The switch had been only temporary—and Hawk and the other members of the Highland Guard had made him pay for it ten times over in “training” when he’d returned—but the shame of the disloyalty to his uncle still haunted him.

But no one would ever question his word again. He was going to be the most loyal, most indispensable, most highly regarded knight in his uncle’s retinue if it killed him. Everything was focused on that goal.

That’s why her criticism had stung. Anger was the only reason why he’d been halfway up the stairs after Isabel to demand she retract what she’d said before he stopped himself.

Why would he care what Isabel Stewart thought? It wasn’t
her
approval he needed, it was her cousin’s.
Elizabeth
was the one he was going to marry. Good thing, too, he thought. From what she’d said last night, Isabel was the type of woman who would make unrealistic demands, such as…

Loyalty.
He frowned. Marriage was different. A certain freedom for men was expected. Elizabeth Douglas understood that, but instinctively he knew Isabel wouldn’t.

One woman for the rest of his life? That wasn’t for him. He knew some men did it, but they claimed to be “in love,” which was as foreign a state as Randolph could imagine. He didn’t get that attached. Incapable of feeling, she’d accused him? If she meant love—and in his experience, women always meant love—then she was right. That wasn’t for him. He had no interest in those kinds of feelings. He was too focused on his goal: to be his uncle’s greatest knight, lieutenant, and chief advisor. Randolph had let Bruce down once; he wasn’t going to do it again. It was the only thing that mattered—nothing and no one would get in the way of that.

He started to turn away, but Isabel grabbed his arm to stop him. Christ, just the feel of her hand on him made his body jump.

“Yes, it is. I said some things…” She removed her hand from his arm, and he wasn’t sure whether the self-conscious twisting of her hands and blush to her cheeks was for touching him, or for what she’d said last night. “I said some things that were wrong. I… I misjudged you, and I’m sorry. What you did in coming here was very kind.” She gave him one of those wry smiles that he was beginning to find himself anticipating, almost looking forward to. He liked the way it made her eyes sparkle, her lips pull mischievously to one side, and a small dent appear in her cheek like a dimple. “I thought you were a little too good to be true.”

He arched a brow. “And now?”

She laughed, batting long, thick eyelashes as if the light was too bright. “I’m properly dazzled right along with the rest of your admirers.”

She was teasing him and didn’t mean it, of course. She would never be like the others. She was different. Why the hell did that realization bother him so much?

“Are you ready, my lady?” The prioress had come into the hall behind them, and when they turned, she started. “I’m sorry, my lord, I did not realize you were helping us.”

“He’s not,” Isabel interjected quickly. “The earl came to see Annie. He was just leaving.”

“Helping with what?” he asked Isabel.

“A little work in the garden.”

“I’m not as young as I once was,” the prioress said. “It is hard work, and even with six of us, I was very grateful for Lady Isabel’s help.”

The prioress was seventy if she was a day. “Perhaps you could use another hand?” Randolph offered.

Before the prioress could respond, Isabel jumped in with something akin to alarm on her face. “That isn’t necessary, my lord. I’m sure you are busy at the castle with the siege. We will manage fine.” Then in a low voice that the aging prioress surely could not hear, she added, “Trust me, this is not something you will… uh… enjoy. The work is messy.”

Did she think he’d never gotten dirty before? Or objected to a little manual labor every now and then? He wasn’t uptight, damn it. She should have seen him digging pits and trenches for Hawk when he’d come back from England. The famed seafarer descended from Viking pirates had made Randolph eat his comment about not wanting to fight like a brigand in dirt.

He’d been lucky to be forgiven at all. His youth and the fact that he’d been taken prisoner had worked in his favor. Alex Seton, the former member of the Guard who’d turned traitor a couple of years ago, didn’t have that excuse. Randolph pitied him if Hawk and the others ever got ahold of him.

Both his smile and spine were stiff as he turned to the prioress. “I insist. What do you need me to do?”

The prioress told him, and it took everything Randolph had not to mutter the curse that sprang to his lips.

The old nun had to be kidding! But she wasn’t; he could tell by the way the woman at his side was trying not to laugh.

Isabel walked out of the hall and came back a minute later, carrying a pile of linen in her arms. “Here,” she said, holding out what appeared to be an old apron. “You might want to wear this.”

She wasn’t smiling, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said tightly.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But that leather
cotun
won’t be easy to clean, and the scent…”

“Izzie,” he said darkly, cutting her off. If she was surprised by the use of the diminutive, she didn’t show it.

She blinked up at him a little too innocently. “Yes?”

“Shut up.” He marched outside, but not before starting to work the buckles of his
cotun
.

Isabel was trying not to laugh as she handed him the shovel—truly she was—but the jest possibilities were endless, including the one he made without intending to do so.

“This is what you volunteered to help with—shoveling shite?” he said incredulously, taking the implement from her.

She lifted a brow at his choice of words; dung or manure sounded much nicer. He had no idea the self-restraint she exercised to refrain from pointing out that surely “shoveling shite” was something he was used to.

But she didn’t need to point it out; he read her thoughts easily enough, and his eyes narrowed to two piercing green daggers. His eyes turned very green when he was angry, she’d noticed. They were green a lot when he looked at her.

She might have been intimidated if she wasn’t concentrating so hard on not bursting into laughter. The great Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, in his shirtsleeves, slinging manure. What had she done to be so rewarded? She only wished she had an artist here to paint a picture so that she might immortalize the event forever.

“Don’t blame me,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I tried to warn you.”

“Next time try harder—and mention the word fertilize.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a bairn. There is no one here to see you toiling in the muck, and you certainly don’t need to impress me. I know this doesn’t have the glamor and shine of your usual heroic deeds, but it will all wash off, and you’ll be all shimmery again in no time.” She grinned. He must have realized she was teasing him because his jaw didn’t lock and his mouth didn’t pull into that familiar tight line. “Come, my lord, surely you know how to get a little dirty?”

“I know how to get plenty dirty but not in a garden.”

Her brows drew together. She didn’t understand. “My lord?”

He held her gaze and the hot, wicked look in his eyes led her to what he meant. Led her rather hotly and with far too many bodily twinges. Her stomach seemed to dance with a dip and a flip. Her cheeks flamed, and this time it was she who stiffened, pretending not to understand.

She heard him laugh when she turned and started on her own pile.

She couldn’t say that she regretted his offer. With Randolph’s help—especially with the tasks that required physical strength like lugging the carts back and forth to be filled in the barn and then returned to where they were working in the garden—the work that would have taken all day was finished in a matter of hours.

But it was more than that. Once the shock wore off, Randolph dove right in—to the job, not the dung—and took to the work with enthusiasm and zeal. He was a good laborer. The earl could proudly stand toe-to-toe with any farmer, ploughman, or villein. He didn’t only know how to get dirty—she blushed recalling his earlier boast—he knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the first time he’d fertilized a garden or done “menial” labor, and oddly the outdoor work suited him. When he put aside all the knightly bravado and perfection, she liked him. Maybe too much. The way her heart fluttered in his vicinity alarmed her. She almost wished she could go back to just seeing him as the larger-than-life legend in the making.

As the day progressed, he became noticeably more relaxed, jesting good-naturedly with the nuns, and even—she couldn’t believe it—teasing her about her apron. “It’s getting a little saturated.” He sniffed. “Shall I fetch you a new one or have you grown used to the stench?”

She might have thrown something at him by accident. The clop of dirt—well, mostly dirt—landed right in the middle of his chest, but he didn’t seem to care. He only laughed.

Blighter. She had told him that he didn’t need to impress her, but she hadn’t thought that she would care that he was seeing her looking so decidedly
un
glamorous. Not that she ever looked glamorous, but still!

That brought up one more reason why she didn’t regret his offer to help. The view. It was spectacular.
He
was spectacular. Perhaps all those fawning admirers weren’t so silly. She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before but few—any?—could compare with the king’s nephew. It was a warm day, and with the strenuous work, he got a little sweaty, and his shirt became a little damp and clingy, revealing the impressive bunches and bulges of muscle as he flexed. His chest was like a shield of steel—if there was fat anywhere she couldn’t see it—and his arms…

Good gracious, his arms! They were sway-inducing, as she had discovered more than once. She felt a little light-headed every time he lifted something. Big and strong, they were the fodder of fantasies she didn’t even know she had. Worse, she could recall too easily how they felt wrapped around her, holding
her
up.

Izzie knew she was in trouble. The amused indifference she’d felt toward her cousin’s soon-to-be betrothed wasn’t there anymore. It had started to change with that kiss, but had become far worse after today—first with Annie, and now seeing him like this.

But he wasn’t for her—whether she could control her fluttering heart or not—nothing had changed about that. She needed to stay away from him if she didn’t want to cause herself a lot of misery.

As soon as they were finished, she practically ran down to the large pond that was fed by the Leith River to wash as much of the muck off herself as she could. She would have to bathe, of course, but she could hardly go walking through town covered in shi—dung. She’d removed the stained apron and was kneeling on a large flat rock poised over the edge of the water trying to wash the worst off her face and hands when she sensed someone behind her.