Temptation in a Kilt (3 page)

“Aye, I can see with my own eyes how verra pleased ye are with this match,” she bellowed.

Her mother was surprisingly calm.

“Come, Rosalia, your father awaits us in the study.” She lifted her hand and gestured for her daughter to follow.

Rosalia trailed after her mother in a trance-like state. The first part of her life had been horrid, but she refused to have the last part of it be the same. This was one fight she could not, would not lose. When she entered the study, her father was seated behind his dark wooden desk. He gestured for them to sit and folded his hands in front of him.

There was a heavy silence.

Sitting forward, he peered at her intently. “Rosalia, as ye know, Lord Dunnehl has offered for your hand and has returned to his home. Once he comes back with the bride price and the banns are posted, ye will be wed in the chapel. He wants to take his leave shortly after to his home in London.”

She clenched her jaw, fighting for collectedness.

“Rosalia, you will absolutely
adore
London. There are many advantages to living there. Once you provide Lord Dunnehl with his heir, you will be free to do as you will. That is all he seeks from you,” said her mother with a proud smile.

Rosalia glanced back and forth between the two of them in awe. It was apparent they waited for her response, and she was more than happy to oblige.

***

James knocked once and called her name. When she did not answer, he made another attempt. “Rosalia, how do ye fare?”

She slammed her trunk shut and tried not to flinch. “James, I cannae have speech with ye at the moment.”

“Are ye unwell? Let me in.”

“Mother and Fath—”

“Are below stairs. Let me in or I will break down this door, Rosalia.
Now
,” he ordered with a warning in his voice. She unlatched the door and he swung it open. He strode in and glanced around, studying her chamber. “What was that shuffling I heard?” he asked suspiciously.

She gave him her back and could not find the strength to look at him.

“Rosalia…” He reached out and touched her arm. When she winced, he stepped around her and pushed the hair back from her face. “Och, lass, what has befallen ye? Look at me, Rosalia.” His voice caught in his throat.

“’Tis naught. I am fine.” She closed her eyes in a futile attempt to hold back her tears. “’Tis my own fault. I spoke in truth to Mother and Father. Father…”

He embraced her lightly while she sobbed.

She pulled back slowly. “James, I must be alone. Ealasaid brought a tray and I only wish to go to bed. We can speak on the morrow. Please, James,” she said, gazing at him with despair.

He hesitated, his face full of anguish and concern. “Aye, lass, ye rest. Do ye have a salve for your bruises?”

“Aye, I have some. Please, I must get rest,” she insisted.

Finally able to convince James to take his leave, she approached her trunk. Carefully and slowly, she lifted her bundle and placed it on the bed. She sat down and removed her clothing, wincing where it rubbed her ribs. She pulled her dirk from her sack, drawing strength from the feel of it in her hand. She could do this. She had to. It was the only way. There was no turning back now. She leaned over the washbowl and placed the dirk at the base of her neck. One glance at her bruises in the reflection of the water gave her all the confidence she needed. She closed her eyes and cut deeply.

A clump of hair fell into her hand. She tossed it into the fire. She made another deep cut. Her hair was so thick. Why had she thought it would cut easily? She gathered the remaining hair clippings and threw them into the fire. Lifting her arms, which felt as though they were strapped with heavy weights, she bound her breasts and ribs the best she could. The strips she made from her old day dress worked perfectly, but the task took forever. She finally managed to pull on her tunic and don the trews James had given her to practice swordplay. A sharp pain radiated through her side, and she had yet to pull on her boots. She sat down, inhaled deeply, and bent to fasten them.

When Rosalia positioned herself upright, she fought a wave of nausea. Giving herself a moment, she packed the food from the tray Ealasaid had so graciously brought her. Holding her breath, she bent to secure her dirk inside her boot. Once she threw on the hat she had borrowed from the stable boy, her disguise was complete. She hesitated, taking one last glance around her bedchamber. She would not miss it. What was there to miss?

Opening the door, Rosalia glanced down the hall. Thankfully, James had listened to reason and left her alone. She discreetly descended the back stairs to the stables. There was no one about, but she could not be too careful. The stable master, Duncan, would be in the kitchens with Ealasaid. The two of them were inseparable.

Noonie stomped his feet and whinnied upon her approach. “Shh… we will go for a ride, Noonie, but ye must be quiet.” Rosalia managed to saddle her horse and attach her bundle. Grabbing a couple of woolen blankets, she securely fastened them to the saddle. A sharp pain attacked her ribs and she mentally willed it away. There was no time. She needed to move.

She was about to pull Noonie from the stall when she heard a whimper. “Magaidh…” She placed her head to Noonie’s, knowing in her heart she could not take her pup. Although Rosalia’s heart was breaking, Magaidh would be much safer here with Duncan.

Leading Noonie from his stall, she crept through the back of the garden. The guards would not see her from this angle. She was sure of it. Rosalia made her way to the edge of the forest. The air was warm and the moon was full. She should be able to travel a fair distance this eve.

Standing to the left, she pulled Noonie’s mane, the command for him to kneel. Praise the saints for Duncan’s training. Rosalia pulled herself upon the horse’s back. The pain was excruciating but she managed to secure her seat. Another swift kick and they were off.

When she reached the path toward the loch, she turned north. She would continue to ride into the Highlands, knowing her mother and father would never search for her there. She would seek her
seanmhair
in Glengarry and pray she would take her in.

Seanmhair
was never permitted as a topic of discussion. She often wondered what Father’s mother had done, but in her heart Rosalia would always love her.
Seanmhair
would send messengers upon occasion who would seek her out and deliver notes or gifts. It seemed Rosalia was never far from her grandmother’s thoughts—well, she prayed that still rang true.

At least she managed to get a few hours’ head start. When she could no longer hold her seat and every bone in her body ached, she needed to stop. She would pause only a moment to rest and then continue on her way. Rosalia led Noonie into a small clearing. This would have to do. As she tugged on his mane to kneel, she slid from his back and fell hard to the ground with a heavy thud. That was the last she remembered before she welcomed the blackness.

For well over a fortnight, Laird Ciaran MacGregor of Glenorchy had ridden his men hard to flee the madness of the English court. Now back in Scotland, they were all restless and tired, but bound and determined to reach Glenorchy in just a few more days. Ciaran could not wait to return home, sleep in his own bed, and eat at his own table. When his mind filtered back to his leman, Beathag, his memory of her warm thighs and ample bosom made him shift in his seat. He sorely missed Glenorchy. He would continue until he or his men dropped.

After he had had to spend what felt like an eternity at court, his reckless brother had best have everything in order upon their arrival. Fortunately, the bloody Campbells could not have caused too much grief in his absence since they were in attendance at court as well. The greedy lot continued to hold King James’s ear, but Ciaran refused to play such games.

However, he was somewhat relieved that his liege held both clans accountable for the skirmishes; at least his head would not be alone on a pike. Expressing his intense displeasure, King James warned them to keep peace in the Highlands or suffer the consequences of their actions. Ciaran had no concerns with his liege’s demands as long as the bloody Campbells stayed away from his land and his people.

Aiden slowed his mount and reined in beside him. “My laird, we have been riding for hours this day. Do ye nae think we should stop and rest the horses?”

“What is wrong? The horses are fine. Do
ye
wish to stop and rest?”

“Well…” Aiden murmured, shrugging his shoulders.

Ciaran gave him a pointed look. “What is wrong, brother?”

“Och, my bloody arse cannae take it! I know we are all anxious to return to home, but ye barely stop to let us take a piss,” he said through gritted teeth.

Ciaran reined in his mount and yelled for his men to stop. Lowering his voice, he smirked. “God’s teeth! Ye are a Highlander and a MacGregor, but if ye wish to rest to save your bloody arse… Donaidh and Seumas, ye scout and we will make camp,” he shouted over his shoulder.

***

Donaidh and Seumas were exhausted, but if scouting meant they could return to Glenorchy sooner rather than later, they would do anything their liege commanded. They searched the surrounding blanket of darkness to ensure there was no possible threat lurking in the shadows and were ready to return to camp when a horse whinnied.

“Didnae we just search that clearing?” asked Donaidh.

“Aye,” responded Seumas cautiously.

Both men separated and drew their swords, approaching the clearing from opposite directions. Once they spotted each other, they dismounted. A horse as black as the night pawed at the ground. With the full moon above, the creature cast an eerie glow—as if the beast itself was under some ancient spell.

Donaidh advanced carefully. “Is that someone upon the ground?” he whispered to Seumas.

The beast jostled his reins and pawed at the ground.

“Take caution,” Seumas murmured. “It may be a trap.” Giving the horse wide berth, he poked at the mass on the ground with his sword. Seeing no apparent movement, he stretched out his leg and kicked it with his foot. “Hold the mount steady and I will turn him over.”

Donaidh secured the black beast as Seumas reached down and flipped the darkened figure. “Och, the laddie fell from his mount.” Kneeling down beside him, Donaidh placed his ear to the youth’s lips. “He lives. Help me get him to his feet.”

Sheathing their swords, they each grabbed under an arm and brought the lad to his feet. “He is still out. Lay him back. ’Tis too dark to see how badly he is injured. We will take him back to camp,” said Seumas. Reaching out, he clutched the reins of the black beast and spoke in soothing tones. Once the mount calmed, he nodded to Donaidh. “Try again to get the laddie on his mount. Lift his feet.”

Donaidh had no sooner hefted his feet than a blood-curdling scream cut through the night. “
Sèimhich
, lad! Ye took a tumble from your mount. We arenae going to harm ye,” Donaidh assured him. Kicking and bucking, the boy tried vigorously to release their hold. He let out an agonizing moan before he again lost awareness. Hastily, they secured him to his saddle. “Seumas, have ye seen that horseflesh? Do ye think the lad a thief?” Donaidh gripped the reins and started to lead the black horse back to camp.

Seumas grunted. “I donna think ’tis the laddie’s mount. ’Tis prize horseflesh. I wonder where he got him.”

“Mayhap he was reiving from the bloody Campbells.”

***

Ciaran, Aiden, and Calum watered their horses and tethered them to a tree. Aiden started a fire, and Calum pulled out their provisions. They had been in this situation so many times before that Ciaran rarely had to assign tasks. Everyone knew his responsibilities well. Ciaran had been in many a battle with these men, and they always watched each other’s backs. They were dependable and he held them in the highest regard.

Aiden and Calum were sitting quietly around the fire, and it did not surprise Ciaran that no one wished to converse. After hearing all of the chattering women at court and their peacocks floating about, the silence was soothing.

Ciaran approached the fire and handed his brother a wine sack. “And how is your arse?” he asked, sprawling out on his own blanket.

“Ye laugh, brother.” He took a long swig of wine and handed the sack to Calum.

“Aiden, lass, when are ye going to don your skirts? Mayhap Aisling wears the trews, aye?” Ciaran jested.

Calum spit the wine from his mouth but tried to cover his actions with a cough.

“Ye know, if I wasnae so sore right now, I would take ye both to task.” Aiden fell back on his blanket and moaned.

Something gnawed at Ciaran’s gut, and he could not quite place his finger upon it. “Donaidh and Seumas should have returned by now.”

A scream pierced the night, and all of the men jumped to their feet. A few moments later when a whistle rang out, Ciaran sheathed his sword and let out the breath he held. He strode toward his men as they led their mounts into camp.

“We found a lad in the clearing. We think he fell from his mount—well,
that
mount.” Seumas pointed to the horse, shaking his head in nonbelief. “When we tried to pick him up, he screamed as though death were upon him. I think his ribs are broken, but at least he is still out cold.”

“Donaidh, Seumas, secure the horses. Aiden, help me move him close to the fire,” Ciaran ordered. Pulling the boy from the horse, they carried him to a blanket and gently lowered him to the ground. When Ciaran pushed back the hair from the lad’s face, his eyes widened with concern. “Och, his eyes are blackened, his lip is cut and swollen, and he has swelling to the face. And ’tis only what we see. That must have been one hell of a tumble.”

Aiden grabbed a blanket and handed it to him. “Here. Lay this under his head.”

Lifting the lad’s head, Ciaran positioned the cover carefully underneath. “We should check for other injuries.” He started by squeezing the injured lad’s arms to check for broken bones, but as he applied pressure, the boy started to moan.

“Ciaran, the blackness is probably a blessing for now. If he awakens before first light, we will give him some ale for the pain. I think it may be better to check him on the morrow. Then we can see to what extent he is injured,” offered Aiden.

“Aye.” Ciaran shook his head regretfully. “There is naught we can do now. His pain will be much on the morrow, though.”

The men arranged their bedding in front of the fire while Ciaran took first watch. He knew the path home had been too clear—well, the lad was not at fault. Ciaran would do what he must. If the boy could ride on the morrow, he would take him to the next village and ensure he received proper care. The lad was breathing heavily now and would probably sleep through the night.

Glancing over at the dark horse, Ciaran wondered where he came from. The mount was clearly prize horseflesh. They were at least a day’s ride from the English border. Surely, the lad knew better than to steal from an English lord. All Ciaran needed right now was to have a band of men searching for their prized mount. He certainly did not want trouble. All he wanted was to return home to Glenorchy where a warm bed and Beathag welcomed him. He smiled at the thought.

He walked over to the fire and nudged his brother. “Aiden, ’tis time.”

Letting out a sound of displeasure, his brother rolled over. “Nay, Aisling, I need a few more moments.”

“Aiden, get up, ye daft fool.” Ciaran nudged him again with his foot—not so friendly this time.

“Och! God’s teeth! I am awake!” Placing his hands over his eyes, Aiden groaned.

“Quiet or ye will wake the men.”

Aiden rose for his turn to stand watch and Ciaran took his place, listening to the fire making popping noises well into the night. He loved to sleep under the stars—not exactly for an entire fortnight, but for a night or two. In fact, he was not even aware he had fallen asleep until sunlight beamed in his eyes. When he opened them, Seumas sat next to the boy with a troubled expression.

“He just started to stir. I believe the pain is setting. He seems to be aware.”

Pulling himself to his feet, Ciaran walked around the ashes of the fire and knelt beside the lad. He had seen that the youth’s injuries were severe by the firelight the past eve, but in the light of day… He gave the boy a little nudge and he cried out in pain.

“Seumas, we have nay choice. We need to know how badly he is injured or if he can travel. Grab an arm and let us sit him up.” Supporting the lad by the upper arms, they placed him into a sitting position. “Can ye speak? Ye fell from your mount. Do ye understand?” Ciaran waited for his answer, but the boy was unresponsive.

“Do ye think he is injured in the head?” asked Seumas with concern.

“Nay. I have seen head injuries before,” said Ciaran, studying his bruises. “He isnae injured in the head.”

***

The pain was unbearable. Was someone talking to her? Head injury? Rosalia was trying to make sense of it all. She needed a moment to compose herself. Her vision was blurry, and it felt like a dagger was stuck in her temple. She let out a moan as she lifted her hand to her head. Opening her eyes, reality started to creep back in. The last thing she remembered was… falling from Noonie. She searched around the men, the very large men, and spotted several horses tethered to a tree. Noonie was there, but who were these men?

Someone asked her if she understood. Her eyes met his, and she could not answer because something clicked in her mind. It was
him—
the man from court who pitied her. She would recognize him anywhere.

“Can ye stand?” he asked with concern.

Rosalia did the only reasonable thing that came to mind. She nodded. The man grabbed her under the arms and attempted to pull her up. When she yelped and took a sharp intake of breath, he lowered her back to the ground.

“Seumas, help him hold up his arms. I will remove his tunic,” the man ordered.

Her eyes widened in panic as an even more terrifying realization washed over her. She became instantly awake, fully aware of her surroundings. What if he discovered she was a woman? This situation could end in nothing short of a disaster.

“Donna worry, lad. Once I remove your tunic, we will check if your ribs are broken or bruised. Mayhap all they need is to be bound.” The man he called Seumas hefted her arms, and
he
started to pull up her tunic.

She thought she squeaked. “Nay, I am fine. There is nay need—” she coughed.

“Lad, I willnae hear it. I need to see your…”

God’s teeth! Was that her tunic up over her breasts? She’d bound them before she left Mangerton, but she was not sure if the bindings remained intact. Rosalia tried to search his expression as swiftly as he yanked the tunic down.

Turning his head, he coughed. “Seumas,” he choked out. He nodded for Seumas and his men to take their leave. His massive body blocked her frame, and she did not think his men had seen her. At least, she hoped not. He stood over her, his hands on his hips, and she was silenced by his dark expression. He whipped around and started to fold blankets and gather supplies. His actions made her nervous and his jaw was clenched tight.

Without warning, his angry gaze swung over her. “When I pulled up your tunic, I was expecting a lad. Ye apparently have some
daft
reason to be traveling alone dressed in a lad’s clothing with that prime horseflesh as your means of travel,” he curtly stated, pointing at Noonie. “I will have the tale. Now,
lass
,” he ordered.

Rosalia studied the man in front of her. She found herself completely at a loss for words and did not have the strength to look into his judging eyes. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she lowered her head, staring at her hands. She did not want to be a watering pot, but she had been through so much and did not need
him
as an added complication.

His expression softened and he cupped her chin gently, searching her upturned face. “Lass, if I wanted to harm ye, it would have been done. My men and I journey from court, and I must know if someone gives chase to ye,” he spoke in a soothing tone, successfully disarming her with his smile, but fortunately not robbing her of her wits.

“I have wasted your time and willnae keep ye further from your journey. Please leave me my mount and I will be on my way.” She spoke with as reasonable a voice as she could manage.

He let out a long, audible breath. “I can see ye are going to be difficult.” He smiled blandly. “First, I must check ye for injury. Now… I can either do it or have my men return and watch me do it. Ye decide,” he said, his lips twisting into a cynical smile.

There was an uncomfortable silence and then Rosalia reluctantly nodded her head in consent.

“A wise choice, lass. I must cut the bindings to check your ribs, but I have supplies to use for binding if there is a need.” He pulled out his dirk and started to lift her tunic.

She gasped, reaching out and grabbing his arm. Nervously, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Wait… I donna know your name.”