Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (11 page)

He shrugged dramatically and wished he were very, very drunk. But he'd already consumed half the bottle and Rachel would need her share. "Did I not know better I myself would think you nothing more than a traveling..."—he searched for words—"entertainer," he ended weakly.

"You truly think so?'

"Aye."

"Then you're a dolt!" she snapped, her long hat feather bobbing. "I couldn't fool a goat in these garments."

"Surely a goat," he said, and despite his own hopeless situation, couldn't help but grin.

Her mouth puckered again. "I'm not wearing them."

"Please." He grabbed her arm, but the contact was too great a temptation, so he dropped his arm and backed away a careful pace. "Please, Rachel. You cannot be seen in that gown you just removed.

Tis too dangerous, for you'll surely be noticed."

"And you think I won't be noticed in
this
? I look like a... a..." She gestured a bit frantically toward her own body. "There is no word for what I look like."

Actually there was. But he had no wish to tell her she was beautiful, that she'd be beautiful even if she dressed in rags and shaved her head with a plow shear.

"Well, of course you look strange now. You're not acting the part."

"What part?"

"The part of my assistant."

Her expression didn't change a whit. That wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Listen, Rachel, I know you're not telling me the truth of your destination. Nevertheless, I am willing to help you reach it. But I cannot magically make you appear there. We need horses, food, and shelter. But most of all we need to be unrecognizable. And we cannot have any of those things without money. Somehow we'll have to obtain some coin. More, much more, than what is in my purse."

She was still staring at him, which was better than a few options he could name.

"I could steal it—"

"I'll not have you compromising my soul," she interrupted.

He tightened his jaw. "If you have any talents worth a bit of coin, now might be the time to share them then, my
lady."
He drawled out the last word as he skimmed her unlikely garb.

"Well, normally I would sell my body," she said, her tone stiff. "But I fear you've taken that option from me with these outlandish garments."

"On the contrary. You might be surprised how many men would be interested in the diversions they'd expect you to offer. Unfortunately, you might not enjoy their attentions as much as you have your lord Dunlock's."

She shrugged. "Who can compare?"

"Why don't you admit that you—"

"As much as I enjoy your yammering at me, I don't have time to waste on it," she interrupted tersely. "Have you a plan or don't you?"

For a moment he was tempted to shake her until she admitted the truth, but he controlled himself.

"Here," he said, snatching a small pouch from the ground. "I've procured a needle and a bit of thread. Do something with those shoes, so they don't fall off your feet."

"I'm no seamstress," she said, taking the pouch.

"You're no lad either," he countered. "But you'd damned well better learn to pretend if you want to see your Lord Dunlock in your present virginal condition."

"I told you—"

"Spare me," he interrupted. "You've fooled half of Scotland into believing you're a living saint, I'm certain you can convince a few peasants you're a lad."

For a moment he thought she would argue, but instead she settled onto a log, kicked off an oversized, cloth slipper, and set a needle to its back. "What do I have to do?' she asked, her tone sullen.

"Twill be simple enough," he said, and began to explain.

Darkness settled in as they trudged down the road again. Finally, aching with fatigue, they turned into the woods to search for a relatively dry place to spend the night.

Some hundred rods into the trees, Rachel spotted a stand of comfrey. Tearing off a few stalks, she hiked on.

Finally, hidden away in a copse of hawthorn trees, they shared the last of the cheese and made themselves as comfortable as possible.

But sleep wouldn't come immediately. Nagged by a thousand problems, Rachel busied her fingers by tearing strips of cloth from her shattered gown and weaving them into a drawstring pouch.

Finally, finding that that simple process had calmed her a little, she hung the comfrey to dry beside the pouch in a tree and searched blindly for sleep.

By morning, they were damp and cramped and ravenous. They saw to their morning business, finished off the wine and bread, and hurried on.

The morning stretched out forever. Once, just past noon, they came to a boggy spot in the road.

Venturing into the forest, they found a patch of wild berries, gathered what they could and hurried on.

A few hours later, they heard the sound of galloping hooves behind them.

"Into the woods. Quickly!" Liam ordered.

They scrambled off the road. Just as they settled into cover, five horses thundered past. Rachel held her breath until they were well out of sight then turned her gaze to Liam.

"They were in a rush."

He nodded.

"Do you think..." She trailed off, finding she couldn't quite finish the thought.

"I don't know," he said, but for several hours after they trudged through the forest instead of down the road. And even after that, they were more cautious.

The sun was about to set and dark storm clouds crowded the sky when they finally reached the fair-sized village of Kilderry. A sturdy maid swung her half-filled milk bucket beside her as she flirted with a fisherman. Two young girls with bare feet and gap-toothed grins herded a gaggle of geese into a stone enclosure. A dog barked sharply off to their right, and the smell of fresh-baked bread and onion permeated the air, causing Rachel's stomach to whine.

Just down the cobbled way from a wattle-and- daub building that boasted a sign with a bottle and loaf, a small group of men stood around a hot forge arguing about various methods of shoeing.

One of them was obviously a man of some means, while the others were working sorts, their square hands showing the wear of their various trades.

Near a candle shop a middle-aged woman bartered eggs for a bit of thread.

Rachel turned toward Liam, her stomach tight with hunger and nerves. "Mayhap we should simply appeal to that gentleman for help?"

Liam didn't even turn toward the man of which she spoke. Instead, he grasped her elbow lightly and kept her walking brusquely beside him. "Do you know him?'

"Of course not."

"But you knew Davin didn't you?"

"What—"

"You could not trust him. Do you think you can trust this man?"

"Your reasoning—"

He stopped her abruptly, his gaze intent. "We are dealing with more than you know here.

Please, for your mother's sake, do as I ask."

She took a deep breath, allowed herself a moment of panic, and raised her voice. "Nay!"

"What?" Liam took his cue without a moment's hesitation, pitching his voice into a whisper that somehow managed to reach the tannery. "What do you mean, nay?" He tightened his grip on her elbow, glanced furtively about at the faces that were already turning their way, and inched closer to her. "What good will we do the king if we never arrive in London?"

Rachel swallowed hard, tried to force herself to glance nervously about at the faces that watched them, and found she could not. Still, she managed to force out her next line. "You know we are to save our act for His Majesty alone."

"The act will be seriously lacking if we starve to death before we reach the palace."

"We would be nearing the palace now if you had not wagered away our horses."

He raised his brows at her, and she wondered momentarily if that was a sign of approval.

Though they had rehearsed a fair bit, this much was improvised.

"Twas you who allowed our goods to be stolen. I must do something to replenish our fortunes,"

he hissed. "So while you stand about whining, I will find us a way to the king."

"You'll have to work alone if—"

"What's this about the king?" asked the gentleman, striding up.

"Oh, good sir," Liam gasped, as if embarrassed that he'd drawn the man's attention. "I am called Martin." He spread his hands and shrugged in a self-deprecating fashion. "Martin the Magnificent by some."

"Magnificent indeed!" Rachel muttered.

Liam gave her a slanted glare, then, "I fear I and my associate have fallen on hard times."

The gentleman narrowed his eyes. "What is this about the king?" he asked, seeming unconcerned by their personal woes.

"Twould be best to keep your voice down," Liam said. "Tis, well...tis not widely known that His Majesty has hired us to perform for him."

"Perform?"

"Aye. Just..." He shrugged as if modest. It was all Rachel could do not to snort. Modesty was not his forte. "Just a touch of magic and a wee bit of juggling."

"It must be more than a wee bit if it be good enough for the king."

Liam all but blushed. "Some say I have a gift."

"Well, let us be the judge," said the gentleman, sweeping a hand toward the onlookers.

"Nay," Rachel managed to say, but Liam scowled her down.

"I fear my assistant is unwilling to allow me to show our tricks to any but the king."

"Then show us other tricks."

A small crowd had gathered now. The faces were bright with curiosity. A few nodded.

"My assistant..."—he glared at Rachel again—"has lost our props as I've said. But mayhap I could improvise."

"Aye."

"Do."

The crowd was pressing in, making Rachel feel a bit breathless. But Liam smiled and spread his arms. "Very well, then. I'll need a few things. Let's see... a rope, strung between those two trees."

"I've one inside," said the blacksmith.

"Then fetch it if you will," Liam said. "And I need something to toss about, balls, stones..." He shrugged and glanced around him. His gaze snagged on a group of folk gathered outside a pottery shop where an old woman leaned from inside to dicker with the tanner. "Mugs," he said. "Jamie, be a good lad and ask the potter if we might borrow a few mugs. Assure him all will be well."

Rachel thought she should probably feign an argument. Indeed, she opened her mouth to try to force out a few words, but Liam hushed her before she had a chance.

"Go now. Let us not keep these good people waiting."

The potter turned out to be the woman who leaned out of the shop, an old, gnarled-faced crone with clay-covered hands and a sullen expression. Still, for the promise of recompense, she loaned out the mugs and made her crotchety way to the place where a rope had been strung tightly between two trees.

Rachel set three mugs into Liam's hands, and noticed, with growing stomach butterflies, that the crowd had more than doubled.

"Gather round then. For unless you will be at the king's feast, you'll not see the like of my performance again," Liam called, and tossed a trio of mugs into the air.

The elderly potter gasped, but Liam laughed as they spun one after another around in his hands.

"Not to worry," he said. "This is child's play." He backed up a step or two. "But this..." He paused for a moment and tossed the mugs high into the air. The crowd lifted their gazes to watch the pottery, and in that instant, Liam reached for the rope above his head.

When he snatched the mugs out of the air the next time, he was balanced atop the tightrope.

"This is more difficult," he said.

The crowd stared at him, stunned and silenced.

Liam smiled, nodded, teetered on his perch then laughed at the oohs from below. "Worry not,"

he called. "I am not about to splatter on the ground like a squashed melon. Not when my very meal depends on my performance. And neither am I about to disappoint you, for you already know that this be an act fit for a king.

"Jamie, lad, toss me another mug."

Rachel forced her mouth closed. Liam had always been swift of hand and light of foot, but it had been many years since she'd seen him perform.

He grinned at her, seeming to read her thoughts. "Come now. Even the king will understand that we must eat. Toss it toward my chest."

Sweet Mary, she thought, she had no way of paying for something as simple as a mug should she break one. Still, there was nothing she could do but comply. Nervousness made her throw tilt off center. It wobbled toward his shoulder.

Nevertheless, he caught it easily and spun it off into orbit with the others.

"A fine throw, Jamie," he said, and rolled his eyes for the crowd's amusement. "Let's try that again. But this time throw it toward my other chest."

Rachel gritted a smile at him but picked up another mug and tossed on cue. It was centered better this time. He lobbed it into orbit, seemingly without effort.

After that, a number of clever tricks followed. Mugs circling behind his back, between his legs, over the branch of the tree. Until finally the crowd was all but mesmerized.

"I thank you for your attention," Liam called. "And I will thank you even more for your generosity. So if I have added some pleasure to your day, please put a bit of something into Jamie's..."

He was going to say hat, Rachel knew. But he caught himself before the word was out, for he had no wish to give the crowd a chance to see her face. "Hand. And thank you again." He began catching the mugs, one after the other, but they were bulky and large and the fifth one slipped past his fingers.

He gasped. It careened toward the ground, but instead of a crash, there was a muffled whoosh, and when the crowd stared at it, they found it was not a mug at all, but a small rag pouch stuffed with comfrey.

Oohs of appreciation filled the place, and then the crowd began to babble.

Liam grinned as he jumped from the rope and handed four mugs to their owner.

"What about the other one?" the old potter croaked.

"Never fear," Liam said, and seemed to whisk the fifth from out of thin air. Inside the vessel was a bright bouquet of wildflowers. He bowed gallantly as he presented them to the old crone.

"With my thanks," he said.