A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (10 page)

She gestured toward the table. “You’d best eat something.”

His mouth watered—he hadn’t thought about food since entering the chamber. “I’m starved.”

“’Tis most likely cold.”

“Not to worry.” Duncan sat, wincing at the jab of pain that shot from his arse up his spine. “I could eat dirt with a bit of seasoning if I had nay other choice.”

She chuckled. Good. The lass must have let the ludicrous kiss go, too. It would be easier for them both if they blocked it from their minds. Meg sat in the wooden chair across from him. “Did you find another horse?”

Duncan tore a piece of bread with his teeth and shoved it to the side of his mouth. “Nay, but I sold the gelding.”

She jolted straight up. “You did what?”

He picked up a spoon and pointed it at her. “Sold him in payment for a wagon ride to Glasgow. We’ll be a mite less suspicious if we look like a pair of tinkers—and then we can hire a transport on the River Clyde.” He gestured to the bundle he’d tossed on the bed. “Found us a couple of used cloaks as well.”

After crossing the floor, Meg untied the bundle and unrolled it. She held up a grey cloak. “This moth-eaten blanket has so many holes I doubt it could provide warmth for anyone.”

“Ah, m’lady, I daresay most poor souls would be grateful to have such a woolen garment to keep the north wind at bay.”

She held up the other. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I could very well end up in garments such as these.”

“Why would you say that?”

She shrugged. “When I take up the veil, I’ll be relying on the church for support.”

He didn’t like the idea of Lady Meg becoming a nun, but then he had no say in the matter. “Surely your brother would provide your dowry to the abbey.”

“Aye, but those riches will be used to help others, not for me.”

He doused the end piece of bread in the stew. “They’ll be used to feather the abbess’s bed, no doubt.”

Meg pursed her lips and looked away.

He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. “Why are you so hell-bent on becoming a nun?”

“Why are you taking up your father’s mantle?” she retorted without answering. “The Black Knight has a notorious reputation.”

“Someone’s got to do the king’s bidding. Besides, I believe in law and order. The lawlessness that pervades the Highlands must stop. Innocent women and children must be protected—lands tilled and not burned.”

“Do you fancy yourself a savior of innocents, Sir Duncan?”

Was she toying with him? He glared across the table. Damn it all, the fire danced in her sparkling blue eyes. They challenged him in a way no other woman had ever done. He scooped another bite of stew. “I uphold the decrees of Scotland and support the king. That is all.”

Meg moved to the edge of the bed and sat. “We’ll be taking a sea transport from Glasgow?”

Damn, she changed the bloody subject again. He nodded her way. “Aye.”

“It seems like you’re taking me farther and farther away from my home.”

Duncan scooped the last bite of stew. “’Tis just a roundabout route to keep you safe.”

“If you must.” She pulled one of the cloaks over her lap and thoughtfully smoothed her good hand across it. Duncan had hardly seen her use the crippled hand. “I think I should like to see the Highlands before I take my vows and live within cloistered walls.”

“There’s no place more beautiful.”

“What’s it like?”

“I could tell you, but words would not do it justice. There are mountains and lakes aplenty . . .” He winced at a sharp stab of pain in his backside. “And the weather cannot be predicted—could be sunny and warm in the morning and snowing by midafternoon.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “I do not think there’s a place in all of Scotland where one could predict the weather.”

He pushed his chair back and grunted with the twist of pain.

She jumped to her feet. “How is your wound?”

“It hurts like a bloody venomed rat sank its fangs into my arse.” He didn’t care a lick about cursing—perhaps she’d keep her distance if he reverted to using a vulgar tongue.

Meg crossed the floor and reached for the pot of salve. “Should I apply more ointment?”

Duncan grasped it from her. “I’ll rub in my own salve. Having your fingers upon me fills my mind with all sorts of untoward ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?” The innocence filling her eyes made his heart twist into a knot.

Duncan gave her a stern look—the one he used with his sisters when they asked too many questions. “You’d better take your rest. We’ve a long day’s journey on the morrow.”

Meg bit the inside of her cheek. If only Duncan would tell her how
he
felt when she touched him. She certainly would never forget the moment when he’d kissed her. Her fingers still trembled. She returned to the bed and slipped off her shoes. “It doesn’t seem right that I should have the bed when you’re wounded and in pain.”

She stole a glance at him over her shoulder. For a fleeting moment their eyes met. Something in the intensity of his stare caused a stirring in her stomach so violent, she clutched her hands to her midsection to quash it.

Then he cast his gaze to the fire. “You needn’t worry about me. I’ve been in far worse pain and slept in far less comfortable accommodations.” He held his palms up. “’Tisn’t even raining.”

He smiled with a boyish charm, though she knew he was just being friendly. Why would a warrior like Duncan Campbell, the future Lord of Glenorchy, go out of his way to be nice to her?

Since they’d kissed, he’d changed. He was more formal in his address toward her, yet the coarse language he’d used when they first met had returned. Meg touched her mouth. Who knew kissing a man could be so invigorating?

She climbed into the bed and tugged the bedclothes over her shoulders. The soft, downy mattress enveloped her in heavenly comfort. The floorboards creaked. Meg stiffened. What was he doing now? Wood clunked and the fire crackled. Meg sighed—
stoking the fire for the night
.

With a whoosh of air, he snuffed the candles. The floorboards creaked again. “Goodnight m’lady.” His voice was soft and buttery—not nearly as gruff as before.

“Goodnight.”

Meg rolled to her back. Turning her head to the side, she could see him now. He lay on his unwounded side, facing the fire, his head cradled in the crux of his arm. Duncan’s shoulders were so broad, there was no question as to why he was the leader of the king’s enforcers. He made an imposing knight—one to make an enemy quake just because of his size. The fluttering in her midsection started again.

Sighing, Meg picked up the pillow beside hers and tiptoed toward him. “This should help make you a wee bit more comfortable.”

His head jerked toward her. He reached out, grabbed it and stuffed the pillow under his head. “
Ta
.”

She watched him for a moment. He ignored her, or pretended she didn’t exist. Was he upset about the kiss? Was there something else? She returned to the bed. “Are you married?” The question had been needling at her mind for days.

“Me?” His silhouetted hand batted the air. “I’ve no time for that.”

Meg slipped between the linens again. “Why not?”

“I’m hardly ever home, for one. My duty is to keep order in the Highlands—and since Denmark ceded Orkney and Shetland, the task has been all the more challenging.”

“Sounds dreary to me, always sleeping on the trail or in drafty inns. Since I’ve been abducted, I’ve decided I like the feel of my bed, and would be quite content to sleep there for the rest of my days.”

His deep chuckle made the floorboards rumble. “Would you now?”

Meg tugged the bedclothes to her chin, determined to quash the fluttering caused by his voice. “Aye.”

“What about joining an order?” he asked. “You’d be sleeping in a cell or an open dormitory—possibly with no walls—especially as a novice.”

Meg tried to burrow into a comfortable spot for her head in the old pillow. “It wouldn’t be all that bad, as long as I slept in the same place.”

“Well, I wish you luck with it.”

Meg rolled to her side to better study his outline. She sighed loudly then slapped her hand over her mouth. Had he heard her? What would he think if he knew she admired him? Here she was, only one step away from giving herself to the church, and her eyes couldn’t drink in enough of the Highlander. She flopped to her back. She would stop ogling him this instant.

She closed her lids and willed sleep to come. Duncan’s chiseled, bare behind flashed though her mind. It was as if he’d been hewn from pure white marble—just like Roman statuary. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She must fixate upon something else—something pure and holy.

Recalling the shiny brass cross at Melrose Abbey, she folded her hands to her chest and prayed. There were a great many things needing care—Duncan’s men, Arthur, and her sisters. Meg prayed she and Duncan would safely make it to Glasgow and board a transport without being discovered. She even asked forgiveness for Lord Percy, that he might find compassion in his heart and cast aside his ill will for her family. Praying for the injured and oppressed, somehow her final words were:
Please heal your servant, Duncan
. With that, the image of his naked bottom filled her mind once again. Heaven help her, would she be plagued by inappropriate imaginings for the rest of her days?

Meg harrumphed. Last eve Duncan had conveniently failed to mention he’d arranged for them to ride in a
Gypsy
wagon. She sat on the hay-lined floor in the wagon and clutched Duncan’s arm. She had never heard a good word about Gypsies. Honestly, she’d never been within a stone’s throw of one, but the man sitting opposite her hadn’t shifted his gaze from her face since she’d climbed into the back of the wagon. His intense, dark eyes made her uncomfortable, and she kept the claw hidden beneath her moth-eaten cloak. If only Duncan would have sat closer to the back end of the canvas-covered wagon in case they needed to make a quick escape. Over and over her mind recited how she would shield herself behind Duncan if the Gypsy tried to grab her. The man’s eyes made him look like a wolf ready to pounce. She squeezed Duncan’s arm tighter.

What gave the Gypsy cause to stare? Had her hair come loose from her veil? Most likely, yes—the unruly mop of curls. Meg tried to focus on the three children sitting beside him, all wearing linen scarves tied over their black locks. They smiled and appeared friendly enough, though their brilliantly colored clothing was like nothing she’d ever seen before. The two boys wore breeches striped with purples and golds. The lass too, aside from the bright orange skirt she wore atop. Interesting attire, though Meg could understand its practicality in keeping the lass warm.

Meg took pity on the youths. What chance did they have of growing up and gaining a trade? If the rumors she’d heard were true, even Gypsy children could steal a coin purse and vanish before the owner was the wiser.

Duncan sat rigid beside Meg. She couldn’t tell if his severe posture was caused by the injury in his backside or if the Gypsy gave him pause. Before they left the inn, she’d inquired as to his pain, and he’d grunted a dismissive mumble akin to what she’d come to expect from the rugged Highlander.

She looked up at him. His gaze slanted toward her, and then shot back to the Gypsy man. Sir Duncan didn’t appear to trust the fellow either.

The old wagon creaked and groaned as it ambled. Completely enclosed by canvas pulled taut over pole branches bent in arcing supports, Meg didn’t like that she had no view of the landscape passing by. But at least they were hidden from the English. With colorful pillows and blankets folded at the front, Meg assumed the family slept there. The relentless clanging of cast-iron pots above nearly drove her mad and caused a painful ringing in her ears.

A Gypsy couple had met them that morning. Presently, the pair was out front, driving the team of oxen—the gelding Duncan had traded was tethered and trotted along behind.

The steady clang of pots eased, and the three children jumped to their feet, grinning as if they knew something was about to happen. Meg arched her brow at Duncan. “Are we stopping?”

“Most likely. My stomach’s telling me ’tis time for our nooning.”

Meg stretched out her legs and rubbed them awake while the children jumped out the back.

The beady-eyed man across the wagon still hadn’t moved.

If Meg had a choice, she would prefer to continue on to Glasgow sharing the horse with Duncan. The wagon jostled and stopped. Squeezing Duncan’s arm, she turned her lips up to his ear. “May I have a word in private?”

Duncan grunted and stood. “Do you need to relieve yourself?” He offered his hand and helped Meg up.

The man stretched and hopped out the back.

“I do.” She looked through the gap in the canvas to ensure the Gypsies were out of earshot. “But not with that vile man about.”

“Who?” Duncan hopped down, and before she could blink, he’d lifted her to the ground.

She led him away from the wagon, toward the trees. “The man who’s been staring at me from across the wagon the entire journey. We’re in Scotland, yet he gaped at me as if he’d never seen a Scottish woman before.”