A Perfect Knight For Love (38 page)

The duchess was finally speechless. She also looked paler than any paint. She might even be weak-kneed, if her grip on the stair railing was an indication. Both hands looked like claws wrapped about it. Amalie waited for her to answer, and when nothing was forthcoming, she nodded. It was the perfect ending for a play. Perfect. Edmund would have been proud.

Chapter 26

Nobody had warned her about the aftereffects of truly acting a part . . . nor that there was a price to pay. Amalie sat in the big bed and watched as Maves poured her another mug of warmed mead. There’d been a feeling of euphoria that lasted clear through the evening, chattering with Angus and his family—which included the sharp-tongued nanny. The woman still didn’t appear fond of Amalie, but she did smile once. Then, after bidding everyone a good eve, had come exhaustion. Tiredness had rolled over her like a wet bog slide, making it a near impossible feat to reach her rooms, and another one to prepare for bed. That’s when indecision and anxiety set in. She replayed every moment through her head enough times to set her teeth to grinding.

She’d done the wrong thing, said the wrong words, offended those she needed to admire . . . done something wrong. And the worst was claiming to know Thayne had already escaped. What devil had stolen her wits, making her say something so patently false? The night hadn’t held any answers, and the morn gave more of the same. Maves called for her early, telling her the elders requested a conference with her. They were waiting in the chieftain room. As if she truly was a Highland chieftain of such a wide-flung clan.

Amalie received Maves’s guidance without asking. With that, came another maid to assist with clothing her in suitable attire for such an event. Less than a quarter hour later she was escorted from her room, a tartan shawl atop her white muslin over-dress, an ecru-shaded linen chemise beneath that, thick-soled boots on her feet, while a lace-trimmed caplet sat atop her wound braids. She checked in the chamber mirror before leaving, wondering how ludicrous she appeared. The mirror must have been in on the fantasy. She didn’t look remotely English. Or weak. Or anxious. She looked official and in charge of any situation. Her heels had echoed off the stone steps of her wheel-stair, and after she’d been announced—with a long and extremely Scot-sounding name and title—those heels had echoed off the walls, pantomiming a confident, strong stride.

It was a lie. All of it felt like one, especially when Angus had opened the meeting by asking if she could give them Thayne’s location, so a scout could be sent out for him. Angus already had the lad picked out: his youngest grandson and namesake. The boy was twelve, but had a wiry strength that belied his age. He’d ride for Thayne and return with word afore nightfall. All they needed was the direction and length of ride. If she’d be forthcoming with the information, they’d be most appreciative.

Amalie had swallowed on the instant fright, clasped her hands in a grip that made her fingers white, and told them she didn’t see things as perfect as she wanted, when she saw them. One of the elders had asked if she were fey. Fey? The word must convey something appropriate and it was better to agree than look like the liar she was, so she nodded. And that had satisfied them.

Now, late into the night, she was sleepless and Maves hovered over her, worry in her every word and gesture. Amalie couldn’t tell the woman what was wrong. She’d even moved Baby Mary back to the nursery, so she wouldn’t be tainted by Amalie’s presence. She hadn’t known she’d feel this way from lying. There was self-hate . . . and there was disgust at her own actions. There was no way around it. She’d been lying to everyone for too long. From the moment she’d bargained with her father, the earl, over her trip to London and then stepped into Miss Carsten’s identity, she’d been lying. One more shouldn’t matter. But it did. And something else added in. It didn’t bother her that she’d lied. What bothered was that this particular one was bound to be discovered, and then she’d be exposed. And that was enough to keep a saint restless and haunted.

There was only one thing left to her. Prayer. It seemed to work before, but she wanted to be in the ancient Norman-designed chapel to do so. Nothing else seemed clean and hallowed and sacred enough.

So Amalie pretended sleep until Maves left, softly shutting the door after tapering all but one torch. It was easy to fool the maid. After all, lying and acting were what Amalie did best.

She couldn’t find a robe. The one she tried had too many sleeves, and then she found another aperture. Amalie threw it to the floor in disgust and swung a large tartan blanket thing around her shoulders instead. It was warm, and if she put it like a cowl atop her head, concealing. The floor in her chamber was cold. The one outside in the hall was even colder. She probably should’ve donned her new boots, or at least a pair of slippers. She wasn’t going back for them, though. The cold of a stone floor on bare feet could be more punishment.

She’d been wrong earlier. There was something much worse than waiting and worrying. Dread.

Pellin was handling the cooking. By the third bowl of stew, Thayne felt like his legs might actually hold him for the journey and his working arm would cooperate. They told him the stew was nothing more than week-old broth, added to with turnips, onions, and a good sprinkling of barley for thickening. Every bowl was accompanied by freshly fried oat-cakes almost too hot to touch. He’d shoveled in two with every bowl of stew. Everything he ate tasted like absolute ambrosia. It might have helped that they’d opened two kegs of mead the moment he’d arrived. The entire copse where they’d camped turned jovial, filled with energy and merriment and male boasts of strength and prowess, amid toasts to his continued health. It was impressive to watch. Heartwarming.

Mary Margaret didn’t agree. She’d given him a sour look that conveyed her disgust, before getting escorted to the MacGowan chieftain tent erected for Jamie, but was now his to claim. He didn’t care. She could have it. He wasn’t using it. After the second tankard of mead, he wasn’t doing much more than lying on his back looking at the smoke from their campfires as it drifted among the trees. Aside from which, his eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. His last conscious thought was how lucky he was with Amalie. She had a quick wit, perfect form and face, and a loving temperament to match. Mary Margaret was the complete opposite. Any man gaining Mary Margaret’s hand was in for a lifetime of scolding, nagging, and termagant manners. Yet somehow he’d avoided all of that by being there to make a catch.

He’d call it luck, but he didn’t have any except the bad kind.

He could get a cot. The ground was hard, cold, and slightly damp. He wasn’t moving. Any lingering pain from his injuries got muted nicely by either exhaustion or mead. It was heaven. Absolute, complete . . .

“Thayne! Quick, man!”

It seemed the next moment someone shoved at him, forcing him to open sand-filled eyes to a late afternoon sky, holding a lot of light for the amount of drizzle coming down from it. Thayne immediately swung, had his fist caught in a giant-sized grip and got hauled to his feet, where the idiot released him and forced him to make his knees cease wobbling, and in the next moment keep his head from flying off his shoulders with the pain that arced through it. Thayne howled with reaction, and slit his eyes to face MacPherson, looking broader and more immovable than ever.

“We’d . . . best be under attack!” Thayne cleared his throat to drop the octave after the first word. Otherwise, he sounded like he was whining, and damn it all, that was starting a worse thump in his head with the increased heartbeat that probably meant anger. Good thing. The emotion also seemed to pump life back into his deadened limbs and awareness into his fogged mind. It also made the pain from his myriad injuries start up, as if he needed the reminder.

“Angus is here. Rode all day. He’s got news for you!”

Thayne licked his lips, put his good hand on his hip, and glared over at MacPherson. “There are legions of Angus’s in the MacGowan clan! Be specific, man!”

“Angus MacGorrick.”

“Na’ likely, man. MacGorrick’s seventy if he’s a day. He should na’ even sit a horse, let alone ride it that far. Aside from which, he’s my senior clansman. He’s got the running of the clan until a MacGowan returns! The man would na’ shirk that duty.”

“Na’ the elder. His namesake and grandson.”

“He’s but a bairn.”

“True.” MacPherson grinned, splitting his beard with it. “But I would na’ call him that to his face. He’s a mite sensitive about such.”

“Well . . . if it’s of such all-fired import, you had to accost me, cease stalling and take me to him!”

Thayne took a step, wavered, and then took another, and before he crossed to the stabling ropes, he had his stride under control. Or was making a good showing of it. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d drunk too much. Or something.

The lad standing beside the horse looked too frail and young to have controlled it long enough to mount, let alone ride any distance. That alone was worth admiration. Thayne approached him, and the lad went to a knee in deference.

“Rise, and tell me this message that is so important, it brings you all the way out here, young Angus!”

“I-I-I . . .”

The lad stood, looked up at Thayne, and then stammered. He was hard-put not to shake the boy.

The lad stopped and swallowed. Everyone about seemed to be grinning.

“Take your time, lad. We’re na’ going anywhere. Someone should fetch him a bowl of stew and a tankard!”

The boy flushed, and then said two sentences that completely stopped Thayne’s heart.

“The castle is secure. And the duchess is leaving.”

Amalie is leaving me?

“Nae!”

The word burst from him, sounding more like a sob than he liked, and then Thayne knew exactly how much anger could fuel him, as everything went solid and real and perfectly tuned and energized.

“Get me a horse. A fast one. Now.”

“I’m riding with you.”

“Nae, MacPherson. You’ll slow me down.”

“Will na’!”

“Then stay because I need you to guard my rescuer.”

A horse materialized from the herd, saddled. Readied.

“You canna’ ride alone! We’re your Honor Guard!”

Someone was arguing. Thayne turned on him and snarled the answer. He didn’t waste time deciphering who it was. “Get Pellin, then. I’ll take him!”

“And face fare cooked by Grant?”

“Fetch . . . Thin Pells, then! He’s a grand horseman. Move!”

His tone galvanized them. Thayne watched through eyes that wouldn’t cease watering up. He blamed it on lack of sleep, over-imbibing of the mead, and the scratchy feel every time he blinked. Damn her! She was not leaving him. He wouldn’t let her. He’d chase her all the way to London if need be!

It seemed to take forever, but wasn’t more than a heartbeat of time before the short hefty figure of Thin Pells emerged from the mass at a jog. Good thing. Everything on Thayne was ready for the ride. He didn’t feel one bit of pain from anything other than where his heart was supposed to be. And blast it all! That hurt the worst.

He didn’t wait to see if Thin Pells was in the saddle before turning and kicking his stallion into a league-eating pace. Dusk fell about them, turning into mist and rain-choked night. It took all his concentration to stay in the saddle with only one workable arm, dodge obstacles, and still maintain speed. Thin Pells was with him every stride, sometimes taking the fore, when the path got too treacherous. Thayne would’ve argued that, but he was locking every bit of emotion close inside, so not one bit of the heartache could leach out. He’d thought it hurt when Mary MacGowan had jilted him for Dunn-Fyne. He’d been a fool. This hurt was gut-ripping and strength stealing. The only thing he could do was bury it. Send it to the lowest reaches of his core. And that only worked if his mind and body stayed focused on the ride.

Sentries spotted them as soon as they reached MacGowan land, recognizing and then sending the message out, using their bagpipes to telling effect. The swell of sound grew, apace with clan who came from their crofts, holding aloft torches to guide them. Thayne let Thin Pells take the lead, give the signals, make the path clear.

The castle was a huge black block of stone against a lighter blackness, the façade broken up by torchlight coming from the sentry posts. It was enough. They clattered down the wooden bridge, between the first gate towers, and across the drawbridge that got lowered without having to once break stride. The alert was getting sounded through the bailey as they crossed it, Thayne’s eyes seeing too much activity in the stables, while at least one cartload of goods looked ready to transport. He was in time.
Thank God
. Relief slammed into him, weakening him for a bare moment, before anger took its place. His Amalie expected payment, too?

His roar of anger had at least one of the clansmen milling about looking, and Thayne swallowed on the end of his shout. Rage was the perfect emotion, and much better than heartache. Thayne embraced it as they reached his keep, using the rage to shove from the saddle, ignore the reaction on barely knitted flesh in his buttock, pat the stallion’s sweated rump, and then leap steps into his keep. He didn’t even notice his shoulder had broken open, leaching blood down his arm. It didn’t matter, and he didn’t feel it. Nothing mattered, other than finding his wife and stopping her.

Someone hailed him from the barely lit Great Hall. A guardsman. Thayne waved his way, but didn’t look. He was at a run before reaching the wheel-stair, and at a full run down his hall. If need be, he’d ram right through the door. It wasn’t barred. It wasn’t even closed. It wasn’t yet dawn, and his wife didn’t bar her bedchamber door?

The chamber held only his wife’s maid, standing at the bottom of his bed and wringing her hands. She looked up at his entrance. And then her mouth dropped open.

“Where is my wife?” The words ground out, carrying every bit of the anger he felt.

“My laird! You’re here! It’s . . . a miracle!”