Highland Promise (20 page)

        They rode in silence for several hours. Faith's umbrage grew along with her pain. 'Twas difficult to get along with the brute. Aye, he was a brute. He had been truthful when he had informed her that he wasn't nice. She was seeing the real Brendan Sutherland now all right. She didn't like the brute one bit either...even if he did smell good.

        After another hour went by, she discovered he was also inhuman. He obviously didn't have the needs of a normal person. If they didn't stop soon, she would disgrace herself right in his lap.

        The urge to relieve her overfilled bladder became overwhelming.

She groaned and squeezed the arm he had wrapped around her middle.

        "What's wrong?" he asked.

        "What's wrong!" she shouted, not knowing if she wanted to cry or claw his face. "You speak to me as if I am a nuisance. You know I am sore, yet set a grueling pace. And you have not stopped once so I can...be private."

        Brendan released a high-pitched whistle and veered off into a nearby forest. His men followed. They reached a small clearing, and Brendan drew rein. "We camp here."

        "But 'tis early, laird," Tormey said. "Surely we could cover more distance."

        "The lady is not used to riding." Brendan dismounted.

        Faith wanted to throttle him. Did he have to make her sound puny to his men?

        He settled his hands on her midriff. A tingle sizzled into her from his heated touch. She sucked in a breath and averted her eyes, trying to hide her confusing reaction from his perceptive gaze. Her legs were so sore and stiff that she couldn't make them work. He had to drag her from the horse. As her feet touched the ground, hundreds of tiny pins shot through her legs like fiery arrows. Her knees buckled. She moaned and clutched his tunic. At least the man had enough decency not to let go of her.

        After a few moments, she regained her balance and pushed back. "May I have my bundle please?"

        He released her and went to the gray mare to get her bundle. She took the opportunity to rub her sore bottom while he wasn't looking. He returned and caught her at the unladylike task. The pig had the gall to leer.

        "Need any help?" he offered, one sardonic brow arched.

        "I swear my backside has gotten ten years of wear in just one day," she grumbled. "And I am so damn puggled I doubt if I could tolerate any more help from you."

        He lost his grin in a hurry, and thunder stormed across his brow. "My wife will not use such language."

        Her cheeks flamed. "Oh rats, forget I said that. Your sinful ways must be rubbing off on me."

        For some reason that insult was all right with the unpredictable man because he chuckled. "I promise I shall do more than rub off on you soon."

        He was trying to goad her ire, but she wasn't up to a war of wits at the moment. Her safest option was silence. She snatched her bundle from his grasp. Turning, she headed into the woods. She wanted to make a dignified retreat. All she managed was a rickety hobble.

        "Do not go far, lass," he called. "If you do not return soon, I shall come after you."

        "Arrogant goat," she muttered. "I ought to keep walking all the way to Saint Bride on my own."

        Faith found a secluded spot and relieved her most immediate need. Then she pulled the strings on her bundle and unrolled it, intending to refresh her flour and change into another gown. Dread settled in her belly like an anvil when she viewed her meager possessions. This situation called for one of Brendan's favorite words whether he wanted her to use it or not. "Damn!"

        The contents of her bundle lay before her. She had six phials of lavender oil, three chunks of lavender-scented soap, a comb, various minor accessories, two undergowns, and two kirtles, one pale blue and one yellow. The appealing colors weren't what inspired her dread though; here was everything a newly wedded bride might wish for, but big trouble for her. The gowns were made to fit her true form and would never accommodate her padding.

        "Noreen, you meddlesome old cow, if I could just get my hands on you! When you said you always did what you thought best for me, you did not mean Leland. You have not won though. I have no intention of taking off my disguise in front of Brendan. I shall wear this kirtle until I reach the convent."

        Her belly clenched with disgust as she realized she couldn't wash. The stain that made her face appear fuller only lasted a few days with her habit of daily baths. Not washing might stretch the time to a week. Hopefully, they would reach Saint Bride by then. She supposed she could use dirt in place of the flour, but she wasn't sure if she would achieve quite the same sallow effect.

        "Well rats, if I am not careful, Brendan will discover my disguise in no time at all." Her mind raced, searching for a plan. She would have to redouble her efforts to make him understand the importance of her penance. Aye, she had to reach a convent without delay, or she might accidentally entice Brendan. Then they would both be condemned to eternal Perdition.

~ * ~

       The lass stunk.

        Brendan had known what she was up to the moment she exited the woods with her dirt-streaked face seven days ago. Noreen wanted the lass to give up her disguise and had mentioned to him what was in Faith's bundle. He would have laughed if he hadn't been so aggravated with his bride.

        The seven days of their journey hadn't broken her resolve or made her trust him with her secret. That she thought him too blind to see through her ruse was an insult. Aye, he was damn vexed with his bride.

        Brendan glanced down at her grimy face and admitted he was concerned too. She was fast asleep in his arms. Deep circles pocketed her eyes. Her fatigue had increased throughout their travels, and they were barely at the halfway point. Her appetite waned, and he hadn't been able to coax her into eating.

        He wiped a hand over his face in frustration. Her spirits lagged as well. He hadn't been able to rouse a good argument from her since their first night when he insisted she sleep with him. She declared her immortal soul would suffer perdition if she did. He won by pulling her down on top of his chest and tucking her head in the crook of his neck.

        He felt like he was already in perdition. Especially since riding with her soft rump pressed against his loins stirred desires he vowed not to appease until she confessed her secret.

        Faith probably thought the rugged pace he set in his rush to reach home before the harvest moon was a purposeful ploy to make her life a living hell, and he was beginning to wish he had never made that jest.

        Brendan's horse snorted and tugged at the reins, bringing him back from his reverie. The sun hung high in the sky like a fat, white boulder. They were only a few hours from Hadrian's Wall, which marked the boundary between England and Scotland. He thanked his Maker that they would sleep this night on Scottish soil. He would also be glad to burn this constricting English garb he wore and don his plaid.

        Faith moaned and moved restlessly against him. She hadn't complained once about her discomfort since that first day, but he knew the journey toiled upon her. In her sleep she couldn't guard her behavior. Though anxious to hurry homeward, he knew she needed a break from their demanding pace. He worried she might not have the stamina to survive life in the Highlands.

        He halted his men near a stream to water the horses and allow Faith a reprieve. Worry drew his brow as he helped her dismount and watched her limp toward a strand of trees for a moment of privacy.

        "Laird, I would like a word with you," Cleit said from behind him.

        Brendan faced his clansman, wondering what had shaken him from his usual silence. His other men were curious too, because they gathered about. Crossing his arms over his chest, he nodded his consent. "Speak."

        "I am worried about the lady," Cleit replied.

        "Aye, she is weaker than I thought," Jamie said, shaking his head sadly.

        "Her eyes lack their brilliance," Tormey added.

        "She'll not survive her first winter," Luthias predicted.

        "Our lady is not weak," Michael growled.

        "You have a strange notion of strength," Roland countered, "for the lady looks about to fall on her face."

        "Something must be wrong," Michael insisted. "Lady Sutherland is a woman of spirit and courage."

        "She is not eating on purpose," Cleit stated bluntly.

        Brendan's gut twisted. He had attributed her waning appetite to weariness. The notion never entered his mind that she had a reason other than fatigue for starving herself. "Do you know why?"

        "She is on a bread fast," Cleit replied. "She took only a small chunk of bread until we ran out on the second day. Now she takes nothing. I mentioned my concern to her. She said all she can eat is bread, and because we have none, she cannot eat. She did not want you to know, laird. Says you have a problem with a good Christian doing penance."

        Brendan wiped a hand over his face, hoping to whisk away his exasperation. The lass would starve herself in a misbegotten attempt at sanctity. "Hunt something to eat. She will need meat." He walked toward the trees where she had disappeared, intending to put a halt to her nonsense.

        "Do we make camp?" Roland asked.

        "Nay. I shall not sleep another night on English soil," he called over his shoulder.

        He found Faith on the other side of the trees near a bend in the stream. She teetered as she rose. One of her hands flew to her brow as the other reached for nonexistent support. Brendan caught her before she fell into the water and turned her to face him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest.

        "Better?" he asked, pulling back.

        "Please do not let go." She tightened her hold. "I am...dizzy."

        Hell, he should have questioned her more about her lack of appetite and not accepted excuses. He would have discovered her fast and put a stop to it. He had been too damn busy maintaining a distant attitude, so he wouldn't think about ripping her clothes off to discover his true wife.

        Slipping an arm under her knees, he carried her over to a tree. He sat and leaned against the trunk, then adjusted her on his lap and rested his chin on the top of her head. "Why, Faith?"

        "I do not understand." She snuggled against him. "This is hard journey, is it not, Brendan?"

        "Why are you fasting?"

        "Penance," she mumbled on a drowsy note.

        She would say only that. He hated her habit of making him drag information out of her. "What priest gave you this penance?"

        "All penance does not come from priests." She yawned, then leaned back and looked earnestly at him. "This is an exchange penance."

        "For the love of..." He rubbed the back of his increasingly tense neck. "What in the name of all that is holy is an exchange penance?"

        She gazed toward his chest and fidgeted with his laird's badge. "I am offering a sacrifice to the Almighty for a favor."

        His initial assessment of her had been correct. She was daft. "What do you get for this sacrifice?"

        She shrugged and hid her face against his neck.

        "Faith." He drew out her name in command to the beat of his growing headache.

        A long sigh blew from her lips. "Strength to endure being near horses and an insufferable man during my journey to the convent at Saint Bride."

        "Your fast is over."

         "But—"

        He placed a hand over her mouth. "'Tis an order. You are so weak you can barely stand. 'Twould be obvious to a fool that the Almighty has rejected your sacrifice. And if you mention that damn convent once more—"

        "I shall mention the convent." She halfheartedly punched his shoulder. "I must go there or suffer eternal hellfire. Besides, I have tried to get along with you, but 'tis clear you do not wish to keep me. You only insist upon doing so out of some misled sense of honor."

        She had the damnedest notions. "Why do you say I do not want you?"

        "You do not talk to me. You are surly all the time. And you have not—" She broke off and glanced away.

        "Have not what?" he demanded.

        "Kissed me." Her longing gaze fastened on his mouth, and her lower lip pushed out into a seductive pout.

        He was tempted to taste her lips. He wouldn't though. He wouldn't kiss her until the disguise came off. Hell, after a week of her soft rump riding his manhood, once he started kissing her, he wasn't likely to stop. Then she would need at least a week to get over her tenderness, so he could take her again. His father had told him that seven days was the length of recovery time after mating with a virgin. "I am surly because I am sick of hearing that my bride intends to leave me for a convent. Are you still dizzy?"

        "Nay," she snapped, obviously disgruntled over not receiving a kiss.

        He rose and stood her on her feet, watching closely for any sign that she needed his support. "We are returning to my men. You will eat, and then we will resume our journey."

        She flashed a wrathful gaze upon him, then tipped up her chin and walked toward the path through the trees. "You are not God or a priest. You cannot cancel penance."

        "Aye, I can." He caught her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. "I am your husband and you are my wife, bound to do as I order without disagreement."

        "Without...disagree—" she sputtered. Then she pinned him with a glare that could fell a tree. "I should be able to speak my mind whenever I wish. You might be easier to get along with if you did not try my patience."

        He narrowed his eyes. "You do not have any patience."

        Her nostrils flared slightly, and her jaw tensed. Sparks fairly shot from her eyes as she wrung her kirtle skirt in her hands. He had no doubt she pretended it was his neck.