Charming the Chieftain (4 page)

“Are you down to the hide or no’?” Impatience peppered his terse speech.

Scandalized, she gasped. The shameful question put a stop to her struggles. Pin-pricks of heat flooded her cheeks at his outrageous inquiry. “Good Lord, of course not. Just because I am forced to wear this hideous dress chosen by my father’s wife, please do not make assumptions about my virtue.”

“To what purpose were you forced to wear such revealing garb?”

Ashamed, she stared at her feet. “I — it is embarrassing, and I do not wish to speak of it.”

Abruptly, he whipped around, causing her to lose balance, her arms wind-milling out at her sides. Quick as fox, he grabbed her arms, and pulled her back.

“Ow.” She reached up and scrubbed the palm of her hand over her right eyebrow, all traces of shame gone and replaced, once again, by irritation.

“Why did you have to yank so hard?” She twisted away from him and tripped on the hem of her skirt.

“For God’s sake, woman, hold still and step sideways.”

“All right, keep your hair on.”

At his silence, she glanced up. Astonishment etched deep lines in his face as he stared after her mouth ajar and his large hands planted on his lean hips.

“What is it?”

“Did you just tell me to, ‘keep my hair on’?”

Unapologetic, her voice dripped with sugared sweetness. “Why yes, I believe I did.”

Eyes narrowed, he scowled.

“God on high, is it possible for you to form any other facial expression besides that cursed frown?”

He was serious when he answered. “I am no’ frowning.”

“If the face you sport signifies your delight, I would avoid any cows unless you enjoy curdled milk.”

That he possessed the audacity to deny his displeasure and then use her title in a snide tone deserved her rude rejoinder.

He gripped the back of his neck with both hands and transferred his weight to one leg. “For Christ’s sake, lass, you’d try the patience of a saint.”

“Ha.” She clucked her tongue. “Do not delude yourself. You’re no more patient than I, nor will you ever be sainted.”

He threw his hands in the air. “Do you want my help or no’?”

“I believe that is what I have been — ”

Before she could finish, he whirled her about, hooked two fingers into the lace neckline and wrenched the bodice until the flimsy material gave way. Another firm tug split the fabric down the front seam and shredded the gown.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Helping you undress.”

Appalled by the amount of exposed flesh, she slapped her palms on the swell of her breasts. It proved a futile effort — akin to tossing a tankard of ale on a grass fire. Thankfully, the rest of the ruined garment hung down in pieces shielding her womanly bits. She did notice his eyes follow her hands. Well, she assumed so, if the bright flush across the bridge of his nose was any indicator. Distracted, the soft thunk atop her foot almost passed unnoticed. Then she remembered shoving the comfort-stone down the vee of her gown when she fled the estate. Frantic, she fell to her knees and sifted her fingers through the long grass, her nakedness forgotten in an effort to find her cherished stone.

His voice softened to a kind tone. “Here, lass.”

He reached down and tried to pick her up, but she shook him off and clawed the grass.

“No, please, I must find my stone.” She spoke in a broken whisper.

“You have to find your … stone?”

“Yes, yes, my stone,” she answered, aware her voice carried a shrill edge.

Gentler than she thought him capable, he knelt down, covered her hands with his and gave a light squeeze.

“Be still.”

His quiet authority caused her to look up. Unwavering blue eyes captured gold, and his composure calmed the butterflies that lined her stomach, as sudden exhaustion replaced panic. She slid to the side, knees bent, and crossed her arms over her breasts. She didn’t blame him when he walked away from her. Ashamed by her display, she averted her eyes from her nakedness. Moments later, his legs came into view and he draped a plaid about her shoulders. His scent enveloped her at once. It smelled of sandalwood, leather and him.

A surprised “oh” formed her lips and she whispered, “Thank you.”

She cast her eyes about looking for any signs of pursuit, but the only disturbance was the occasional
hu-hooo
of the Tawny owl.

“Slow your breathing, lass.”

“But Warford … ”

“Let me worry about him. You need to calm yourself if you’re to have any breath left.”

As he spoke, his long fingers fiddled with a leaf of heather before he plucked the sprig and presented it to her. Her eyes widened and she snatched it from his hand, balanced it on her right shoulder and chanted.

“Be there evil in the air, spreading darkness everywhere, behold heather on shoulder bent, and guard us from evil intent.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Woman, what are you about?”

“Ridding the area of malevolent spirits,” she reasoned, and dug a shallow hole to bury the weed.

She stole a glance at him. Although he stayed silent, his attention had not wavered in the least. By now, most people either accused her of witchery, or made the sign of the cross and ran from her as if she offered the plague. He did neither.

“How do you know evil lurks here?”

“A cold chill chased a tremor up my spine. ’Tis a sign there are malevolent spirits about.”

He studied her with an indecipherable look for a beat. “Might not the chill be attributed to the coolness of the night and your lack of clothing?”

Uncertain what to think, she closed her eyes and opened her senses to flora and fauna alike. She set her hand in the grass near his thigh touching the outer ring of his aura. The charm-stone jabbed her palm. Relief, swift and pure, flooded her body. She slid her thumb along its smooth indent and opened herself further to the natural world. A slight breeze whispered through conifers, carrying the clean scent of pine and beyond, the heavy sweetness of rotted apples. The poignant song of the nightingale, calling to its mate, replenished her soul.

She opened her eyes to discover his were alight with an emotion she could not pin down.

“We are protected here.”

He regarded her a long moment before confirming her statement. “Aye, for the moment anyway. The guards will soon change direction if they haven’t already.”

She absorbed the information before she spoke. “And you know this, how?”

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a half-smile. “I am battle-hardened, lass, attuned to my surroundings just as you seem to be.”

Nothing escaped his notice.

The air between them practically sizzled. He shoved the long heavy undershirt at her. Head down, she wiggled into the close-fit linen blouse, mindful her ample bosom jiggled with every movement. Nervous, she prayed his attentions were occupied elsewhere. Laced in, she made an unintelligible noise to attract his notice. He faced her and, if at all affected by her semi-nude form, he disguised it well. His apparent indifference dismayed her.

In silence, he retrieved the arasaid from the ground and shook it out. Deft hands fashioned the cloth around her lower half. When that was in place, he crossed the long ends together and arranged it over one shoulder where it dangled below the small of her back. Next, he encircled her waist with a wide leather belt, securing the garment.

“You appear to understand a good deal about a woman’s attire,” she accused.

She nestled her talisman between her breasts. Satisfied it would not slip out; she glanced up and caught his stare. Something intense and indefinable flared to life between them. He started to speak when a cacophony of hooves, the clang of armor and halo-glow of torchlight appeared beyond the previous rise. He gestured to her.

“Come,” he commanded.

In a few long strides, he mounted his wheat-colored warhorse. “Ready?”

In answer, she clasped the strong hand he extended and jumped up as he pulled her forward. The natural inclination to keep her legs to one side thwarted, she straddled the horse instead, his rock-like thighs flanking her. Much to her overwhelmed sensibilities, his familiarity did not end there. A warm hand pressed her midriff until she flattened against his firm chest. The intimate contact he forced upon her, coupled with the earthy scent of his still-warm skin, left her breathless. The tickle of his breath along the sensitive shell of her ear sent icy prickles across her flesh. She swallowed hard, unable to suppress a violent tremor that shook her frame.

“Cold, lass?” He seemed dubious since the weather was fairly warm.

“Lass?” he prompted.

“I am — ” she cleared her throat, “ — well.”

He snugged her closer, his mouth grazed her ear, and she swallowed. Breathless with anticipation her body tensed.

“Hold on,” he whispered.

In spite of the danger, pleasure radiated throughout her body. His muscled hardness surrounded her like a shield. Remembering his command, she dug her fingers into the horse’s mane just before he urged the horse down a deer trail. The animal paced a fast clip, carrying them away from the immediate threat. He slowed the beast to a lope. Her backside rubbed against his unyielding thighs. The too-familiar touch strained her self-possession. She needed a distraction, anything to divert her reprehensible thoughts from his manly parts.

“I am a capable horsewoman, quite able to ride behind you.” Surely he detected the desperation in her voice.

“Capable or no’, I favor you right where you are.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, only to devolve into a thin line when he added, “Asides, I have witnessed the Englishwoman’s idea of horsemanship,” he waited a beat, “’Tis an odd seat and unskilled.”

Annoyed, she upbraided him. “You say English as if speaking a foul word. Afore you say such again, please keep in mind, I am English.” She inched forward ever so slightly.

Unrepentant, he shrugged and slid her back against him. “I suppose ’tis wrong of me to defame your heritage.”

“Thank you.”

“You canna help your parentage, I ken.”

She bristled. “Come now, you cannot claim to dislike all the English.” She inched forward a fraction.

“Can I no’?” He slid her back again.

She heard the smile in his low-pitched voice. For some unknown reason, the man found enjoyment in her vexation.

“My aunt, your second-mother, is English.”

“Aye, perhaps at one time. No’ now, of course.”

“What could you possibly mean by that? Of course, Onora is English. There is not one person more so.”

She flipped a length of hair over her shoulder in agitation.

He whipped it back.

“Stop that,” she said in a voice rife with exasperation.

His low hypnotic laughter plucked at her strained senses.

Desperate to stay focused on her indignation she continued, “You cannot decide a person is something else entirely, only for the simple reason of wishing it so.”

With a light touch, he removed a skein of hair where it lay coiled around her ear. Her pulse leapt. His scent and heat enveloped her senses. She tensed when his lips grazed her earlobe.

“I believe I just did, lass,” he whispered.

What had they been speaking of? She managed to mumble a rejoinder. “Well, it is an unfounded, illogical assumption.”

His low, rasping laughter curled her toes.

She clucked her tongue. “Much as I am enjoying our wee chat — ” she detected the grin in his words, “ — you should try and rest. We have a bit of ground to cover until we are out of harm’s way.”

Rest — an impossible task. The man scarce allowed a respectable distance atween them. Although, she admitted the sheer breadth and width of the man’s upper body made her feel protected. Considering her unusual height, not many men could boast the feat. Of course, being accused of witchery by her sire cooled any potential suitor’s ardor — except Warford’s. She let out an uneasy breath, determined to banish the man far from her mind.

The more ground they covered, the more confident she became. She had no idea how long Warford or her father would search for her, although, she doubted the search would outlast the latter’s purse. The priest, however, infamous for his devotion to the purification rite would return to his demented order to single out his next victim. She shuddered. It was not a subject she wished to dwell upon, and concentrated her ruminations on the chief’s earlier remarks. The sting from his ignorant opinion of the English still smarted. Yet, despite the stalwart defense of her homeland, she’d scarce miss Cadby Hall or its inhabitants.

Aeden’s voice broke into her reflections.

“We will stop a bit further up the trail.”

She almost agreed, but then a troubling notion occurred. “We are stopping to water the horse?”

As she feared, he shook his head. “No, we will make camp. I know of a cave nearby that will give us adequate shelter.”

Speechless, it seemed forever before she could form words. “Uhm — where shall I sleep?”

His look was unfathomable. “With me, of course.”

Shrouded in darkness, Elisande tipped her head back. The brilliant specks of light strewn across the night sky reminded her of a crystalline encrusted velvet dress favored by her mother at Michaelmas. Aeden shifted his seat, jolting her back to the present. His words echoed in her head once more. Nonetheless, she refused to believe he expected her to share his bed. To be sure, he made another inappropriate jest if for no other purpose than to see her vexed. A quiver of frustration shook her.

Aeden tightened his hold and inquired, “Are you in need of an extra plaid?”

Another plaid? God save me.

Instead of answering his question, she inquired, “Chief Maxwell?”

“Aye?”

She hesitated, uncertain how to frame the words.

“Go on, say your piece,” he urged. “I can no’ imagine why you should hesitate.”

The disbelief in his voice prompted a smile from her. “Yes, you have been an unenthusiastic recipient of my blunt manner.”

He laughed, his tone rueful. “Truer words were never uttered. Go on, let’s hear it.”