A Perfect Knight For Love (14 page)

“Try na’ to show it.”

Show what?
There wasn’t any way to hide the humiliation and embarrassment. All she could do was lower her face to the infant and breathe in the sweet babe smell of her. And tremble.

“You women. Your emotions are easily seen. And read. Your relief ’s an affront. I doona’ wish any to ken I have na’ done my duty yet.”

“D-d-duty?” He thought her reaction was relief. Amalie couldn’t believe the cool wash that filled her and then she had to try and hide that, too.

“I still might, lass. But ’twill be most painful. I might cry woman-tears. That would give my brother thoughts . . . and that I will na’ allow.”

“What?”

“He does na’ ken my injury. Nor the extent of it. And I doona’ wish him to.”

“This injury . . . ?”

“I took a skean. Thrown by a coward’s hand. Bone deep. Hurts like the devil. Hampers movement. Gives an appearance of weakness that has some truth to it. You ken any of that?”

“I can’t stay with you, Thayne. I just . . . can’t.” And she didn’t dare. Not for one more glorious, heart-pinging moment.

“You’ve nae choice.”

“But . . . I just
can’t
.”

He didn’t understand. She didn’t even fully comprehend it. If she allowed any further contact with him, she was afraid she’d never leave. This wasn’t her future. Getting her father to release her from a betrothal was the goal. Once she got back to Ellincourt, she might even rethink that. Wedding with Rochester didn’t sound as bad anymore. Her life would be one of privilege and luxury. He’d be easy to manage. He probably wouldn’t even desire a consummation. She doubted he even thought of it, if he had any thought at all.

But wed to a Highlander? From a place so far North civilization hadn’t even reached it? No. That couldn’t be her future. Ever.

“I doona’ have the choice, either, lass. Look to me.”

Look at him?
She couldn’t.

“You don’t . . . want me,” she whispered.

“Na’ true,” he replied. “How many times must I tell you of it? If I was na’ in pain, I’d be proving it. Right here and right now, and be-damned to any witness.”

“You . . . don’t even know me.” And after what he’d just said, she didn’t know her own whisper could squeak.

“True,” he remarked.

“And I don’t know you.”

“True again. These are things we can correct. Ask me something. We’ll work on it.”

“You’re very stubborn.”

“I’ve been so named afore. ’Tis nae dishonor. Find other words to flay me.”

“Why?”

He sighed. All that naked flesh moved with it. It was difficult to decide where it was safe to look.

“We may na’ be able to consummate our union, but we can work on correcting this lack of knowledge of each other. Ask something else. Something . . . personal.”

“Why did they burn you?”

He cleared his throat. “I ordered it.”

“Why?”

“Stays bleeding.”

“I heard all that. But why? I-I . . . thought a wound needed to bleed for cleansing.”

“A man can only lose so much blood.”

She nodded slowly, brushing her nose against the babe. “You were afraid.”

He tensed. “I’m never afraid.”

“Of fainting.”

“I doona’ faint.”

Amalie didn’t say anything. Thayne sighed heavily. “Verra well, Amalie. I confess. A man canna’ sit his horse if he bleeds overmuch.”

“See, you were afraid.”

“Who’s to protect you, should I fall?”

“I don’t need protection.”

“You needed protecting the moment you were birthed. Or reached womanhood. I’m just wondering at the vagaries of fate that handed up the chore to me.”

“I can protect myself. Look at this morn.”

“That trick? Jesu’! ’Twill na’ work on him again. Only the densest man falls for it twice. Jamie is na’ dense. And who’ll stop him the next time? And the score of men following him? And there’ll be more! You’re too bonny! And I tire of saying it. For a beauteous lass you should na’ need the words. Have you nae mirror?”

She shook her head, more to stop his words than an answer.

“’Tis a huge mistake to own up to it, for a large-headed woman is worse than a shrew. But you’re the type of woman . . . turns a man around. Gives him one thought and one only. Gets him to reacting. And wanting. And pining. Lusting. You’re that bonny, lass. That lush. Christ. I should stay my own tongue afore I dig a bigger hole for myself.”

It was too late. Every word sent shivers over her and Amalie had long since moved her eyes to his. The man was too handsome to be real and his words not only stole her breath but heightened the heat of the air about him. Every flick of fire glow that touched him highlighted and defined and caressed.

“Odd thing is . . . you claimed me. Me. At times I canna’ believe my eyes. Or luck.”

“You can’t be saying these things to me,” she whispered. Everything he’d said affected her. Her whisper was evidence. She watched as he flicked a glance to her lips before looking over her head at the fire, at all the men bedding down about them.

“I ken as much.” He puffed his cheeks to blow air out. “Must be the blood loss loosening my tongue. Saying anything about it gives you power.”

“Power? What power?”

He shifted against her, sliding slowly into a prone position, facing her. Then he reached behind him and lifted a hank of tartan over him, holding it aloft, like a tent.

“We’ve leagues to travel on the morrow, wife. ’Twill na’ be easy. That’s another mistake to admit, but there ’tis.”

“Your wound?”

“And you on the horse in front of me . . . tempting.”

“I do not tempt—”

He smiled. “Everything’s an argue with you. You ken that?”

“I do not argue.”

“You must keep doing so. It helps a bit. Oddly enough.”

“With what?”

“Staying temptation. Want. Lust. I just spoke on them. Were you na’ listening again?”

Amalie gasped.

“Come along. Settle. I doona’ wish you out of arm’s reach. Na’ with my brother watching.”

She scooted close to him and went onto her back, feeling every bit of the hard ground covered with one layer of blanket. The babe shifted atop her, making the uncomfortable position more so with the infant’s weight. She heard Thayne’s amusement as a whiff of air against her neck, before an arm wrapped about her ribs and pulled her sideways into an embrace that rolled the baby into a crooked arm at her front. Amalie stayed there for several moments, experiencing every bit of being fully against him; her shoulders to his chest, her backside to his belly, her legs against his. She didn’t have enough barrier of clothing to prevent feeling every bit of it.

“Nice,” he told the space above her head.

“Don’t get too fond of it,” she replied.

“Why na’?”

“I accept your embrace because the alternative is worse. I want you to know that.”

She amused him, if the amount of movement at her back was an indication. “My thanks, wife. Truly.”

“What for?”

“Claiming me.”

“I didn’t
claim
anything. This is forced.”

“Sleep. We can bandy words later.”

“Nothing’s settled, Thayne.”

“Hmm . . . ?”

“This. Us.”

“’Tis been a long . . . day,” he replied, yawning before the end word.

“For some.”

“For all. You’re safe. Settle now. Sleep.”

He seemed to be accomplishing the action as he said the words. Amalie considered that with her own yawn. A clansman passed through her vision, walking silently and stealthily and taking her gaze with him. Through his legs she saw Thayne’s brother, Jamie. He wasn’t settled or sleeping. He was scowling.

At them.

Amalie slid closer to Thayne, felt an answering tension in his arm as he accommodated the move, and a snore went over the top of her head. She’d rather be exactly where she was more than anywhere else. It was the only place that felt safe.

It was really going to hurt when she left him. And that was her last conscious thought.

Chapter 10

“Three ways to cross Penkyll Glen and my bairn brother picks
this
one.”

Jamie’s complaint was loud and sour and carried on the rising wind. Thayne ignored it, as he’d done every other outburst. Despite how often they came or how bitter. The words had gotten worse once they ran out of whiskey to placate his brother.

Jamie was also wrong. There were four ways to cross Penkyll Glen.

This glen had been glacier cut and carried a quick running trout stream down its center. The soil was lush and fertile at the bottom, useful for spreading on a grain field. One path ran through the center. It was thick with tree cover, water-saturated, and night-dark. The sun rarely reached its depths and then only for a bit of midday. That kind of ground sucked at a horse hoof and then kept it. They’d have made little time and been bogged down incessantly. If the snows had thawed enough for the attempt.

Another way followed the ridge on the west. It was a narrow path in places, wide enough for one horse, while at times it widened for ten or more. It went above the tree line and was open to the elements on all sides. With a drop of rock shale on one side and a slant of grass-strewn hill on the other that sloped sharply to end at Gowandy Loch shores. It was the quickest route but also the most unsheltered. With the pipers and wind portending a spring storm, it wasn’t the best choice. There was also a burn to be crossed at the glen’s base. Thayne already knew it was swollen and dangerous. It had been when they’d taken that route less than a fortnight earlier. Now, there would be more runoff. That way was bound to be worse. To ford it took a man’s skill and strength, and the same of his horse. Thayne wasn’t risking it. Not with Mary’s bairn . . . and not with his wife.

There was another route, used mainly by sheep and deer, running in a zigzag pattern up the east side. That one needed skill and dexterity and a fair portion of luck. If a man was desperate enough, the weather was perfect, and if he led his horse instead of riding it. Thayne wasn’t willing to risk it, either.

That left the only other option. Thayne and Sean led the way onto a path strewn with boulders that seemed placed there strictly to keep the hill from sliding further. The juts of rock also gave travelers needed foundation for a trail that meandered along the hill, sometimes rising, sometimes not. It was at the tree line, giving them a bit of shelter from the cold-spiked wind. It was wide enough for two horses abreast, which is how Thayne proceeded. That way, they’d provide some break against the wind for each other. They’d been listening to pipes throughout the morn, carried on rising wind that smelled of moisture. He didn’t need the warning. He already felt the spring snow. He’d order another tartan once they reached the summit.

“We’ll never reach the castle! And drink!”

Thayne didn’t bother tightening his lips at Jamie’s tirade. Reacting was useless, arguing the same. They’d reach Castle Gowan . . . just not today.

The lass in his arms reacted though, stiffening slightly at the words. Or maybe it was the bitterness of their saying. She’d no way of knowing Jamie was always like this once his drunk wore off. Either way, she’d do well to keep her concentration on keeping warm. And she should wear more. The light fabrics she wore weren’t much protection against the elements. The moment he’d pulled her from the frosted dew-covered blanket this morn, he’d known it. She didn’t say anything, but her lips had a blue-cast and she was trembling in place when they’d reached the horse. That sent his abused notions of chivalry to the fore again, gaining him the trouble of her body right against him, as he put her on the horse, mounted behind her, and then pulled the ends of his
feileadh-breacan
over his shoulder to wrap her to him. Sealing her against him and sharing warmth. And beginning a day of torment Jamie’s words didn’t pierce.

“We’ll hit the storm this way! With naught in the way of shelter!”

Thayne sighed heavily. They couldn’t avoid the storm regardless of which way they took.

“You hear me, bairn brother!”

It was better to keep Jamie drunk and somewhat pleasant. Parceling out whiskey would have been Iain’s chore, had he lived. Instead, it fell to the lone member of Jamie’s Honor Guard that Thayne still trusted, MacPherson. Thayne had relied too heavily on the big man, and he’d fallen asleep, allowing Jamie full access to their small keg. If Thayne hadn’t taken this dirk and been so weak, he’d have seen to the task himself. Or at least, been capable of punishing MacPherson’s lapse.

“Nae shelter! Nae fire! And nae whiskey!”

The best they could hope for now was to reach the summit of Penkyll Glen, get across it and through the moors, to reach their cousin, Grant MacGowan’s farm. They’d have shelter then. And fire. And Jamie could have his cursed whiskey.

“You’re nae leader, Thayne MacGowan! You ken?”

Amalie reacted at Jamie’s words again or maybe it was just pure perverse feminine nature to slide back and forth before Thayne, skimming lush buttocks about the area and making him wish he’d brought a different saddle. One with a leather rise to make it impossible to feel woman-flesh touching him. Starting a tingle he didn’t staunch fast enough. That was followed by thickening . . . and that had his buttocks tensing for the assist. Thayne went to a hunch of agony, hissing air against her head.

“You shouldn’t let him bother you so.” She tipped her face toward him to say it, cursing his jaw and throat with warm breath.

“Doona’ . . . move.”

He managed the command through clenched teeth, got an upward glance at him through lush eyelashes before she looked back to his chest.

“I haven’t,” she finally replied.

And then she relaxed somewhere, pushing more curve onto him. Thayne tightened one arm about her, and trembled with stopping the near instant surge his groin made against her; and failed. Miserably. It almost kept the pain at bay as he filled the space beneath her, groaning with each outward breath.

“Well!”

At his motion, the lass finally got comprehension of his problem, and went into a purely stiff position, shoving his jaw upward with the move. Thayne looked out at the gathering storm, grasses that swayed with the wind, and easily seen path.