A Perfect Knight For Love (17 page)

“You . . . are no gentleman,” she told him once she’d swallowed.

“Never claimed to be.”

Amalie had to admit that truth as she reached for one of the hunks of bread they’d brought. It was hard-baked into a fist-sized roll, but once she stabbed a thumb through the side she found the interior soft, moist, and tender.

“Perhaps this treatment is more effective,” he informed her.

“What treatment?”

“Ignoring me. Turning away. Making a man . . . wonder.”

“Wonder no more, dearest Thayne. I am turning away. If there was another place to sit, I’d take it.” Amalie put a bite of bread into her mouth with a delicate motion.

“There’s one on Jamie’s lap now. ’Tis probably due to you.”

Amalie gasped and looked beyond Thayne toward the end of the table. She immediately wished it undone. The laird was definitely watching her, his complete regard taking the moisture from her mouth and making it difficult to swallow. He didn’t have either of the young girls with him anymore.

“He likes his wenches young . . . true. But he also likes bonny. I’m thinking he’s full in agreement to me that nae lass here fares well in comparison to the beauty of my wife.”

“Thayne—”

The name came out as choked as it sounded. He held out the ale flagon to her.

“I already told you. You’re safe. I guarantee it.”

Amalie took a sip of the liquid and then a full swallow. It was nearly all water. She looked over the rim of the tankard at Thayne. He was drinking watered-down ale. Not whiskey. “This isn’t ale.”

He smirked. “Untrue. ’Tis na’ aged enough. I believe they opened the wrong keg for me.”

Amalie studied him for a moment. “Very smart, Thayne MacGowan. I still don’t agree with your manipulations, but it is smart.”

The smirk disappeared. “You should look more angered at me,” he said.

“Why?”

“My brother.”

Amalie resisted the temptation to look past him toward Jamie again, although that’s probably what Thayne wanted.

“What do you hope to gain, Thayne? I’ll not bed him. Ever.”

“I’d na’ allow it. I’ve already said as much.”

The words sent the biggest sensation of warmth she’d ever experienced. It pumped through her, accompanying every beat of her heart. She was afraid it showed. With his next words, she knew it. And even if she guessed he spoke only to wipe the emotion from her face, it still hurt. Painfully.

“I’ve an aversion to his leavings. Or dinna’ you hear earlier? He has the pox.”

“I . . . heard.”

The warmth was being suffused with cold. Coming from the calculation behind Thayne’s answer and the lack of emotion he had when saying it. Her expression must be what he wanted for he nodded slightly.

“I want to go home.” She did; with every fiber of her being.

“You said that afore. Answer’s the same. You belong with me now. You
are
home.”

Her eyes were filling with tears. Despite every control she put on it. It didn’t work and nothing seemed to change. She was still sitting beside a Highland brute, being ogled by their chieftain, and ready to sob over homesickness. Thayne took the tankard from her hands and set it back on the table. It was probably because it had tipped. Amalie couldn’t help that, either. She’d lost sensation in her fingers.

“Now you decide to cry?” he asked in a soft voice. He had his head turned toward her, as well.

“I never cry!”

“’Tis verra bright of you. Perhaps even better than a slap.”

“What?”

“Keeping my brother’s interest.”

He shoved a half-roll into his mouth and started chewing as if he’d said nothing of importance. Amalie blinked until the table focused and the blur faded. She narrowed her lashes a bit.

“Why would you want that?” she asked him before he shoved another bite in.

“He’s the laird. His word is law. Literal law.”

“You don’t always obey.”

“You note that, did you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m his brother. We’ve fought.”

“You’ve . . . fought?”

Thayne nodded.

“And won?”

Thayne nodded again.

“That’s why everyone obeys you more than him?”

“You note that, too?”

Amalie nodded and went pensive for a bit. “Do you fight often?”

“Only when challenged.”

“Challenged?”

“Aye. Jamie oft issues challenges, especially when he’s in his cups and I’m in possession of something he wants. Right now it’s my newly acquired wife.”

“I don’t want to hear another word, Thayne MacGowan. Truly.”

“I believe our ploy is working. My thanks.”

“What ploy?”

“It appears I may give you over without a fight. And you’d na’ mind it overmuch.”

Amalie waited another moment. And then she slapped him.

Chapter 12

Amalie hated admitting it, but this Highlander had more than manly beauty and immense brawn. He was intelligent and cunning, too. That fact was in his brother’s yell for more whiskey, using a voice full of merriment. Amalie didn’t look toward the head of the table. She didn’t need to. She could guess Jamie’s expression. And his regard. And felt it for what seemed hours before he literally dropped off his stool. If he’d been sober, he’d have felt the pain of landing on an injured shoulder. As it was, he lay in a heap until three of his men hauled him around a blanket wall and into the other side of the croft. There he got dumped atop a pallet, where snores ensued from his complete stupor . . . without causing harm to either of the innocent girls. And without any fight.

Amalie looked over at the odorous lump that was Jamie MacGowan, dimly lit by firelight slipping beneath and around the blanket wall. He didn’t look frightening or menacing, or anything resembling a man in command of his entire world. And nothing like a man who could take another’s possession just because he wanted it.

Jamie MacGowan hadn’t moved from how they’d placed him; on his back, limbs spread. His arms and legs weren’t on the pallet, but once Amalie had gone to her assigned spot, she realized why. They had small pallets. Neither MacGowan brother would fit, unless he slept sideways, curled around his wife and babe, in a protective fashion. The moment Amalie thought about her current position, she banished it. She didn’t want Thayne MacGowan curled about her for any reason; although . . . it did make for comfort and warmth and a bit of tingle deep within her whenever she sensed a breath touching her neck.

Fool.

That’s exactly what she was. She should be fast asleep. The ride alone would’ve decimated her strength. The sup and drink should’ve made certain of it. She should be fast asleep. That way she wouldn’t care how each of Jamie’s snores reverberated through the structure, vying with the wind for strength and sound. Amalie told herself that’s what kept her awake. It was impossible to rest with such noise. And then she tried to believe it.

She pulled the bundle in her arms upward toward her nose. The infant’s nurse had seen to the babe and fresh linens wrapped her. There’d been a lot of sighs and soft voices about wee bairns and sweetness when an entire grouping of women brought the babe to Amalie. That was a signal of some kind, for once Amalie took the child they’d scampered away, climbing to the loft above. If that was their sleeping area, it was well designed. The rounded roof created little if any standing area, but it was probably warm and secure. It appeared to have a sturdy floor made from rough-hewn planks, like their table. Amalie slid her head slightly, tipping her chin as she looked at the shadow of assembled wood above her head.

Apparently, the Scots built well. This building looked sturdy, with log splits in the walls and dried peat filling any gaps between. It held the warmth from their fireplace and seemed impervious against the spring storm raging outside. She surmised this curtained-off area was reserved for guests and those clansmen too inebriated to walk across the grounds to their own crofts. Whatever the function, the room was close to the fire. Amalie had to admit it was warm. But she suspected being snuggled against Thayne gained that.

She stifled a yawn and thought sleepily about his Castle Gowan. According to Thayne’s last whisper, they’d arrive mid-day. If the weather cleared enough for the ride and the new snow allowed passage. Amalie wondered if the castle had the same stoutness of construction or even enough volume and status to quantify it as a castle. Or if they had any of the amenities most homes were being fit with nowadays. She hoped she wouldn’t look overdressed and over-elegant as Miss Carsten. Amalie settled further against Thayne. He tightened his arm as if he felt it, but nothing in his breathing changed.

Nobody told her how angry Jamie would be once he woke. Nor how vicious his words and the volume he said them. Nor how dark the looks he’d send her way once he’d stumbled to his feet and started bellowing in rage, startling even the soundest sleeper and making the babe wail. Amalie did her best to stay out of his way, standing on shaky feet to wrap the blanket fully about her, before leaving to find the babe’s wet-nurse outside their curtain, and then sitting on a long bench against the wall. She stayed hunched into a ball in a tartan, wondering where Thayne had gone to while watching the women prepare breakfast.

Jamie noticed his brother’s absence. He filled the air with taunts and threats from behind the curtained partition, even as women hurried there, burdened with large tankards of whiskey and fresh fried gruel cakes. Amalie didn’t know how they managed to salve the laird’s bad humor and didn’t want to know. It was enough that sounds of slurping and giggling accompanied the silence.

She had her own grilled cake half eaten when Thayne finally made an appearance, stepping into the building long enough to gain her attention. Then he gestured for her without one word of explanation. And it got worse. Amalie instantly obeyed.

“Hie to the stables. Get atop my horse. Sean waits to assist.”

“Where are you going?” Amalie whispered.

“After my own meal. Be quiet and hurry!”

“Why?”

“Grant and the menfolk are returned. We’ve nae need of Jamie’s company. And he has less for ours.”

“Then . . . why are we sneaking about?”

“My brother’s na’ dense. He suspicions the trick played on him. He sounds angered enough to fight over it.”

“Fight?”

“Save the words for when we’ve gone. Quick now. Afore he spots me.”

“I don’t understand this fear.”

Thayne stood to his tallest, gaining every eye and then puffed out his chest to make certain of it. “I am na’ afraid,” he replied.

“Then what?”

He could pretend to be stubborn, but Amalie Ellin was well-known for it. She went to her tallest, making her head level with his chin, tipped her head back and glared back at him with the same expression he was using.

“Can you save this argue?”

“Admit you’re afraid first.”

He made fists of his hands and blew air over her, deflating his chest slightly. Amalie wasn’t the only one to sigh in appreciation. She actually heard some of it happening in the room behind her.

“I’ve got the bairn to consider.”

“Not . . . me?” Amalie cursed the little voice but that didn’t stop it.

“Can you just obey? Please? This once?”

This once?
He wanted her to obey always; without explanation, and usually with the threat of force. She didn’t answer, but hoped it was conveyed in the look she gave him, before she stepped around him and obeyed.

He’d be glad to reach Castle Gowan, more so than ever.

Thayne decided it as the horse plodded through another bit of crusted snow. They’d started as a mounted band of four, leading more than a score of riderless horses that Sean and Little Mac controlled. There was no need of an escort on MacGowan land, yet the further they traveled the more clansmen appeared about them. It was due to the pipers atop every hill, their tunes interspersed with the fog that came from newly fallen snow battling spring sun.

It was slow going, but that was Thayne’s fault. He could’ve stayed longer. Grant and all the men had returned. His cousin had a surfeit of hospitality, food, drink, and shelter. Staying at the croft would give the sun time to thaw and then dry the ground. As well as giving everyone time to rest. It had been tempting, but dangerous. Any time spent in Jamie’s company was.

It would be different at the castle. Once there, Jamie would have to contend with his wife, a woman ten years senior to her husband, and a dominant force to be reckoned with. That’s what came of wedding a Douglas clanswoman claiming a mass of bloodthirsty clansmen at her beck and call. But that was Jamie’s fault when he’d been but twenty. Wedding her was the penalty for being caught abed with her in the first place.

Thayne shook his head. Jamie had a decade of wedded life with his harridan of a wife. It still amazed everyone who met her. The Duchess of MacGowan was a thin, lined, sharp-nosed, sharp-tongued shrew. Always had been. Thayne wasn’t the lone one to wonder what force of nature she’d used to get Jamie MacGowan into her bed in the first place. No doubt she’d used whiskey.

There were other reasons to be gratified at reaching the castle: Support. Sanity. Reason. Thayne wasn’t afraid of fighting Jamie, despite Amalie’s taunt. He was afraid of killing him. The four times they’d fought, Thayne won. The last time, he’d been nigh impossible to stop, pummeling his brother into a lump of raw flesh and muck. That was over Mary. Thayne had issued a warning as they’d pulled him off. Jamie wouldn’t survive a fifth contest. Should he force it, it would be on the list within Castle Gowan’s walls, with complete fairness and irreproachable witnesses.

Thayne would also appreciate a real bed beneath him. The canopied structure he slept within held an oversized mattress, stuffed with goose-down and straw. He’d seen it constructed four years back when his status became apparent with every one of Jamie’s still-birthed offspring. Thayne MacGowan was the heir. Nothing Jamie or his duchess could do altered that.

Thayne just wished it had been enough to make Mary wed with him instead of that wretch, Dunn-Fyne.