A Perfect Knight For Love (20 page)

“Does . . . your brother have to follow her fashion?”

“Why do you think he drinks so much?”

Amalie caught the slight smile on his face, and then matched it. She met his eyes, had the sound of her pulse crescendo in each ear cancelling out the drone of pipes and drums and humanity all about them, and that sent streams of heat rippling all through her. Everywhere. The feeling surging through her was immense; larger than the castle; bigger than breath. It stunned. Electrified. Awed. There was just this moment. This one time. This wonderment that began with shared humor before moving to fusion with him. And then it was gone. Thayne flicked his glance to her lips before scrunching his eyes, shutting her out. Amalie felt it and sobered instantly.

There was nothing in his eyes when he opened them again and she did her best to match that expression.

“Come. Enough dallying and history. I’ve a sup to be ordering. And then a bath. I may even join you.”

He had to feel her gasp, even as she kept it from sounding.

Chapter 14

She was actually grateful Thayne didn’t let her walk. She’d been dreading going on display with sodden material as her lone covering, while the amount of people made it difficult to make any kind of headway. Perched in Thayne’s arms, she could feel him push through, crossing the span of courtyard to the Norman Keep. The crowd noise seemed to get worse once they walked up at least twenty steps. Amalie lost count as Thayne climbed, using his good leg first and pulling the injured one along. And then he walked beneath a thick arch supporting the doorframe, across a room with wood floor that pounded with the amount of boots striding on it, and down four wide stone steps into a voluminous space lit by torches high against rock walls and fires glowing from cavernous fireplaces spaced about the walls. If her mouth wasn’t slack, it would have been at the sight.

“The original great hall.”

Thayne informed her, although she hadn’t asked. He proceeded to walk into the chamber, limping noticeably the farther they progressed. He stopped when it appeared they’d reached midpoint. The room seemed poorly furnished with long tables and benches widely spaced between them, but there wasn’t any amount of furniture that wouldn’t seem sparse and dwarfed; exactly as every man there looked. Diminutive. Insignificant. Thayne stepped atop a bench and then moved higher onto what looked to be the surface of a long table. Then he turned about and without warning started sending orders about the throng. Amalie’s gasp got absorbed by acoustics belonging to a cathedral. The room had to be three stories or more in height. Otherwise, his voice wouldn’t resound from every corner. Nor would the answers he got, all said in clipped male voices that echoed atop each other into a blend of noise.

“Is my Honor Guard present?” Thayne asked.

“Aye.”

Several male voices chorused it, making a crescendo of baritone.

“The Lady Mary?” The query contained the slightest warble in it. Amalie felt her heart ping a missed beat.

“Lying in state in the chapel. Per your instructions.”

“Trouble?”

“Only . . . with Her Grace.”

Thayne took a moment to digest that information. So did Amalie.

“Services?”

“This Sabbath.”

Thayne grunted, sending a rumbling through her with it. “Nursery?”

“In order. Nanny’s auld but willing. ‘Anything for my Thayne,’ she said.” The last was parodied in a querulous, old woman voice.

Thayne smirked. “That you, Rory?”

“Aye.”

“See to settling the bairn. Her wet-nurse, as well. My chambers?”

“Readied. Have been since yester-eve when you dinna’ appear.”

“We hit a bit of storm, Michael. And afore that a scuffle with Dunn-Fyne.”

“That where you get the extra horseflesh?”

“Aye.”

“And your wound?”

“Dunn-Fyne tosses a mean blade.”

Thayne didn’t answer it. A glance showed the remark had come from Sean, standing on the bench just below them.

“’Twas luck we got to be safe and dry and warm here at the castle. With naught save saddle sores for our trouble.”

“That you, Edgar?”

“Aye.”

“For that you can ride to Ian MacGruder’s croft. Fetch his sire to my side. Take Alex with you.”

“Me? Why do I have to go?”

“You’re his brother,” Thayne replied.

There was a bit of grunting and groaning, and odd-sounding noises like slapping, before that batch of noise dissipated.

“Come along then, Michael. We’ll take you . . . six with us. Now!”

“Pellin!”

Thayne didn’t have to use the volume he did, but Amalie suspected he was speaking loudly to supplant the grumbling as men left the room.

“Present.”

“See sup fetched to my chamber. Warmed. Fresh. Make certain of it.”

“I’ll cook up one myself.”

Thayne grunted a reply, tightened his arms about Amalie almost imperceptibly, and then barked another name. “Gannett?”

“Aye!”

“See to fetching a bath. Make sure to heat it. In my chambers.”

“You’re taking . . . a bath?” There was a collective bit of laughter.

“Nae. ’Tis for the wife. And warm the towels, as well.”

Amalie turned her head away, putting her cheek against Thayne’s neck so the blush wouldn’t be so noticeable. And then the blare of a horn came so quick and sharp even Thayne jumped, making the structure they were atop tremble as it took the brunt of it.

“’Tis Her Grace!”

Someone probably whispered it but the room echoed it into a declaration. Amalie turned her head and peeked.

Thayne hadn’t been descriptive enough, but she was already learning that of him. He said what he meant and didn’t waste words. Amalie watched as two rows of manservants formed, all of them sporting white powdered wigs atop their heads. They were adorned in green, form fitting velvet frock-coats and black satin breeches, with stockings so white they glowed light blue. Each man held aloft a long-handled torch. The man who’d blown the horn stood at the front of the cavalcade. He put his head back and yelled into the silence.

“All prepare to attend Her Grace, the Duchess of MacGowan!”

A woman stepped between the servants, proceeding with small slow steps into the room. Her progress was based on how quickly the farthest man could move to the front, making loops about each side to re-form the front of the lines, highlighting every step of the way with their torches.

“Sean? Take the wife and see her to my chamber. Now!”

Amalie didn’t get another look at the duchess’s approach. She wasn’t given the option. She wasn’t even given advance warning as Thayne tossed her to his man. She barely kept the scream as Sean caught her. Then he dropped down amidst the other clansmen and moved away, shouldering his way to the far end of the room and obscurity.

Thayne stepped down to the floor slowly, ignoring the wrench of his buttock wound. Once he reached floor, he waved the clansmen about him to part for the procession. He had to. MacGowan men were pressing together the closer Jamie’s wife got, forming a human shield. They’d done it before, and that had gained him a command appearance to her chambers, which was far worse.

The duchess was dressed in what was probably the height of French court fashion, her dress of light yellow satin looked studded with jewels and draped with ribbon. She had a wide neckline running the tops of her arms and skimming a bosom. Or what would be a bosom if the woman actually possessed one. She wore the MacGowan emeralds. Large, perfectly faceted stones linked with diamonds flashed from where they perched atop the twin bony projections of her collarbone. The same stones glittered from the tiara atop her curled powdered wig. Her hairdresser had left two ringlets loose in a provocative manner, to caress each revealed shoulder. Her attire and entourage reeked of wealth and privilege and power.

It was completely wasted.

Thayne smirked slightly and caught more than a few chuckles and jostling from about him. She shouldn’t take such time progressing across a floor. It gave the observers time to study her and come to the same conclusions. The woman was ugly-plain. Stick-thin. Aged . . . and wholly vain.

He knew of her wig despite how closely she guarded the secret. He’d been told about her thinning reddish-gray hair. He wasn’t one for gossip, but some of the duchess’s servants were fine-looking women and his Honor Guard weren’t immune to listening to tales of the duchess, as long as it came with a kiss or two. No one needed to bandy tales, however. The Duchess of MacGowan was unattractive, with pale eyes of a watered blue shade, light blond eyebrows and lashes, and a thin narrow nose that ended with a distinctive hook. That, combined with a recessed chin, couldn’t be disguised. Nor could her dressmaker conceal her lack of womanly curves. The woman was plain, awkward-boned, and sharp-tongued. It was just as evident now as it was ten years ago when Jamie had first brought her.

“Thayne MacGowan has returned. At last.”

They’d reached him, the amount of scuffling stopped, and she stepped to the front of her enclosure, tipping an open fan onto her revealed chest as she curtseyed. She said his name in a throaty tone that grated worse than a screech would. At least to his ears.

“Your grace.” He tipped his head slightly.

“I was to be informed of your return.”

She stepped closer to him, slanting her head to peer at him through artificially darkened lashes.

“Verra well . . . I’ve returned. You’re informed.”

“Wait!”

He’d turned to forestall any further conversation with her, but a skeletal hand grabbed at his upper arm. Thayne forced the instant knot of muscle to relax as her fingers groped him. His jaw locked and he narrowed his eyes to look above where she hovered at chin level. It helped, but not by much.

“I was to be informed the
moment
you returned.”

She turned her voice into a sultry tone to match the skim of her fingers as she moved them about his arm. Thayne ignored it. She flicked her fan about her face and shoulders with little rapid-speed motions.

“I’ve things that need seen to. And nae doubt, you have guests at your fest.”

He toyed with pulling from her grasp but kept it at bay. There were too many watching. Thayne hoped the rising flush was hidden, although according to Sean, her interest was no secret to his Honor Guard. Thayne hoped that’s the furthest the news extended.

“I did as you bade . . . Thayne.”

She took a skimmed step closer, flooding his nostrils with perfume that mixed with the powder atop her head. He turned away and held his breath to delay the reaction. It failed. The sneeze echoed through the chamber, causing more than a few chuckles. It also involuntarily tensed his frame and both arms. That just gained him a further clutch of her fingers about him.

“Oh my . . .” Her voice matched the complete cling of her hand, now kneading the flesh she held.

“What do you want?”

“You already ken.”

She’d moved closer still, and went taller somehow, puffing out her meager chest for display as if it were something to be desired. The area above her neckline was moving rapidly as if she panted for air as well. Her fan was increasing the issue as it stirred the air, drying his eyes. Thayne’s lips thinned.

“Thayne.”

He moved his free hand to hers and squeezed. Hard. He’d had enough of this display at his expense. He watched her eyes widen a fraction before she looked down. He was afraid he’d be cracking bone before she released him. He was already turning when her next words stopped him.

“I thought you desired Lady Mary interred here.”

“Those were my instructions,” he answered.

“Well then, you owe me for allowing them.”

Thayne swiveled back to face her, pulled to his full height, and crossed his arms. It didn’t do what he wished. She didn’t look intimidated. She looked even more interested. He watched her eyes drop to his chest before moving back to his face. She licked her lips and the fan moved faster, ruffling wisps of hair that sent more powder into the air. With all the torchlight she’d brought, the flecks were easy to see as they floated, some rising, and some settling back onto her. Thayne watched it all without expression.

“She should be interred in her husband’s crypt. I can still have a message sent to him. In fact . . . I might have already sent one.”

The words were clipped and short. Her voice had turned ugly and spiteful. This was familiar territory. As such it merited little more than a smirk.

“There’s nae husband alive to read it,” he informed her.

“You killed her husband?”

Thayne nodded.

“For abusing her?”

“Nae. I did it for sport.”

Her gasp would’ve been satisfying, except it had all been done before. He’d deal first with her grasping ways; this obsession; the barely concealed lust for him—and only him. That would get answered with his refusal, and then he’d get veiled threats, anger, and then her hatred. He used to pretend ignorance. Now he used bluntness and shock. This was wasting time he needed for something else. He had a full, naked dunking in the loch to take, a change of attire to don, a sup to eat, and a wife to bed.

In that order.

“Wait!”

“Now what?”

Her voice had risen to near scream level, causing him to pivot involuntarily. He winced slightly at the flare through his buttock with the move.

“Have you seen Jamie . . . I mean His Grace?”

“Na’ since this morn.”

“Is he coming back this eve?”

Thayne sighed heavily, watched her look at how it had increased his chest while he did it and mentally added extra dunking time in the loch. It was the only way to feel clean.

“He dinna’ say. I dinna’ ask. Now, leave. I’ve things to see to.”

“Like that wench you brought?”

Thayne sucked in one side of his cheek as he considered her. He’d been told her eyesight was failing. How she squinted to see her own needlework, adding to the lines all about her face. How she relied on her closest maid for her dressing, her cosmetics, and the perfection of her costume. He didn’t think it a lie, which meant when Sean had carried Amalie, his wife had looked womanly even while using bad eyes. Or Amalie had looked womanly when they’d arrived, held in his arms and swathed in a blanket atop his horse. The duchess had probably already been informed before he reached the stables by one of the spies she paid.