A Perfect Knight For Love (18 page)

Thayne shifted again on the saddle, silently groaning at the pain from his wound. His new wife settled right back into the space against him as though it was special made for her. She was sleeping, curved into a lean that put her head atop his arm and her buttocks fully against him, tempting him . . . if he wasn’t constantly on guard for it. Thayne tensed against the urge, and when that didn’t work, tried ignoring it by pondering things such as chivalry.

This rescue wasn’t to take long. Or any lives. Mary had sent her missive for aid and he’d gone to her. It shouldn’t have denigrated into primitive barbarity. He wasn’t to gain a babe . . . and definitely not a wife.

Thayne had more to face. He had to see the bairn baptized, her birth recorded in the family bible, as well as this marriage. He had to oversee Mary’s interment in the family crypt. He braced automatically for the heavy stone-feel about his heart that always came from thoughts of Mary, and then had to work at feeling it over everything else.

Odd...

Thayne looked out at the loch-filled vista, sparkling with sun on frost-fog, pulled his wife more securely against him, and blinked against a defensive wash of moisture from the bright view. He’d also be glad to reach the castle for a purely primal reason as well. He wanted time alone with this woman. In his huge canopied bed. It was probably a good thing she decided to sleep the afternoon away. If he had any say in it, she was going to be up most of the night.

It took longer than usual to round Loch Lingow. The ground about the lake was loose and shifted wherever his horse stepped, making it treacherous. That took his entire attention, which stopped the ponderings of his actions, but did nothing for the advancing power of lust. Nothing. Thayne had to admit it. He’d been cursed and its name was Amalie. Thayne pulled back into the saddle, pushed his filled sporran between them, and awakened his wife with the move.

And that cursed him even more.

This Amalie had beautiful light-brown eyes; the color of well-aged ale, fringed with lashes a shade or two darker than her hair. Thayne avoided looking into them, held his jaw tight as she looked him over, and then lost out. At the eye contact, he couldn’t prevent his body’s full pulse of movement, sending more blood to his groin, and that just got him more lust and more want and more need. Along with her consideration on all of it. Within scant moments, he could tell she’d assigned meaning to his motion and was preparing to use it. He moved his gaze to the view. It was better to look ahead.

“Sleep well?”

He cleared his throat to ask it, then fought a flush from happening throughout his chest, rising to his cheeks, and probably making his ears as red as the MacGowan plaid color. It didn’t stay the twinge of his loins against his sporran, nor the fact she could feel it against her hip. And all because she didn’t do anything other than look at him, as if studying him.

“Oddly enough . . . yes.”

He could curse the instant glance he made down to her eyes, but that didn’t stop it. Or change it. Or mute it. Or grant him relief from their locked gaze. Or anything other than give him more problems from his own body.

“I-I’ve never . . . slept . . . atop a horse.”

“Nae?” The word came out rough, like he chewed on pebbles.

“I don’t know why I slept so soundly. . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Her gaze didn’t. Then she added to the torture with the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her upper lip. Thayne sent his gaze away, but not before another surge of want centered at his groin, pushing his sporran farther into her hip, although he pulled back and went to a forward angle to prevent it. And then bit back the cry at the movement on his wound.

He couldn’t answer and she didn’t act like she expected one. She didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at him with those beautiful, bottomless, deep eyes.

He could tell her why she’d slept so well. Exhaustion was known to cause it. He only wished it worked with him. And on this lust emotion. He’d been awake a good portion of last night, encased in places his mind wandered and his body couldn’t. Yet. He should’ve taken care of their tupping when he had the chance. Then maybe he wouldn’t be suffering now. Nothing worked much as a dampener, either. Not even his wound. Thayne cleared his throat again. It didn’t do much. He still sounded like he’d swallowed rocks.

“You need a rest?” she asked. There was a mischievous lilt to her words, making his flush worse.

“Nae. We’ve lost time.”

“Time?”

“We’ll na’ make Castle Gowan afore sup.”

“Sup?”

“Aye. Sup. As much as I despise it.”

“Please don’t tell me we have to playact with Jamie . . . again? Not every night. No. Please? And if so, I’m retreating to my rooms and staying there.”

“Nae need. Jamie has his duchess to control him. ’Tis the formalness of the affair I detest.”

“Formal? Did I hear right? Formal? The MacGowan clan?”

Amusement colored the words. Or sarcasm. He decided amusement was the better choice.

“The duchess is a Douglas. Schooled at court. French court. She’s set the castle on the French style. I doona’ find it to my liking. Na’ many do.”

“Right.”

It wasn’t amusement after all. It sounded more like skepticism and disbelief. Thayne glanced at her before looking back at the loch surface, squinting at the reflection of sun on water; calm and clear, without a hint of wind-ruff.

“’Tis usual to rest at this end of Loch Lingow. To . . . dress presentable.” His voice sounded defensive to his own ears. But, at least it sounded like him.

“What . . . constitutes presentable? To a Highland castle run by a duchess schooled in the French court?”

Sarcasm and mirth carried clearly through those words. Thayne glanced at her before looking away. That’s when he decided she could just find out for herself. She obviously had the Sassenach’s viewpoint of a Highlander, and he had to admit, her experience so far would seem to justify it. She was in for a surprise. They were already in glimpsing distance of the castle now around every bend, if the warmth of midday hadn’t created a layer of mist to hover about the loch’s surface. He was going to find it very pleasant to watch her reaction when she did see it.

There were two main approaches to the castle. The landward side came over Mount Greaven from Inverness. There was a well-planned and built road, maintained as weather allowed. Arriving from that direction, a visitor looking down at the castle could appreciate the symmetry, if not the design. They could also see the six towers, two barbican walls—each one about a bailey—as well as appreciate the size, if not the full scope. The majesty of Castle Gowan was only apparent up close, where one could see three-story-high crenellated walls, and experience a thickness of twenty-seven feet of rock at the ground level. The mountain approach also highlighted the jewel-like setting of his home.

That was the direction Thayne’s Honor Guard should’ve taken when spiriting Mary’s body here. Thayne had taken the other way, around the loch. This way could be treacherous, as run-off from uncountable burns made all but the rockiest ground unstable, except in high summer. It couldn’t be helped. He’d made the decision upon Mary’s death and the fates could simply abide it.

This path took more time, however, since the path wove in and out of inlets and through forests bordering the loch. It also meant the castle would first be seen from well below it, where the eye could look up at a wall of rock rising approximately six stories above the lake surface. Thayne’s forebears had built for strategic reasons, and more than once slain bodies of their enemies had dangled from those same ramparts.

Castle Gowan was situated at the confluence of two lochs, the spit of land going to an island when the tides were in. Such positioning made a well conceived defensive barrier. Constructed of rock quarried from Mount Greaven, the castle had an undeniable presence. And it was still intact; a rarity after Cromwell turned the cannons of the Covenanters onto most other strongholds. Castle Gowan held a unique position, for it was inaccessible by seagoing vessel. The Norsemen who’d conceived and begun it hadn’t built it for staving off further raids by rogue Vikings. They’d built to hold gained lands against Thayne’s ancestors, the Picts.

All of which made a historically significant, immense, and formidable fortress-like castle, silhouetted against the backdrop of darkening sky. The castle sat atop like-shaded rock, surrounded by a waterscape of deep blue and deeper aqua-green. Being at the base of Mount Greaven shadowed the castle each morn, but if the sun participated, the walls would be lit like old gold with every sunset, while the polished glass in every window refracted light like multifaceted gems.

To be from the clan claiming such a stronghold never failed to send a trill of shiver down Thayne’s spine. This was no exception. Castle Gowan was in his blood, just as the land and clans were. He’d inherit it, God willing. Or his sons would.

His sons?

For the first time he got full measure of what had happened. His sons were to have been Mary’s. Or . . . when Mary wouldn’t have him, Thayne hadn’t cared who the mother of his progeny was, as long as they were Scot. He hadn’t fought the MacKennah betrothal. The MacKennah lass would do as well as any other once she reached the age of maturity. Her clan may be poor, but their antecedents went back as far in time as his did. Maybe further. And with them, a shared hatred of anything English.

No man destined to be a Highland clan chieftain would wed a Sassenach, especially without clan approval. And here, Thayne had done both. And worse: He couldn’t find much regret over it. He bowed his head and got a nose full of Amalie’s scent. God help him, but she was such a bonny one! Anyone getting a look at her might excuse his weakness. They’d never forgive it, even given her attributes, but they might understand it. The lass possessed massive feminine charms and the ability to wield them.

Blast and damn—!

The instant he thought it his loins harkened, pounding lust through his belly yet again. Thayne tightened his buttocks to stay it and that sent an unwilling groan as the flesh of his injury jolted. All of it made him slant forward, pushing the lass’s head from his shoulder. And that just got him her unrelenting amber gaze again. Which just got him another round of flush.

Lord, but he’d be glad to reach the castle.

Chapter 13

They’d traveled what seemed hours, silent and steady, while Thayne trembled occasionally, groaned, and more than once resettled into his saddle, adjusting the part of him she was studiously ignoring, while at the same time wondering if a man couldn’t control it any better than this. Not that she had knowledge, of course. All she had were the aborted moments in the shepherd croft—and that in the dark—with absolutely nothing between her nakedness and his except pure, unadulterated sensation.

That reminder jolted her slightly and had her scrunching her nether region against an itch she refused to acknowledge. Admitting to it meant she’d have to deal with it, and avoiding reality was one of her most insufferable traits according to her father. Amalie added to that. The Earl of Ellincourt had been backed in his opinion by her governesses—all three of them. As well as the elderly great-aunt who’d agreed to chaperone her entry into society. And probably everyone else who knew her well enough to have an opinion. Amalie Ellin avoided anything to do with truth and reality. Always had.

It was better than the alternative.

She blew the resigned sigh through her nose. She had to admit being atop a horse, held in a Scotsman’s arms without opportunity to escape, and thrilling at the thought of what he’d told her would happen tonight, fully substantiated everyone’s opinion of her. Running away to Scotland had been without substance and devoid of reality. All of which was definitely an insufferable trait.

Thayne’s bag-thing touched her again and started a tremor through him at the contact. Amalie pulled away as far as she could. It didn’t seem to be far enough. That was just confusing. As if he had no control over . . .
it.
That couldn’t be normal. Could it? How was she to know? Nothing about any of the men she’d met, danced with, or accompanied to supper could be described as unable to control their man part. Or even indicated they possessed one.

That got her to wondering. About Thayne MacGowan, and the amount of maleness he wielded so easily and thoughtlessly. The act between man and woman couldn’t possibly be as horrid as her great-aunt alluded, covering her mouth with a handkerchief as she whispered on it the one time. It couldn’t be . . . or why would Amalie still have tingling deep in her belly? A rush of warmth? Shivers? The instant rise of her pulse beat? And there was worse. Her symptoms seemed to increase the closer they got to his castle.

Tonight.

Not only were the two days he’d given her over but they’d probably have privacy, as well. Whatever these barbarians considered a castle, it was bound to be private; secure and stout . . . and inescapable. It would probably contain food of some kind or another, too. That was a grand thought and Amalie’s belly growled with hunger.

“We’ll be arriving . . . in time for sup? Isn’t that what you said?”

She pulled from the comfortable berth she’d assumed against him and looked up, and that created a gap in her words. Since the storm had seemed to precipitate the clear warmth of a sun-filled day, she shouldn’t be surprised to find a golden haze of sunset on his features. It wasn’t possible to keep her wits when facing a man straight from her own fantasies. Sculptured with a master’s hand and hewn from flesh-covered rock. He had his hair tied back but strands had escaped, trailing to his shoulders, while aqua-shaded eyes held hers for long moments and the horse simply kept a slow walk, swaying them against each other. It was incredible. Impossible. She couldn’t move. Think. Blink.

This reaction couldn’t be all her fault. That was too unfair to contemplate. Thayne had to be the most beautiful male birthed or the pagan gods had released one of their own to earth. Amalie finally moved her vision to his chest where a shirt should be, then to his shoulders. Arms. Hands . . .