A Perfect Knight For Love (26 page)

“You took MacKennah lasses?”

“Sharp eyes, Thayne. As always.”

Jamie tipped his head back and drank again, draining the flask before gesturing for another. He did the same wiping motion across his mouth when he’d finished.

“MacGowan clan does na’ war with women, Jamie. Send them back.”

“Nae.”

“We doona’ take issue with women!” Thayne tried again, in a stricter tone.

“We do now.”

“Jamie, see sense. MacKennah will have nae choice but to take in kind! He’ll be seizing our women!”

“Mayhap he’ll have bonnier bairns to his clan that way. He should be thanking me.” Jamie guffawed at his own joke. Nobody else did.

“I’ll say this but once more, James MacGowan. Send them back. Now.”

“Nae.”

His brother was being his most obstinate, and had liquid courage from drink to back him. He licked his lips and looked across at Thayne. And then grinned as if the drink had already affected him.

“You canna’ do this. You’ll restart the feud.”

“You already did that. I’m but playing my part. Ah!”

Thayne watched his brother grab for another sporran and gulp more whiskey down. He waited. Battling on the list had stopped. The pipers and drums were silenced. The very air seemed taut and poised as they all waited.

“You should na’ rail at me, Thayne. You should be congrat—congrat—bah! My own tongue fails me.”

“Any clansman can rape and reive! You fool!”

“Say that again . . . and we’ll be meeting.”

“Call it.” Thayne pulled his claymore quickly, holding the scabbard with his left hand while yanking out his sword, hearing the satisfactory sound of steel sliding against steel. He lifted the tip of it toward his brother.

His brother ignored him for the most part and patted one of the lasses’ legs before leaning against her. The woman pulled back from him with what looked to be displeasure and disgust. It was probably echoed on Thayne’s face. Then his brother belched. Thayne took a step closer to his brother, lifting the sword tip as he went. Jamie’s Honor Guard moved back, stepping into the rank of horses and making an enclosure about the brothers.

“Why should I? I’m the . . . laird. By right . . . of birth. You’re little save my bairn brother . . . who went and restarted a feud. With our neighbor.”

“MacKennah would na’ have rejoined a feud. Na’ without a meeting! He’s sensible. He’d listen.”

“You should have wed his accursed daughter.”

“That’s a-tween MacKennah and me. And the bargaining table.”

Jamie swayed backward and took another swig of drink from his sporran, as if there wasn’t a sword pointing toward his gullet and everyone watching with held breath. He was smiling when he brought his head back down, and then patting the woman’s leg again in a familiar gesture. Of ownership. Thayne hoped it didn’t mean what it looked like.

“You . . . should send word to bargain, then.”

“I did. We’re awaiting word back.”

“I’d say you just got it, Thayne lad.”

Jamie threw his head back and laughed before moving to drink more whiskey. Thayne stepped in, tucking the blade back behind him, while swinging a closed left fist. His move knocked the sporran from Jamie’s hand. Both brothers ignored where it landed in stable mud, adding liquid to the muck.

Jamie stood statue-still, his hand still suspended near his mouth. “You meaning something with that?”

“I’m accepting your challenge, Jamie. You and me. Yonder list. No weapons. Now. Right now.”

Thayne lowered his chin, narrowed his eyes, and set his teeth; ignored the thud of ache hitting the backs of his eyes through his skull. He watched as Jamie shuffled from foot to foot. And then smiled weakly. Ingratiatingly.

“Oh come now, bairn . . . brother. Cease this. ’Tis nae time . . . for battle. We’ve cele—cele—a fest. We’ve a fest to put on!”

“You ignore a challenge?”

Jamie grinned with a watery look to his gaze that hinted at his inebriated state. Already. Thayne dropped his shoulders. He couldn’t battle a drunkard. It would be a slaughter.

“Just look. See what I’ve brought.”

“I see women. And one clansman. You battle against women now. Is that what you do?”

“MacKennah’s the one . . . at fault. Na’ me.”

His brother was stopping, licking his lips and scrunching his face to make the words. He was also swaying where he stood, one arm still atop the woman’s thigh. All marks of drink. Debauchery. Dissipation.

“You disgrace the name of MacGowan,” Thayne said softly and stepped back.

“He . . . started it! This swine . . . and his cursed family. They tried . . . to ambush us. And steal my goats.”

“What goats?”

“The ones I’ve brought to . . . roast for sup.”

“You stole goats, too?”

“Spare me . . . words. I’ll explain all . . . once I’ve some sleep and another whiskey! Lawrence! More whiskey! And see this carcass . . . to the dungeons!”

Jamie kicked at the man’s tied hands, almost falling with lack of balance and earning a groan from his victim. It wasn’t the only injury the man suffered. Thayne looked at MacPherson and got a nod. They’d see the man to a chamber and then Angus would be called.

Jamie wove his way across the span to his palace, his Honor Guard about him. Thayne watched him. They all did. For differing reasons. Thayne’s heart grew as heavy as his sword. He sheathed it without looking.

He’d failed. On his deathbed, his father got a promise from Thayne. He’d been entrusted with hiding Jamie’s perfidies. Ensuring the MacGowan name stayed noble. Dignified. Valiant. Feared and revered. Sacrosanct.

He sighed heavily and turned his attention to the problem of the MacKennah women, ordered Sean to see them to his lady wife’s side. He needed a drink. But first he needed a good swim out into the loch. He was at a jog before reaching water.

Castle Gowan didn’t have a castle seamstress. It had a full sewing klatch of them led by a vocal and particular and exacting one named Millicent. That woman commanded an army of thirty-seven women, all engrossed in sewing, cutting, measuring, fitting, talking and laughing, and sipping tea amidst piles of fabrics, trimmings and patterns of the latest fashions. The last was a complete surprise. Fashions had changed considerably since the “Protectorship” had ended and Charles II, the “Merry Monarch” had assumed the throne. Collars had fallen from their face-framing days, if they appeared at all. Nowadays, a large wide neckline was the vogue, skimming the tops of the shoulders and framing the bosom with a straight-cut bodice. There was rarely more than a strip of lace or ruffle attached. This created a perfect dé-colletage for jewels or simple enhancement of a woman’s assets. Sleeves were now tight and reached only to the elbow. Depending on occasion, laces and ribbons could be attached to drape the lower arms. The front bodice piece was boned and heavily decorated, held tight and flat to the body and ending at a point just below the hips. That’s where the skirts were attached, worked up with heavy satins and velvets, tucked and gathered to softly drape about the lower limbs, flaring out on both sides to give any woman a tiny waist and elegant carriage as she walked.

Amalie had possessed gowns near to what they were now designing, although hers were crafted in white and extremely pale colors due to her unwed status. These seamstresses were designing and sewing morning gowns, day gowns, nightgowns, and evening attire in all sorts of hues and shades that made Amalie’s breath catch more than once. It didn’t seem possible, and yet according to Millicent, fabrics and patterns arrived monthly to Gowen Village, which was the name of their seaport. The particular patterns they were using now arrived not two weeks prior, as well as most of the fabrics and trims. It was spoken aloud how lucky Amalie was the duchess hadn’t time to inventory this particular shipment yet. And how they’d been rushed to get all of it to the keep, and waited in an antechamber for the summons before dawn even broke.

Amalie was alone when her new maids had awakened her, shuffling about the room, stoking the fire and pouring water in her ewer. That was followed by a visit from the baby and her wet-nurse. She was then served breakfast of thick browned toast and honey, presented on a silver platter, with a mug of light ale. After that Amalie had been herded behind the screen while manservant after manservant entered, bringing so many sewing items the entire area by the table was given over to it. And on their heels was this battalion of women. Practiced. Ordered. Regimented. And efficient. The entire operation seemed to be.

Throughout the day, food arrived at specified intervals. Late afternoon saw tea being served with hot fresh scones dripping with butter. The activity all about Amalie didn’t even pause. Designing and cutting and chatting went on, while the amount of items hanging from the dressing area grew more numerous and more colorful. She studiously ignored the four women earnestly working to get her presentation dress ready for the evening. She and Thayne were required to attend sup at The Palazzo, with the duke and duchess and the rest of the MacGowan family and retainers. In full evening wear.

Amalie closed her eyes on that information and on the instant thought of what her husband would look like dressed for court presentation. In satin knee breeches, stockings, powdered hair, and a long coat, fit exactly to his frame. He was so handsome it didn’t seem possible to enhance it. Amalie shivered pleasantly before opening her eyes and returning to idleness and feeling out-of-sorts.

She’d never been around so many women. Every structure save the bed seemed to hold at least two of them industriously plying needles and chatting. It was obvious Castle Gowan wasn’t remotely barbaric. It looked well-run and efficient. And orderly. And refined. Civilized.

It was a shame their menfolk had to ruin it.

Amalie looked out over the loch from a perch on the huge curve of window seat. She had her legs tucked up beneath her while leaning against the glass. She was bone weary. And sore. And thrilling occasionally with the memory. Every time she closed her eyes, she got reminded of why. It was better to stay awake and alert but she’d tired of standing. Getting fitted. Checked. Fawned over. Made to pirouette in place while women were asked opinions and gave them even when they weren’t asked. She was bored with watching and listening and then trying to ignore them. She had an ache in her head and hollowness radiating with every beat of her heart. She couldn’t explain it. She’d been surrounded by humanity all day and yet never felt so alone. Out of place. Odd.

Her interest peaked as bodies came into her field of vision, churning water while they swam far beneath her. Amalie caught her breath at their daring. The water had to be cold. Deep. Wild. She could see the wind-driven water cresting, making white-tipped waves. Swimming in such conditions was foolhardy. And brave.

That was probably her husband out in front. She narrowed her eyes and tried to see through glazed glass and several stories above the water. Her emotion told her as her heart pumped mightily, suffusing her with blush. She knew it was Thayne. Instinctively and positively. All of that was bad. Troublesome. Annoying. Vexing. And several other worrisome words she didn’t dare bring to mind. She didn’t know why she bothered listing them. She told herself she didn’t care. It didn’t mean anything to her what Thayne MacGowan did. Or who he did it with. Or how dangerous it was . . .

Amalie’s breath caught again and she gripped her hands together just below her throat as the leader’s head went beneath waves. She lost him for a bit before he surfaced farther away than before. Stupid man! Stupid, annoying, frustrating, arrogant man! She told herself she didn’t care if he drowned and then worked at believing it.

A huge thump on the door echoed through the chamber, prompting Elinore to open it. That maid had taken up a position atop the highest step, making certain none entered if Amalie was in dishabille, while opening and closing the door for the delivery of a repast, or more ribbon, another sewing knife, or a bolt of material they’d just remembered and hadn’t thought to bring from the storehouse, deep in the bowels of the keep.

The new arrival was Thayne’s man, Sean. He was attired in a mud-speckled kilt, with mussed hair and a sheen of sweat on him that wouldn’t be easy to gain against the chill of late spring in the air. Amalie knew the temperature, since she’d been told of it when first accosted by so many in her chamber. Then, she’d just wanted out into the open air. When she’d argued, Maves had opened the door leading to her balcony and demonstrated exactly how much chill and wet it was outside. Amalie hadn’t taken more than a few moments gazing out over the parapet before slinking back inside, defeated.

Directly behind Sean was a grouping of four women who’d seen better times, or something. Sean stood at the top step plateau looking for her. Amalie knew it instinctively and stood to wave. Then Elinore led him through the maze of sewing supplies, toward her, looking like a creature from another planet amid such feminine frippery. The entire time she was conscious of how the thick plaid robe covered every inch of her, yet still managed to leave her feeling undressed and wanton, as if Thayne’s lovemaking was emblazoned somewhere on her for everyone to read.

He stopped just before her and bowed. Amalie returned it with a tip of her head. She noted how the room had silenced behind him and then looked at the women. Three looked at the floor. One, with dark red hair trailing in ringlets over her shoulders and a dirt handprint smudging her cheek gave Amalie a look that didn’t disguise hatred very well.

“His Lordship requested you to assist him with these ladies.”

“He did?”

“They’ve just arrived at the castle.”

“Forcefully?” she asked.

He nodded.

“By . . . His Lordship?”

“The laird. He wished them to visit.”

“Just . . . visit?”

“Aye.”

“Are they visiting long?”

“Until the MacKennah arrives and arranges release.”

“Release?”

He nodded.

“I see.” She did, too. Even without the woman’s hatred and the others’ complete silence. “I believe you should leave now, Sean.”