A Perfect Knight For Love (13 page)

MacPherson had brought the wrong trunk.

Amalie sifted through layers of gowns, all in muted shades, exactly as a governess would own and wear. She already knew they were meticulously sewn and some re-sewn, showing their age and usefulness. The other trunks contained the same. She sighed as she checked through everything, feeling for warm velvet, or at the least heavy cotton, and finding little save muslin and cambric, and then she got her next surprise. Undergarments crafted of what felt like sheer lawn were wrapped about gossamer stockings, and inside that was a shawl tied to a pair of satin slippers with leather soles. Exactly as any female would appreciate and love to wear dancing. And nothing like the modest, dependable attire the governess had in the other trunks. Amalie would’ve smiled at the governess’s secret except she had her teeth locked to stay their chattering and opening her lips might make it worse. And in the very bottom of the trunk, she struck treasure as her fingers curled about a brush and comb. A real hairbrush. And comb.

She was just about to send MacPherson for a different trunk, when a low growl of absolute agony filled the night air, widening her eyes with fright and taking everything to an indefinable stop.

“That’s . . . Thayne,” she said, rising to her feet with the treasures in her hands.

“Aye.”

“What . . . are they doing to him?”

Her voice rose in agitation. The same emotion quickened her movements to peel the chemise over her head, and shove on the lawn garment in its place. The governess had been thinner than Amalie, and this garment was sewn to exact measurement. It was tight on Amalie’s hips and again at her bosom. And the straps were too loose once she had them in place. She was just finished hooking it when MacPherson finally answered.

“Branding him.”

“What?”

Amalie stepped onto bristly forest floor in an effort to reach Thayne. She didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything until MacPherson caught her in the curtain he held and lifted her. The material about her was unbending and unmovable despite every lunge, kick, and squirm she made, and then it got worse. Yards of fabric wound about her until she had to stop, huffing and hissing at the man.

“Let . . . me go!” The words didn’t have much sound, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He didn’t relax his hold, and Amalie could see how far the ground was beneath her since she was dangling upside down over his shoulder.

“You’re na’ dressed.”

“But . . . they’re
burning
him!”

He pulled her back over his shoulder and set her on her feet. It didn’t make much difference. She was wound so tightly, she might as well be bound.

“They’re torturing him . . . and you don’t care?” His image glistened and blurred with tears and it was going to be full-out weeping if he didn’t do something and quickly.

“He ordered it. Just as he did this morn.”

“He
what
?” Her voice was back. If she had enough room for air, it would have been louder and even more shocked.

“To seal his wound.”

“Oh.” The word carried faintness. She was afraid she’d be right behind it.

“It stays the bleeding.”

“My . . . God.”

He pulled one end of the blanket, unfurling her to freedom. Amalie crumpled the moment it released her and watched the tree trunks rotate from a prone position on her side. She felt limp. Weak. Wrung-out. Naked. Her legs felt like inanimate wood and her arms the same.

“Cease wasting time. Here.”

A garment fell atop her. She looked up into MacPherson’s unpleasant features and stuck her tongue out at him. It didn’t do much. He simply pulled back and crossed his arms.

“Finish dressing. Get some sup. I’ve orders. And I canna’ get me own sup until you’re finished.”

“Oh.”

He worried over sup. Amalie pushed into a sit. Looked him over as he was her. From the size of him, it was probably a valid reason.

“And your bairn is crying.”

The babe was definitely crying. Amalie could hear it over the sounds of men eating, moving, and a fire crackling with dry wood. There wasn’t anything that sounded like Thayne.

“It isn’t my
bairn
,” she replied, using their word with the snidest tone she could manage. It didn’t alter him at all.

“You claimed it.”

Amalie sighed heavily. Nothing worked with the man. She was still in his control and he wasn’t moving. She didn’t know why she argued it. Aside from which, the lawn chemise was worthless protection from the night air, and her belly rumbled with hunger, too. She rose on unsteady legs with the dress in front of her and waited, giving him the exact same blank expression he was giving her.

A moment later he lifted the blanket back into position, proving he wasn’t totally dim; just big and unpleasant-looking, and following orders without exception. She stuck her tongue out at his back again before finishing. It wasn’t difficult to fasten the buttons once the dress was backwards on her. She’d discovered this method of dressing herself the first eve during this journey. It just took time, and her fingers were chilled, and the babe was still crying. And she still had to brush and re-braid her hair.

MacPherson had chosen one of the lightest muslins, making it easy to spot how cold she was and how embarrassing she found it. If he chanced a glance at the crossed arms in front of her breasts. He didn’t. He simply turned at the mention of his name, nodded, lowered the blanket, and gestured with his head for her to precede him. She didn’t have the choice, and the fire looked not only warm, but bright, while the meat they were slicing from their roast smelled divine. She knew it would taste as good. Perhaps better. He didn’t have to tell her twice.

Chapter 9

Thayne was reclining atop another tartan that vied with his kilt on variation of pattern. He regarded the fire without any expression that might match the groan of agony she’d heard earlier. He held the babe in an arm, but she wasn’t quiet. Her cries had increased along with kicking and flailing, if the bundle movement was an indication. Amalie lifted her skirt with one hand and started across to them. As if that was her place. The others looked too engrossed in eating and drinking to pay her much attention, and the wet-nurse was alongside one of them.

Thayne looked up at her approach and then frowned. Amalie bent to lift the babe to her, and oddly the infant ceased fussing the moment she reached there. Thayne wasn’t the only one that noticed as movements about the fire ceased and everyone looked.

“You weren’t holding her properly,” Amalie finally told him.

“Well . . . I’m nae woman. Sit.”

Amalie went onto her knees on the blanket beside him, sideways, with him in front of her and barely out of touch of her right knee.

“Cease staring! All of you! Sean, fetch sup.”

He spoke with a loud deep tone, making the babe start. Amalie put her attention to the little tufts of down-soft hair atop the babe’s forehead and crooned to her, until she settled back into a snuggle of warmth against Amalie’s bosom.

“She kens you,” Thayne told her.

Amalie glanced over the babe’s head at him and then darted her vision to his chest. It seemed safer but only slightly, since he’d failed to put on a shirt. She realized her mistake while looking over more male flesh than a woman should see. He was displayed as if for viewing, too, with a bit of wadded plaid material splicing across skin that rippled with every move, showing the muscle and strength beneath. She gulped in order to make sense; took a breath; gulped again. It almost worked. Her voice sounded indistinct in her own ears. As if she spoke from a great distance and through water.

“She just . . . recognizes soft. In a world of hard.”

“She recognizes her mother,” he replied.

Amalie turned her head and closed her eyes on the instant film of moisture hampering her sight. A band of potential hurt wrapped about her heart and started squeezing, accompanying every beat of it. She didn’t dare answer until she had the sensation muted and then dissipated. She didn’t have any feelings for this babe. She didn’t. She couldn’t.
No.
She added it to her plea against loving this Highlander and opened her eyes on one of Thayne’s men, placing a huge platter of meat slices swimming in juice, onto the ground near her left knee.

“Here.”

Thayne’s belly flexed as he moved, drawing her eye despite everything she exerted, and stopping her breathing. He held out several slices of flattened black bread, smelling fresh and fragrant. Amalie lifted her eyes from the offering to his gaze and then quickly shied away. Maybe if she concentrated on something else, he wouldn’t affect her so. Maybe.

“Use it. Like a spoon.”

She moved the baby to one arm in order to pull one slice of bread from his hand without touching skin. Then she was scooping up a slice of meat, cupping it in the bread to hold it. At the first bite, she knew it was every bit as delicious as it smelled. Beside her, she sensed Thayne doing the same, although he devoured his in large bites, making three more of them, until there was very little sup left. And she was failing. The entire time. Nothing worked. She was aware of everything he did and every move he made.

“You finished?” he asked.

Amalie raised her eyes to his and everything stilled. Time halted, ceasing to function. The fire stopped crackling and snapping and sending flickers of light over them. She forgot how to breathe. Blink. Think. Then a log dropped, moving his eyes and releasing her. Amalie dipped her head to the babe’s sweet features, hiding warmth that suffused her cheeks and then spread from there.

“Nearby crofter wife has vast cooking skills. Is na’ amiss to a coin or two in payment.”

Amalie swallowed. “I didn’t ask.”

“Dinna’ have to. Here. ’Tis mead. Fresh drawn.”

He was holding out a cup of dark liquid. Amalie reached for it. Chilled air felt like it rippled through her, making her tremble and doing horrid things to her breast peaks as they tightened into hard knots.

“You’re cold,” he observed.

She turned toward the fire and lifted her nose. “I usually have my baths in warm water in a warm room, followed by warmed towels.” She looked unseeingly at the group of men eating and drinking and looking like a fest was happening.

“Scot inns must have changed.”

His voice wasn’t sarcastic, but it might as well have been as he pointed out the obvious. Amalie licked her bottom lip but it was the lone outwardly sign she gave. Inside, her heart pace had picked up and she knew her palms went clammy.

“I’ve held positions with luxuries such as hot baths before,” she replied. As if a governess who looked and acted barely eighteen had prior experience.

“You’ll na’ be disappointed when we reach Castle Gowan then.”

“Do you truly have to take me there?”

He’d moved . . . or something. His leg came into the scope of her vision, and she could feel the heat of him at her neck where a shawl should be protecting.

“I live there.”

“Thayne, I—”

“And so will you. As my wife.”

“Mere words. I refuse to believe them binding.” She tried to sound authoritative. Even to her ears, it was breathless and young and frail-sounding. Amalie frowned at the muslin covering her knees.

“You canna’ fight our marriage. ’Tis Scot law.”

“It’s not my law!” That wasn’t her voice, either. Nothing about it sounded argumentative or defiant or anything other than feminine.

“Do we need this said again? Who we are does na’ matter. You’re on Scot soil. As such, you’re under Scot law.”

“There has to be a way.”

“Mayhap. You’d need a powerful amount of gold, though.”

“What if I . . . could find it?” she began.

“And only if the union has na’ been consummated.”

“If-if . . .” She was vibrating in place at the instant recollection of last night. And what he’d done . . . or almost done. His lowered voice brought the enticing, illicit emotions right back into being. Without any effort! Worse happened as she nearly giggled. Fear of exposing any of it made her voice cease working as he just kept talking, in smooth low-voiced tones that sent shivers atop those already racing her frame.

“Doona’ fret. We’ll consummate our union. I’m willing. I’m just na’ my best with a wound, and an audience.” He gestured toward the men about the fire as if she needed explanation.

“But Dunn-Fyne’s gone. You said as much.”

“He’s na’ the lone reason I’ll keep to the law.”

“He wasn’t?”

“I give my word, I keep it. Unlike my brother.”

At the mention of Jamie, her eyes went wide and met Thayne’s, which was a huge mistake the moment she did it. Infinite moments passed while she was locked in place. Statue-still. The babe’s coo of sound disrupted it, and then Amalie had to deal with another bout of blushing and nervousness and embarrassment. It was wrong, ill-advised, and absurd, but that didn’t stop any of it. Nothing did.

“You forgetting Jamie?” he asked.

Amalie shook her head.

“Good thing. He’s definitely na’ forgotten you. And the un-manning you gave to him this morn.”

Amalie scooted closer to Thayne, touching him. Then she went further. She rocked into a sit beside him with her thigh matched against his and the babe cradled in her lap. She hadn’t thought through the move, she’d just reacted. It was subconscious, but it was still done. She didn’t know how she’d be able to look at him again.

“You’ve made your decision, have you?”

She nodded.

“Good thing. Again. Since you already gave your word.”

Amalie wasn’t looking up at him. She didn’t care what he said or how he said it. She wasn’t looking.

“I need to ask something of you,” he said.

“What?”

“I have need of another night. Mayhap two.”

Amalie’s heart pulsed into a complete throb of stoppage in her throat, paining her with the move. “For what?” she asked.

“Afore our consummation. Do you listen to naught?”

He was asking for a reprieve? Amalie felt an instant stab that didn’t feel giddy with relief. It felt hollow and lost, and alone. And then she had to hide that.