Highland Promise (14 page)

        Michael faced her, wearing his usual scowl. "Are you in need, milady?"

        "Aye." She looked him in the eyes and sent a silent plea to the Almighty requesting forgiveness for her pending falsehoods. "I am having trouble sleeping."

        "I heard your restlessness." He relaxed his pose. "Do not fash over your brother's words. Those who matter will pay them no heed."

        "What does fash mean?"

        "Fret. Worry." He favored her with a gentle smile such as she had never seen from him.

        She bowed her head, truly ashamed and unable to maintain eye contact. "I cannot help but fash. I knew Leland would be angry if he found out I had warned you of his plan, but never did I expect he would abandon me."

        "You are not alone."

        His sincerity nudged her conscience, and contrition poked her belly. She cleared her throat of the lump trying to settle there. "I know, but I need to sleep. Noreen...she was my maid, but Leland kept her. She used to share wine with me when I felt restless. A lady never drinks spirits alone." She gulped against the growing lump and wondered if a lie could truly choke a body. "I hoped you would join me, so I could get some rest."

        "You would rest better with good Highland whisky." He accepted the goblet she held toward him, took a swallow of the ruby liquid, and grimaced. "'Tis a bitter brew. No wonder Englishman have no ba..." he looked sheepish, then lamely finished, "...hair on their chests."

        "'Tis King Henry's finest from Normandy." Faith sipped her wine and watched him, wondering how long the potion would take to work its magic.

        "'Tis the problem." He enacted a mock shudder. "No man ever made a decent brew without good barley. Barley will put grit in your teeth and hair on your chest." He turned up his goblet and drank down the wine like a vile concoction one must finish but didn't enjoy.

        Faith chuckled. "I am not sure hair on my chest would improve my appeal."

        Gray eyes twinkled at her as he put the goblet back on the tray and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well now, for the lassies, barley improves their stamina so they can keep up with men who have hairy chests."

        Lord, but he was a handsome rogue with that mischievous grin. His wife would be a lucky woman if he ever overcame his prejudice. "Do you ever think about her?"

        "Who?" He shook his head and rubbed his fingers over his eyes.

        "The girl you married."

        The twinkles in his eyes hardened to slate glints.

        "The peace between our countries is tenuous," Faith said, hoping to stem his anger. "You admitted to feelings of discord. Do you ever wonder how she fares, raised by English while married to a Scot?"

        "The lass is well guarded by a...trusted friend." He shook his head and blinked a few times. Then he looked at her accusingly. "You...put something in...my..."

        He slumped against the wall, then slid to the floor in a heap.

        Faith bit her lower lip and nudged Michael with her toe. He didn't move. Oh Lord, she hoped she hadn't given him too much potion. She had never seen anyone fall into such a deep slumber so quickly.

        He looked like a prime target too. Big Highlander defenseless in the middle of an English corridor. What if someone came along and killed him?

        She dashed into her chamber and set the tray and goblets on the side table. Then she rushed back, grasped Michael under his arms, and tugged the giant into her chamber.

        "Grow too big up there," she griped, making slow progress with her heavy burden. "Ought to leave you in the passage for ignoring your poor wife."

        Faith grunted and grumbled all the way into her chamber. Just as Michael's feet cleared the corridor, she tripped on a sheepskin rug and landed hard on her backside.

        "Probably gave me bruises, for heaven's sake." She rose, closed the door, then rubbed her bottom. Father Abernathy was right. She was the Devil's handmaiden to resort to trickery and deception.

        "I am sorry, Michael, though you cannot hear me say so. But 'twas necessary to save my immortal soul." She frowned at his angry countenance, unchanged with slumber. "You do not look comfortable, and I do not wish you ill from the cold floor."

        She glanced about and nodded as her gaze fell on the sheepskin rug. "Aye, 'twill do the trick."

        She rolled Michael onto the carpet, then grabbed a quilt from the bed and covered him. She stood and rubbed her palms against her kirtle. "'Tis the best I could do. I hope you will forgive me."

        She grabbed her bundle and bow then eased open the door. Footsteps startled her. She pulled the door slightly ajar to determine the threat.

        Lady Garwick came into view, dragging her daughter, Jessica, by the arm. The pair stopped at the chamber across from hers.

        "But I do not wish to wed the man, mother," Jessica pleaded. "He is so big and mean looking. And I have heard such tales—"

        "Laird Sutherland is rich and able, which is all you need to think about," Lady Garwick chided. "Now get in there, remove your clothes, and wait in his bed. I shall return before morn with your father, and we shall see you wed on the morrow."

        Lady Garwick shoved a whimpering Jessica into Brendan's chamber, closed the door, and fled the corridor.

        Faith eased the door shut and leaned her forehead against it. A gamut of confusing emotions swept through her. She shouldn't care if Brendan got trapped into marriage, should she? Of course Jessica was such a mouse that she would squeak after a mere moment of Brendan's company. He might even kill the unfortunate girl when he found her.

        Well, he wouldn't kill her. But his glower might scare the life right out of her. Jessica wasn't keen enough to know Brendan would never hurt her. Faith hated to admit it, but his company made her feel downright joyful in an exciting and perplexing kind of way.

        Brendan had saved her twice now. She owed him. She pounded a fist against the door. This whole situation was exasperating. She couldn't let him enter his chamber. She would have to convince him to pass the night in her room where no one would entrap him. That meant she would have to postpone her flight.

        Turning around, she gasped and dropped her bundle and bow at the sight of Michael. "Lord, help me. Brendan will throttle me if he finds you here."

        Her muscles groaned at the thought of moving his heavy weight again. "You brutes have brought me only grief since I met you."

~ * ~

        The morrow couldn't come too soon. The air in England stifled a man's breath. Except for his moments with Faith, Brendan's stay had been plagued by one long, dull, throbbing headache.

        Traversing the corridor to his chamber, he wondered how his young sister, Heather, fared. His second commander was well able to oversee the Sutherland interests while he was away, but Heather was a precocious lass. If she slipped away again, she could be in danger and he wasn't there to protect

her—just like he wasn't there to protect his mother and brother.

         Brendan reached his door as his headache worsened.

        "Psssssst!"

        Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Faith in her doorway. What inspired her to seek him out when she had spent the past two days avoiding him? This could prove interesting, especially if she wanted another kissing lesson. She was certainly an adept pupil. His friend, Duncan Ranald, declared Brendan would wed the first woman who made him laugh. Faith had proven Duncan correct.

        He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. "When a lass summons a man in the middle of the night, he has to wonder if she is wanting to chill the Devil."

        Her eyes turned turbulent green and she released a feminine growl. "Rats, would you just get in here?"

        Cocking a brow, he swept his gaze over her. "I may be a heathen, lass, but even we heathens are used to better propositions. If you wish to entice me, you best try again."

        "You do try my patience." She approached him like a spring tempest. Latching onto his arm, she tugged him into her chamber and slammed the door.

        "Are you going to have your way with me now?" he jested.

        "If I had my way, I would never see you again. But I am grateful for past help, so I had to protect you."

        "You have that backward, lass. 'Tis I who protects you."

        "Truly?" she asked, hands on hips. "Then mayhap you will tell me why Lady Garwick's daughter is in your bed, or have you chosen that poor mouse to be your wife?" Her gaze turned scornful. "'Tis the truth, I am not sure if I am saving you or her."

        "Do you think of me as a naive youth, so easily snared by a skirt?" he demanded, irritated by her low opinion. Then again, that she wanted to prevent his marriage to someone else was promising. "Have you any suggestions for what I should do about it?"

        "You are welcome to pass the night here." She released a beleaguered sigh. "No one in their right mind would suspect any man of romping with me."

        He cocked a brow. "Do we get to share the same bed?"

        "Aye, I have thought about this and—"

        He cut her off as his gaze landed on her bundle. "What is that for?"

        She followed his gaze, her cheeks turning fiery red, then she cleared her throat. "Oh, I was ah...just too tired to unpack."

        "You have a chest," he stated. And where the hell was Michael?

        "Well, ah..." She gulped. "If I were going somewhere, why would I be here now?"

        "I have not the answer. Would you care to enlighten me?"

        "Nay." She stepped back and drew herself to her full height. Placing her hands on her hips, she scowled. "Do you wish to remain here or not?"

        She had retreated into angry pride to regain some control, and he knew control was important to her. He decided to let it go. He was with her now and would make damn sure she stayed put. The notion struck him that she had proven her loyalty by sacrificing her chance to flee in order to save him. If she weren't in such a foul humor, he would kiss her senseless.

        "I'll stay." But damn if he wanted her in her present mood. Faith's anger and a headache didn't go well together. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "I shall stay on the floor."

        "Nay," she blurted out. "You ah...may take a chill doing so."

        "Take a chill! I am a warrior, not a woman." He faced her as her gaze darted toward the bed, then back to him, and he wondered at her nervousness. "Where would you have me then?"

        "I once heard of a Highland custom." She cleared her throat and blushed. "'Tis called 'bundling' and allows an unwed man and woman to share a bed. We shall put a bundle in the middle of the bed and sleep on opposite sides."

        Brendan clenched his jaw to keep from laughing. The lass had it all wrong. The custom allowed a man and woman to share a bed before marriage to discover if they were compatible, but the bundle didn't belong in the middle of the bed. The woman's legs were firmly wrapped into a bolster and bundled together. Even that didn't stop some consummations from preceding the vows.

        Of course Faith couldn't know how appropriate her suggestion was. Not that he would have her tonight. Nay, she would have to trust him and remove her disguise before he touched her.

        "All right," he agreed. "We shall do this your way."

        "'Tis not my way, you exasperating man. 'Tis yours."

        She walked to the bed, rolled up a blanket, and lined it down the center of the mattress. "You can have the door side. I always sleep by the window."

        She removed her slippers and placed them under the bed. Then she lay fully clothed upon the mattress as rigid as a corpse and closed her eyes. The only thing missing was the flowers, and he was tempted to run down to King Henry's garden to get a few.

        He sat on the opposite side of the bed and rubbed his stiff neck. The pounding moved to his temples, and a rush of nausea forced a groan from his lips.

        "Do you have a headache, Brendan?"

        "'Tis nothing to concern you."

        The mattress shifted. He wondered what Faith might be up to that she had relinquished her death pose. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and she massaged his aching muscles. Her touch was confident and firm, soothing his weariness like a magic herbal. He leaned into the massage and released a sigh as tension melted away.

        "You do that well, lass."

        "My father had headaches and did not smile much either. He used to say I had the only hands that could soothe his pain."

        Her delicate scent eased him like a lazy summer day, and her dusky voice flowed through him like an angel's sweetest song. Her fingers rubbed small circles over the back of his neck, infusing a deep heat that dissolved his soreness. He decided no matter how irritating Faith might be at times, he could forgive her every flaw for her magic touch.

        "My father's headaches started after...after I turned twelve. He thought he had failed me and constantly worried about me." Her fingers ran through his hair and over his scalp in caressing strokes. "Do you fret for someone, Brendan?"

        He couldn't say why, but he felt compelled to unburden himself. "My sister, Heather. She is but a wee lassie of eight. A few months ago, she slipped away and was stolen by the Gilmores." He leaned his head forward and massaged the bridge of his nose. "There is no telling what would have happened to her had not Lady Ranald saved her. Now I cannot help but fret for her."

        She moved her fingers to his temples, drawing a grateful moan from him. "When you came to England, did you leave her well guarded?"

        "Aye, my second commander watches over her."

        "Then let it go. Your worry does not help her and only causes you pain."

        "I cannot."