A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (13 page)

The floorboards creaked. Cloth rustled then stopped. “As long as I’m in a state of undress, would you be so kind as to apply the ointment?” he said politely. “Then we’ll need to head out straight away.”

“Is your back turned?”

“Aye, lass.”

She reached for the pot. “Very well.” She made quick work, rubbing in a bit of salve and corking the pot. “That should put you to rights.”

He bent down and tugged up his braies and chausses with another grunt.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.”

“You’re still too pale.” She felt for a fever. “And too hot to the touch.”

He drew away from her touch. “I’ll be right as soon as we make it to Kilchurn.”

“The question is, can you make it to the boat?”

He grabbed the flagon of whisky and took a swig. “With this I can withstand anything.”

Meg shoved the salve and bandages in the satchel. “Aye? You didn’t appear all that impervious to the pain last eve.”

He dragged his cloak over his shoulders. “’Twas because I didn’t have to be. Now let’s be off afore we miss the transport.”

After snatching the leftover bread, Meg followed him down the stairs and out into the street. The scene alive with activity, horses pulled carts and people scurried past, bundled under heavy cloaks. Against the wall, a beggar held up a tin cup. “Alms.”

Meg’s heart squeezed. If only she had time to help the indigent, but Duncan reached back and tugged her arm. “They’re casting off, hurry!”

Though she sensed the knight was trying to make a show of robust strength, he still limped. Ahead, a sailor started pulling in the gangway.

Duncan hobbled faster. “Och, what the blazes are you doing? We’re paying passengers here.” He raced for the wooden plank and bellowed in pain.

The captain popped his head over the side and motioned for the man to push the gangway back out. “What? Did ye and the missus have a romp afore crossing the street? Another knell of the bell from the cathedral and you would have missed us.”

Duncan ushered Meg onto the gangway. “A decent man would have sent someone across the road to fetch us.”

She agreed with him—the captain knew where they were staying. How difficult would it have been to send a cabin boy over to knock on their door? A sailor offered his hand, and Meg climbed down the three steps into the galley. She turned back to see how Duncan was faring, and movement across the road caught her eye. The beggar was no longer there, but she stared right into the grey eyes of Isaac, Lord Percy’s man-at-arms. She’d never mistake that man’s face or its jagged scar.

“Cast off,” the captain hollered as the sailor pulled the plank into the boat.

Meg swiftly hid behind Duncan’s large frame. Had Isaac recognized her? She chanced a glimpse around the Highlander’s shoulder. Northumberland’s man-at-arms started to run across the cobbled road. But his anxious expression was blocked by a horse and cart trotting across his path.

Meg’s gaze shot to the captain. “Hurry!”

“What’s the sudden rush?” He sauntered toward them and held out his palm. “Besides, you owe me a half-crown.”

She crouched below the hull.

Fishing in his purse, Duncan eyed her as if she were daft. He held out the coin to the captain. “For this outrageous sum I expect to disembark at the pier on Loch Etive.”

The man snatched it. “With a good wind, we’ll be there before sunset.”

Duncan’s face took on a sallow pall, and he motioned for Meg to sit on the bench beside him. She was only too happy to remain below the ship’s rail and sit. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Tell me, why were you so anxious for us to cast off?”

She warily glanced around them. “I saw Lord Percy’s man-at-arms standing exactly in the spot where the beggar had been.”

He glanced over his shoulder as if Isaac were in the boat. “Bull’s ballocks.” Duncan grasped her arm. “Did he see you?”

“He looked straight at me.”

Duncan jumped onto a rowing bench and peered over the rail. “I’ll be the son of a tit-sucking swine.”

“Pardon me?”

Duncan swayed in place. “What does the bastard look like?”

Meg drummed her fingers on her lips. “He has an ugly scar on his right cheek. He’s tall, with darkish hair, I think.”

“You think?” He leaned into the rail and continued scanning. “Are you certain it was he?”

“Aye. I’d never mistake that scar.” Meg took a chance and straightened enough to peek over the hull. “He’s not there now.” She resumed her seat.

Duncan plopped beside her. “Ballocks.”

By the increase in his cursing, Meg figured he was in a lot of pain. “I doubt he’ll find us unless he can commandeer a boat quickly.”

“It won’t be difficult for him to find out where we’re headed. All he needs to do is ask a laborer.”

Meg thought Duncan might be growing delirious. “But this boat is destined for Mull.”

“Aye, as long as no one from the ship mentioned they’d be ferrying a pair of paying passengers to Dunstaffnage.”

“But no one knows we’re”—she leaned in to ensure only Duncan could hear—“heading to . . . you know.”

“We’ll not tarry at Dunstaffnage, for certain.” He pursed his lips and offered a stiff nod. “Sit back and enjoy the voyage. Once we sail into the Firth of Clyde, the seas could become rough. We’ll feel it in a boat this small.”

Meg smoothed her hand over the space on the bench beside her. The old vessel was worn. Living on the Firth of Forth, she’d seen hundreds like it—fishing galleys, for the most part, owned by local fishermen. Smaller galleys like this one never went far out to sea or crossed the channel to France. They weren’t robust enough.

Beside her, Duncan’s head hit the hull with a bang. He looked like death.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Aye, just resting my eyes.”

Of course. Everyone smashes their head into the hull of a ship when they want to close their eyes.
She wagered he was still fevered, not that he’d admit it. Presently, Meg had more to worry about than Percy’s guard. At least they’d left Isaac standing on the pier. She steepled her fingers to her mouth and offered up a silent prayer that Duncan would keep his wits at least until they reached the shore—else she’d be at the mercy of the captain and the vast Highlands.

Speaking of the leader of the ship, he stood at the rudder and eyed her, just like the Gypsy had done in the back of the wagon. Meg crossed her arms and studied the galley’s timbers.
My, how barbaric and dangerous the world is away from Tantallon Castle
.

Duncan had never been so cold. It didn’t matter how tightly he clamped his arms to his body—he couldn’t get warm, and the gusts of wind blowing in from the north only served to make his chills worse. He could not allow himself to succumb to a simple scrape on his arse. Surely he’d come through the worst of it.

In no way could he collapse and leave Lady Meg to fend for herself. Christ, the sailors on the galley all looked at her with lecherous grins. He ground his teeth and squinted through his lowered lashes. Meg was too naive to notice the blighters all drooling over her lovely face.

But a mob of lusty sailors was only half his worries. Percy’s man had tracked them all the way to Glasgow? A bead of sweat slid down Duncan’s temple. There he sat, colder than midwinter without a fire, so fevered, sweat poured off him. God bless it, he hadn’t outsmarted the English bastards. What the blazes were they doing in Glasgow, and how far did they intend to go?

When he and Lady Meg reached Dunstaffnage, they’d be on Campbell lands, and safer. It would be suicide for an English army to trespass into Argyllshire. Duncan’s eyes rolled back, and he shook his head. This damnable fever couldn’t get the better of him. He must send out spies and alert the guard as soon as he reached the shore.

Bless it, God would strike him dead before he allowed anything to happen to Lady Meg.

She grasped his hand, and Duncan’s lids opened. “I’m concerned about you.”

Her blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight and reflected the color of the sky. This was the first day the sun had made an appearance since he’d met Meg. Her intelligent brows arched in question. Duncan cleared his throat. “I’m well enough. You needn’t worry overmuch.”

She offered an anxious smile and tried to pull her hand away, but Duncan tightened his grasp. He liked the silken smoothness of her fingers in his rough palm. “Your hands are cold.”

A lovely blush crawled up her cheeks, her eyes nowhere near as happy as her demeanor. “Aye.”

He studied her face. How she could be wise yet so innocent perplexed him. “Do you have any clue how beautiful you are?”

“I beg your pardon?” Again she tugged her hand, but he held it fast. “You must be horribly fevered.” Her eyes drifted to the appendage she’d ashamedly named “the claw.” He’d never understand how a woman so incredible could consider herself ruined because of a minor deformity. Aside from her hand, Meg possessed everything a man desired—eyes that could see through to his soul, a full mane of wild tresses with natural curls, a figure that was not too slight and not too round.

A satisfied moan rumbled from Duncan’s chest. The dip in her waist had cradled his arm perfectly in the wee hours last eve. He lowered his chin and pressed his lips against her ear. “
Mo leannan.
” He knew he’d uttered the endearment in the wee hours as well, though he hadn’t really been awake.

Meg gasped, her cherry-red lips tempting him.

“Aye.” He grinned—swaying as if drunk. “I did say it, and I wish it could be so.”

The deep pools of blue stared into his eyes, as if she read his every thought. “I couldn’t dare to dream . . .”

His mind a wee bit blurry, all he focused on was Meg. He leaned closer to inhale the wildflower scent of her hair. “Only in my dreams have I ever held a woman as ravishing and desirable as you.”

She pushed her hair under her veil with her claw as though it were a nervous habit.

“I like to see your tresses peek from beneath your headpiece.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “My sister Elizabeth says they’re wild as Scotland.”

“Aye? I like that.” Duncan swirled his palm over her hand in his lap. “What else does your sister say?”

“She agrees I should join a nunnery—says I’m too headstrong.” Meg hid the claw under her cloak. “She knows my deformity isn’t the devil’s work, but she—the whole family—fears it might be taken that way outside of Tantallon’s walls, except in a place of worship, of course.”

“You’re serious?” Duncan blinked. “Your family agrees you should be hidden?”

“All except Arthur. He’d prefer to arrange my marriage to some unsuspecting baron to strengthen the family alliances.”

Duncan wiped the clammy sweat from his forehead with the crook of his elbow. “So, Arthur doesn’t fear your hand?”

“No, but the family is torn about what should be done with me. I suppose that’s what happens when both your parents die when you’re very young. Your elder siblings argue about what is to become of the ‘misshapen black sheep.’”

Duncan raised her hand to his lips and kissed. Catching a whiff of a meadow in spring, his heart stuttered. Why did everything about Meg tug on his sensibilities? “I think you’re entirely too hard on yourself.” He shivered. Lordy, his bones ached with fatigue—he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

“What would you do if you were in my place?”

He leaned into her, wishing he could rest his head on her shoulder. “Me?”

“Aye?”

First of all, as a man and heir to a considerable dynasty, Duncan would never be in her situation. He gazed at her red lips, pursed in challenge, and his daft head spun like juggler’s clubs. “I’d not allow a one of them to make me feel any less a person.”

“I’m certain ’tis easy for you to say. You are a brawny knight, after all.”

“Aye, but I’ve four sis . . . ters.” His words slurred. “I wouldn’t want a one of them to feel less . . . less of a woman because of something she cannot change.”

Meg studied his face again with those irresistible eyes. “You are an odd sort, Sir Duncan. Perhaps that’s why I like you so much.”

He held her hand to his cheek and closed his heavy eyelids. “I like you as . . . well, Lady Meg.”

“Passing the Mull of Kintyre,” the navigator yelled and pointed.

The galley had entered the Irish Sea. Depending on the wind, there were several hours remaining in this journey. Duncan leaned his head against the hull and closed his eyes. Perhaps a few moments of sleep would do him good. Undoubtedly, he’d need his strength when the ship moored.

Duncan slept holding Meg’s hand until her fingers fell asleep. In all honesty, she reveled in his touch, wanted his palm to warm her hand into eternity, but soon her entire arm would be asleep, too. Gradually, Meg slipped her fingers away and rubbed them awake.

Once the boat entered open seas, the sail billowed with the wind and sped their pace. Meg’s head swooned a bit while the swells rocked the galley as it climbed and fell in time with the white-capped waves.

Duncan’s shoulder leaned into her.

She’d meant it when she told the knight she liked him. No man had ever paid much attention to her—not that she’d had much experience with men who were peers. At the age of five and ten she’d thought she fancied the farrier’s son, but quickly discovered a highborn Douglas daughter could fancy no one of her own choosing. Arthur had fired the farrier as soon as she’d mentioned her attraction to her sister Elizabeth.