The Warrior Bride (24 page)

She turned in the darkness. “Do you call me a traitor, MacGowan?”

“I do not know what to call you!” His tone was rife with frustration. “I do not know why you go to Claronfell, but your reason seems urgent.”

“So you assume I would turn me back on me homeland?”

“Your back is scared and there was none in all of Scotland to save you from the pain. Indeed, you trust no man as well as you trust your steed. Why should you be loyal?”

They lay face to face, inches apart, naught separating them but the sheer fabric of her tunic.

“Believe I am a traitor if you like, MacGowan. I have told you why I go to Claronfell.”

“Aye. You have told me.” There was anger in his face, passion in his tone. “You have told me of abuse and neglect and your intent to punish yourself again when you could be safe and lov-”

He stopped, his hand tight around her arm. She held her breath.

“What were you about to say?”

He gritted his teeth and loosened his grip. “Perhaps you want to be hurt.”

“Is that what you believe, MacGowan? Is that what you tell yourself? Go ahead then.” She lifted her hand from between them. “Take me while you believe it is what I want.”

He glared at her for a prolonged moment, then yanked her close. His lips crushed hers, his body was as hard as granite.

Desire and fear and a dozen unclaimed emotions burned through her, but in the same moment he drew away, breathing hard.

“You lie.” His voice was soft suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his body tense. She wanted to pull him back, to push him down, to draw him inside and around and under.

But he remained as he was, watching her from a distant of several long inches. Damn him! She lay perfectly still, anger soaring through her. “Aye,” she seethed. “I lie. I was not abandoned or forsaken or-”

“You do not prefer women.”

Her mouth fell open. Her body ached with hollow longing. “What?”

“You long for a m-a man, just as I long for you, but you are not brave enough to admit it,” he said and pushing back, sat up and gazed down at her. “So much easier to be the warrior than the maid. So much easier to threaten and-”

“Easier!” She sat up too, anger boiling like a toxic brew.

“Aye,” he said, and his voice dropped again. “You do not detest men. You fear them.”

She laughed out loud, throwing her head back and howling at the ceiling. “What an imagination you have, MacGowan. If only your memory where half so amazing. I fear no man. Have you forgot me own ability with a sword?”

“Nay, I have not, but neither have I forgot that you shiver at me touch.”

”And because you are a MacGowan you are so certain that ‘tis not with revulsion but with a desire so tremendous I can no longer conceal it.”

He stared at her. “This I tell you, lass. I’ll not take you if your desire does not match me own.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, for the truth was painfully obvious. She wanted him with aching desperation, but pride, or something like it, would not allow her to say as much. She forced a laugh. “How chivalrous of you.”

“Methinks you’ll not get the same offer from the marquis.”

“But I go anyway.”

He tensed. Muscles rippled like living cords beneath his skin, and for a moment she was tempted almost beyond control to feel them beneath her fingertips.

He relaxed them one by one, but still they remained carved like stone just beneath his sun-darkened skin. ”Then you’d best learn to be a maid,” he said.

“Oh?” She curled her hands into fists and kept them to herself. “And who will teach me, MacGowan? You?”

He stared at her, then skimmed his hard gaze down her body. Heat followed his course. She felt the burn like a living flame. Her head dropped back and her breathing came hard.

“Aye,” he said. “Get up.”

“What?”

”Get out of bed.”

“Nay.”

“You do not say nay to your laird, lassie.”

“But you are me servant.”

“The fat marquis will be your laird, and he will expect to be obeyed.”

”Then he can burn in hell.” She smiled. “As can you.” He smiled back. “And what of the lassies for whom you care so much?”

She sobered, remembering her mission, remembering all.

“What do you think will happen to them if the good marquis learns that you have spent most of your life as a man?” he asked. “Get out of bed.”

“Nay,” she repeated, but in one smooth motion he stepped over her and onto the floor. Reaching down, he yanked her up beside him. They were face to face, and he was naked. She caught her breath and pressed her palm against his chest and for a moment their breath melded.

“Lass,” he whispered. “Aye?”

He cleared his throat and pushed her back a scant inch. ”There is no time to lose if I’m to teach you to be a lady.”

“You? Teach me to be a lady?” She skimmed his body disdainfully. He was built like a Roman statue, big and solid and as hard as a breeding stallion. Her knees felt strangely weak. “You would hardly be the one to-”

“Who then?” he asked. “Shanks? Barnett? Or have you befriended some maid in the village that I know naught about?”

She was almost tempted to tell him she had indeed made a female friend, but merciful saints-he’d thought she favored women! She would have laughed if her mouth hadn’t gone dry.

“Remove your tunic,” he ordered. She raised a brow. “Nay.”

He snorted and turning on his heel, stomped to the door. His buttocks were as hard as autumn walnuts.

Bunched with rounded muscle, they sloped dramatically down to bulging thighs.

She held her breath as he reached for the door latch, but at the last moment he turned. A small hitch sounded in her throat. His erection rose nearly to his navel, engorged and long and throbbing. But he snatched up a towel, slapped it around his hips and marched out.

She barely had time to blink before he was back with a bundle in his hands.

“What’s that?”

“Take off your clothes and I’ll show you.” It was her turn to snort.

“‘Tis a most unladylike sound.” She snorted again.

He shook his head. “Do you forget the lassies?”

She glared at him and reached for the bundle, but he drew it sharply back.

“What say you, lass?”

“Give me that damned thing!”

“Poor wee babes, left without a mother t~” She gritted her teeth. “If you please.”

“Better,” he said and, nodding, handed her the package. It was tied with two strips of raw hemp.

She fiddled with it for a minute, then snatched up her dirk and sliced the cords with one aggressive stroke.

He laughed and she glared before unfolding the fabric. Something stiff and white fell to the floor, but beneath her fingers there was fabric of finest velvet.

“What the devil is this?” she asked. “I am certain you know that much.”

She scowled at him, then glanced at the garment again. It was a gown of burgundy and rose hue. The bodice was square and trimmed with ivory lace. It was as soft as a rabbit’s hide and beautiful beyond words-if one was fond of such foolish things.

“From whence did you get it?” There was, mayhap, a catch in her voice.

“The tailor in the village.” She didn’t glance up. “Why?”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, then, “If you wish to catch yourself a wealthy husband, you’d best bait your hook carefully.”

“You did not know of the marquis in time to have this commissioned.”

“I thought you would look…” He paused. His eyes glowed in the candlelight. ‘The other stays were too small.”

She stared and he motioned toward the floor. Lying at her feet was a corset, its tapes tied tight. She bent and lifted it.

“Put it on,” he said.

“N- ” she began, but he raised a brow and she stopped and forced a maidenly smile. “Only if you look away, me laird.”

She thought he would laugh at her request, for he had surely seen in her in naught at all, but instead his nostrils flared slightly and he turned.

Her hands were a bit unsteady as she whipped the tunic over her head, and when she was clear of the garment she realized with some surprise that he was still turned away.

Scowling at the whalebone stays, she slipped into the thing, but once again it could only be laced from behind. She pressed it up beneath her bosom and pulled the laces tight. Her breasts squeezed upward and her ribs constricted, but tying the thing was damned near impossible. Still, she tried, bending forward slightly and struggling madly.

“Might you need some assistance?” he asked, still facing the wall.

“Nay,” she said, and redoubled her efforts. But perhaps her scraping and grunting differed from her answer, for he finally turned.

She ceased her struggles and stared at him. He stared back, frozen in place for a moment, before clearing his throat.

“The fit appears to be…” He ceased talking to breathe for a moment. “Acceptable.”

“‘Tis tight enough to strangle a warthog.”

The shadow of a grin lifted his mouth, but in a moment he was behind her. “I believe a well-bred maid might try to refrain from speaking of killing a warthog with her undergarments.”

She felt his fingers brush the fabric of her stays and forced herself to keep her own breathing steady. “Neither do they allow themselves to be trussed up by an ungodly stubborn Scotsman who-” He yanked the laces, effectively cutting off her breath. She braced herself against the wall and glared over her shoulder at him. “Bloody hell, MacGowan, are you trying to kill me?”

He tied off the laces with a flourish. “I be but trying to prepare you for-” he began, and turned her. She watched him draw a breath, watched his eyes darken, and against her thigh, something brushed her skin.

“The altar?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and reached for the gown. “‘Tis not nice to speak of the marquis such. He may be a balding, deviant pig, but surely he does not believe in human sacrifice.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I meant the marriage altar.”

“Ahh. ‘Tis me own mistake then.”

She eyed the gown as he spread the skirt and slipped it over her head. It dropped into place with a sigh and a rustle, falling around her like raindrops on a slate roof.

He secured the dress from behind, then laced the sleeves on separately. She stood like an impatient parade horse, but finally he stood before her, perusing his handiwork with a critical eye.

“Well?” she said.

He shrugged, but the towel about his hips seemed strangely mobile. “I am not a lady’s maid, after all.”

“Aren’t you? ‘Tis me own mistake then,” she quoted, and took a step away, but in that first fledging movement she tripped.

She never saw him move, but suddenly his arms were there and she was being propped back onto her feet, their lips inches apart, their breath melding.

“Lass,” he murmured.

She jerked out of his grasp. “What is it, MacGowan?”

“If you are to be successful you should learn to walk like a lady lest the good marquis mistake you for a drunken draught horse.”

”And you should keep your hands to yourself lest I cut them off,” she said, and spun away. Unfortunately, when she tried to stride off, her toe caught in her hem and she stumbled yet again.

His chuckle echoed in the room. “‘Twill indeed be much more fun accompanying you to Claronfell than I anticipated.”

She glanced back at him as she retrieved a pair of slippers from an iron bound trunk. “You will not be accompanying me.”

“Oh? And what will our noble friend think when you arrive alone? He may be as old as black pepper and as daft as a turnip, but even he may suspect there be something amiss when you come riding astride and swearing like a foot soldier.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and realized she truly hadn’t given that much thought. Indeed, she had been riding alone and unfettered for so long that she had not considered the problem of arriving unescorted at Claronfell.

“‘Tis not for you to worry on, MacGowan.” She glanced up, felt her mouth go dry at the sight of him, and shifted her gaze rapidly to her feet. “You’ve troubles enough of your own.”

He was scowling at her. She could feel it. “Oh? And what troubles are those?”

“Your towel is not big enough,” she said.

He glanced down, then shifted the fabric so that the opening slanted across the side of his thigh instead of directly down the front. In a moment he lifted his gaze back to hers.

“It is entirely possible that a well-born maid would have turned away,” he said.

“And a gently reared man would not be standing before me in naught but a frayed bathing cloth.”

He shrugged. The movement sent a thousand muscles dancing in his torso. “At least I needn’t worry that you’ll be tempted to peek at Turpin.”

She forced a prim smile. “Oh, me laird, surely you jest, for I find the good marquis to be ever so appealing.”

He snorted. “And me, I thought ‘twas the lassies you were concerned with.”

“You can hardly blame me for being impressed by such a noble title.”

“Aye I can,” he said. “For in truth, I thought you were not the sort to be seduced by such things.”

There was sincerity in his tone and she shuffled her skirts back into place, covering her legs quickly. “Not the sort,” she said and rose to her feet. “How hypocritical you are, MacGowan.”

“Hypocritical? Me?” He crossed his arms against his chest. His wrist brushed his left nipple, and although it was all she could do to force her gaze away, he seemed not to notice.

“Aye,” she said, and retrieved a hairbrush from the trunk. “You complain that I would better me station by marrying well, but when I bear me own sword and fight me own battles, that too you find improper. What then am I to do, champion? Lie down and die for I cannot please the likes of you?”