Charming the Chieftain (3 page)

“Might I assume you are one of the Maxwell chieftain’s personal guards?”

A slight hesitation in his step made her wonder if he hid the truth. Suspicious, she eyed him. She’d had quite enough of deception and intrigue to last her ten lifetimes. If she couldn’t trust his word, then she doubted she could trust his chief.

“Why do you believe Aeden is a ranked warrior, milady?”

The voice came from behind her; she whirled about in fear and stumbled backwards against the warm chest of the chief’s guard. Grateful for his solid presence, she grabbed a handful of his rough linen shirt.

“’Tis all right milady, he’s with me.” Gently, her defender wrested his shirt from her fisted hands.

Once she gained control of her breath, she scolded the flaxen-haired man.

“You put the heart across me! Who are you and why do you lurk about in the bushes?”

“My men do no’ lurk, milady,” her protector corrected, a smile in his voice.

Her eyes narrowed at her guard’s stress of her title. “Fine then, he’s not a lurker.”

Elisande straightened her spine and continued to question the blonde man. “Why did you conceal your presence then?”

She glanced over at her protector, a smug smile pasted on her face daring him to take exception with her choice of words. Then, all at once, she became struck by his statement. Mouth agape, she pivoted on her heal and peered into his face.

“Did you just say, ‘your’ men? What do you mean, ‘
your
men’?”

Her reaction amused him enough to drawl. “Aye, Ronan is my first-in-command.”

She clamped her jaw tight and blew out an aggravated puff of air through her nose.

His face split into a genuine grin. “We’re far enough away now, if you desire to meet any private needs.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line and she frowned at his indelicate attempt to change the topic.

“You might have seen fit to tell me that you are, indeed, the Maxwell chieftain.”

He rubbed at his eye. “When might I have corrected your assumption? Afore, or, after you left your teeth marks on my hand … milady?”

A vein pulsed in her temple as discomfiture veered sharply to anger. Unfazed by her glower, he proceeded to exchange information with his first-in-command. To keep her hands from around his throat, she gathered a handful of skirt and shook out the creases as best she could.

“Do no’ concern yourself with your clothes. You will no’ be wearing them much longer, milady.”

Nerves stretched, his endless mocking of her title proved the last straw. Before she thought better of it, she stomped over to the two men and aimed her scowl at Chief Maxwell.

“Cease abusing my title. Your tone is disrespectful and … and this childish behavior quite beneath your position.”

“As you wish,” he intoned in a flat voice.

“Is it your aim to keep me wrong-footed?” She accused, her eyes daring him to gainsay her.

When she failed to procure a reaction, she tried a more direct approach. “Chief Maxwell, I do not understand the reason for this continued — oh!”

An unexpected nudge between her shoulder blades propelled her forward. Immediately, the chief’s arms enveloped her waist and he plucked her off her feet out of harm’s way. She angled her head around to see Ronan, now atop his large, gray horse.

“Well, really. Are you trying to frighten the life out of me?”

“I beg your pardon, milady. Thornton has a mind of his own.”

“Ronan — ”

Even she understood the couched warning in the Maxwell’s tone. Suddenly deflated, she sagged against him.

“Come, sit, you look ready to collapse,” he announced and motioned her toward a tree stump.

Weary, she plopped down hard. The fight drained from her in one breath. His hand rested a moment on her shoulder. She lifted her head and regarded him with an unblinking stare. Before she realized what his intentions were, he grabbed hold of her chin and tilted her head to one side.

“How did you come by this mark?”

Her hand flew to her cheek. With all her other aches and pains she forgot about the injury. She must be horribly swollen by now.

“My — ” she swallowed over a lump in her throat, “Betrothed.”

He met her eyes and stared at her long moments. A muscle jerked in his cheek as he struggled to control his anger. Her detached words contradicted the tears trailing over her damaged cheek. In a tender gesture, he wiped the tears with his thumb and gently cupped her distended skin. His hand was strong, firm, and protective. She gave him a watery smile and hugged her knees to her cold chest.

His smile brief, he returned his attention to Ronan. “The north road is clear?”

Ronan inclined his head. “Aye, for the time being.”

“How many would you say might head in this direction?”

Ronan pursed his lips and then replied, “Mayhap five, no more than six. They ride in pairs. You have time afore they think to take this particular path.”

Chief Maxwell glanced at Elisande. “Your aunt knows you well. She said you would no’ wait for rescue.”

The grudging admiration in his tone made her blush.

Ronan shook his head. “It was foolish of you to run.”

She bristled. “Well, would you rather have pulled me half dead from the pond out back of the Hall? For I assure you, sir, I was well on my way if I had not fled before the Purification Ritual could take place.”

Elisande stared at the warrior, but Aeden, as she started to think of him, his quiet words captured her attention.

“You showed great courage, lass. I’m no’ certain I know of another woman who would have made such an attempt.”

Somewhat mollified, her reply came out a bit stiff. “Thank you.”

He continued his instructions to Ronan. “Keep to the old trails, and we’ll meet at the cave in a few days.”

Aeden slapped the gray’s flank, and in the time it took to blink, the thick foliage absorbed both the horse and rider.

The wind shifted carrying the faint echo of voices far off in the distance. Aeden’s eyes slipped sideways.

“’Tis time to take our leave. You are certain — ?”

When he didn’t finish, she prompted, “Certain of what?”

“Certain you want to leave your home and belongings behind.”

Taken aback by his question, she didn’t immediately answer, as countless memories vied for her attention. Baron Warford’s lewd insinuations, abuse and threats. Her father’s indifferent, cold and selfish behavior. A jealous second-mother’s poisonous accusations of witchery. Only one word perched on her tongue.

“Yes.”

He regarded her a long moment, turned and started through the brush. Wordlessly, she followed, as he waded through the knee-high ferns and thick vegetation. Forced to lift her skirt to a shameful level, she avoided the more destructive nettle bushes.

Soon, the dreadful day’s events exacted a toll. Fatigue pressed on her like a weighted mantle, her feet ached, and hunger gnawed at her insides.

Over the next rise, a crowded grove of trees yielded a secluded marsh outlined by heavily timbered woodland. The fen’s stagnant stench permeated the air, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. The muck tugged on her boots, slowing her momentum, and her calves burned with the added complication. When next she looked up, he awaited her at the mire’s edge and offered his hand. The second she clutched at him, her pulses leapt to life, her breasts tingled against the delicate fabric, and a white-hot ache bloomed in her belly. She slanted a glance at him wondering if he experienced the odd pull of attraction, too.

Abruptly, he leaned in close and placed an index finger to his lips indicating silence. On the opposite side of the marsh, the light winked in and out between the trees and she realized it was torch light that illuminated the pines. Warford’s soldiers were closing in.

Without explanation, Aeden swung her up in his arms and trudged deeper into the bog. He chose their hiding place well. They hunkered down amidst the cattails and milkweed until twilight faded to black. Eventually the muck seeped into her thin boots. She would have no choice except to remove the ruined leathers and wring them out before sliding them back on. Aeden seemed oblivious to the wet, although her dilemma did prompt an unexpected reaction from him.

“We’ll supply you with another pair when we reach Caeverlark.”

“Oh, that is very kind, yet I cannot accept. I have naught to compensate your generosity.”

She wished her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark. She was heartily tired of him frowning at her.

“You have no choice but to accept, and if the cost is your worry, mayhap we might make a trade.”

Intrigued, she waited for him to elaborate. When no explanation followed, she couldn’t work up the nerve to ask what he thought she had of value that made an even trade. Boots were expensive.

He stood in front of her and held out his hand. “Ready?”

She placed her cold fingers into his warm grip. “Yes.”

They started again, but this time he guided her over the rougher terrain.

“Not much longer,” he promised.

Finally free of the fen, she noticed a lone horse tethered to an elm. It pulled its nose out of a honey bush long enough to scent the air. Recognizing his master, he nickered. Aeden approached, flattened his hand and the animal nudged and nuzzled his palm. He ran his hand down the animals back and reached for a bundle, unfurled the roll and revealed a multicolored blanket in varied hues of greens and blues. He tossed the item in her direction.

“Dress yourself.”

Surprised by the blunt demand, she held up the garment between thumb and forefinger, judged the article, and decided he asked the impossible. Unconvinced of its intended use, she concluded the thing far more useful spread over a bed than a body. It retained neither shape, nor make.

With an air of forbearance he explained, “’Tis an arasaid worn by the women of my clan.”

Next, he handed her a long yellow garment.

“The cotton blouse is worn beneath the woolen.”

She tsked. “I am well aware of a woman’s underpinnings.” She tested the texture and shook her head. “Must I wear this? ’Tis scratchy.”

All traces of tolerance gone, he frowned, again.

“Put it on and be done with it.”

She pulled a face, less pleased with his behavior than the garment. “I do not wish to be argumentative — ”

One eyebrow arched toward his hairline. “You could ha’ fooled me.”

She sent him a disdainful glower, uncertain why she continued to argue the point when she knew he was right and she wasted precious time. Nonetheless, the thought of undressing beneath his watchful eye seemed more than a little degrading. “I should like you to explain why I must wear this cloth that, in my estimation, is little more than a blanket. Asides, I already wear an underskirt. Well, several, and they’re much softer alongside the skin.”

He expelled a loud breath rife with irritation giving her the full benefit of his attention. “I’m no’ in the habit of explaining my reasons.”

Her eyebrows rose at his rude pronouncement.

Although he didn’t raise his voice, there was a definite edge to his words. “Do as I instruct, woman.”

The “or else” was implied, however, she refused to be cowed by the man. Tired of his irritable disposition and inability to meet her half way, she groused with little compunction.

“Sir, I do not believe I asked for the moon and stars. Surely, the person commanded to strip in the out-of-doors deserves the courtesy of a lengthy explanation.”

When he raked his eyes over her body, her cheeks grew hot, but she stood her ground. If she gave in now, he would come to expect her capitulation in all instances.

“Enough,” his hand sliced through the air, and he moved in to loom over her. “Did it no’ occur to you that you will stand out in your richly made, English clothes.”

His annoyed expression morphed into one of impatience. “Clothe yourself. I do no’ wish to spend another night upon this blighted soil.”

So saying, he presented his back to her. She supposed this was his one concession to privacy. Miffed by his high-handed manner, she stuck her tongue out at his broad back. The childish gesture did nothing to relieve her frustration as she fiddled with the odd woolen piece. Precious moments slipped away before she admitted to herself she needed assistance. Defeated, she dropped her arms, blew a hank of hair off her forehead and wondered if a person might die from shame.

“Well, there is naught for it,” she murmured.

She poked Aeden’s shoulder.

He jerked beneath her hand, but caught himself from turning around. “Are you dressed yet?” Even though he assumed a casual stance, his body exuded tension.

“I do require your assistance.”

The sharp intake of breath followed by a rush of air gave her pause. Was he truly irate with her request?

“I am no’ a lady’s maid,” he grumbled.

She huffed, disgusted with both him and the cloth.

“Unfortunately for you, a lady’s maid is what I require, and as one is unavailable, you, sir, are it.”

The force of the sigh he loosed might have uprooted a tree stump if any were about. Tired, she dropped her arms down to her sides and gave in to tears of frustration. “Truly, this is too ridiculous.”

He didn’t budge. “We do no’ have all day.”

Exasperated, Elisande blurted, “I do not know how to wrap this
garment
. If you do not help me, we will stand here all night.
I have immense sympathy for your wife if you are this obstinate in your everyday life.”

In profile, she noticed his jaw clench. “I’m no’ married.”

The resigned note in his voice surprised her, briefly derailing her irritation. Had he been disappointed in love, thereby refusing to marry? Mayhap he had a bevy of women to choose from and remained undecided. Either way, he was allowed to choose for himself, not suffer the whims of a mercenary sire.

“Are you properly clothed?”

His question thrust her back into the moment, and she took inventory of her appearance. One arm exposed to the elements, hair in a tangle, and the blasted arasaid still a blanket. “I have told you already I am not. This beastly garment is impossible to put on!”