Warrior and the Wanderer (16 page)

“I find that as terrible as you do, Blaze.” Ian reached out and brushed a long lock of fiery hair that had fallen in front of her face. “I actually prefer marriages that are celebrated with cake, good alcohol, and dancing.”

She wiped her eyes with the blanket she had wrapped around her body. “One does lead to the other.”

Ian chuckled.

It coaxed a lovely smile from her.

“Blaze,” he said, brushing the back of his hand across her soft cheek, “Lachlan and I share the same name, but that’s all we share. I don’t get into bear baiting, or anything as violent and stupid as that. Remember when you killed that rabbit for our supper? How did I look?”

Bess smiled. “Ye did look a wee bit peaked, as I remember.”

He moved closer to her, reaching up and slipping the blanket from one soft shoulder. “I want to help you bring this Lachlan to justice, but under one condition.”

“Which is?” she asked.

Ian molded his hand on her shoulder, leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear. “Take me to where we first met.”

Bess pulled back, furiously shaking her head.

“Blaze—” he began.

“I cannae take ye there.”

He touched her chin with his fingers, looked so deep into her eyes and saw the fear there, the fear that this beautiful warrior wanted to hide from him, from everyone. “I understand your reasons for not wanting to return there, but for me to help you, I must get back there.”

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders. “Will ye tell the Duke of Argyll, the Queen Regent and her councilors all ye ken about Lachlan, what he tried to do to me?”

“All I
ken
,” Ian replied. “But to them I am no one. I don’t know if they will believe me.”

“They will believe ye more than me. However, after ye took yer leave I did remind the Duke that the duty of Clan Campbell is to protect his lands as well and with that protection comes expansion.”

“Expansion?”

“Because the Duke wants Lachlan’s lands. He tried to get them by consenting to my marriage to that bastard. He needs proof against Lachlan’s crimes to take to the queen and her councilors. ’Twas where he decided ye will play an important part. He confessed that ye have the attributes to influence the queen into supporting the Duke’s interests in expanding into MacLean holdings.”

“What kind of attributes?” Ian asked warily.

Bess glanced away briefly, before centering her gaze on him. “Confidence, a commanding manner, and yer most braw countenance.”

He grinned. “Do you agree with the Duke?”

A small smile spread her lips. “Aye, but ye are still most odd. I beg ye to temper that before Her Majesty.”

“I’ll do my best as long as we have an agreement.”

“A-aye,” she said with a slight nod. “I’ll take ye to where we met after all is settled and with Lachlan in the gaol.”

“I can confirm that the gaol is a good place for a bear-baiting, murdering bastard.” Ian placed his hands on either side of her face. “We should seal our agreement.”

Bess whispered, “Aye.”

He leaned forward anticipating a kiss that all others after this would be judged by. He anticipated the realization of a fantasy he had allowed himself ever since Bess had entered his chamber: of a four-poster bed, a fire in the hearth, and Bess warm against his body, a memory to carry with him back to his time.

He took Bess into his arms. She moaned from deep within her throat. Did she have her own private fantasies to anticipate with him? He doubted they involved swords, knives, or her warrior princess armor. Ian smiled inside. Well, maybe they did. He looked forward to finding out. He planned to begin with tonight.

Bess succumbed to his kiss.

Then the bloody door opened…

“Go away!” Ian bellowed.

Bess and not the intruder quickly obeyed his demand. She leapt from the bed to the side of the chamber hidden from the door.

Ian looked toward the door. Three figures, two much larger than the one in the middle, stood in silhouette before the torchlight that burned in the corridor.

The little figure pointed at him. “By order of the King, he’s the one!”

Ian stepped off the bed. “Oh, shite….”

Chapter Nine: The Reluctant Bard

“Y
ou’re the king?” Ian asked.

He stood a dozen paces away from an ornate chair, where a man with all the confidence of Moses sat and stared at him.

“In so much that you did not bow to me, I should sincerely hope not,” the man said. “For your sake.”

“For my sake?” In this time royalty was not fodder for paparazzi and tabloids. This was the real deal. They had true power. If he wanted to keep his neck intact he might as well play along. He bowed.

The man in the chair against the opposite end of the small room smiled at him.

“Why am I here?” Ian asked standing upright.

The man, a slight, older gentleman with silver hair partially concealed beneath a gold velvet cap topped with a jaunty peacock feather, leaned forward in his chair. He gestured to one of the two big men who stood silently beside the chair. One of the men reached into his dark velvet jacket and took out a roll of leather. He handed it to the man in the chair.

The man held the bundle before his gold threaded doublet that bulged at the waist above his puffy short velvet pants. His skinny legs were covered in brown hose down to feet wearing shiny black brogues. Ian did not feel one bit out of place with what he wore in this man’s presence, which was not that ridiculous kilt. Instead he wore his black jeans, his red t-shirt and his boots, thanks to Bess who has brought them to him. Somehow she knew how much more confortable jeans were to him than a scratchy, heavy wool blanket.

The man in the chair rolled the leather bundle open.

It was Ian’s leather jacket. “Give it to me,” he said, taking a few steps forward.

The two big men moved forward and blocked Ian. He was a good two or more inches taller than them, but they made up for their lack of height in sheer girth.

Ian stood quietly, waiting for the skinny man in the chair to speak.

“I am Lord Spittal,” he said. “Confidant and tailor to the queen regent. I also tend to her entertainments and any other thing her councilors may not provide-which is not much.” He examined Ian’s leather jacket.

“That jack—, that doublet, is mine,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

“ I understand you’ve had a quite arduous journey, from the gaol to the great hall.”

“Think what you want, Spittal.” Ian was certain his story was all over Edinburgh by now. The people who had ogled him in the great hall looked prone to gossip. He did not care either. All he wanted was his jacket and to be back in his candlelit chamber with Bess. He had less than two weeks to be in her company. Why waste them talking to this git? “The doublet is mine. I’ll take it and be on my way.”

“By your leave? No, that will not do,” Spittal said shaking his head, making a “tisk, tisk” sound. “This is the finest doublet I have ever seen. True, the leather is worn, but worn to a suppleness of the finest tanned leathers. But the stitching is remarkable. So tiny, so precise!”

“So I’ve heard,” Ian scoffed.

“Where did ye come by this garment? Who is your tailor?”

“Want the truth?” Maybe if he answered Spittal with a name he could never track down, send him on a wild goose chase, it may get him out of this small room, and back to Bess. He hoped he would find her out of hiding and in his bed. They would finish what they started.

“Of course,” the man said with a curt nod.

“Look at the tag inside the jacket, in back of the collar.”

Spittal peered into the jacket. He read the one word embroidered there. Ian watched his lips move, as he tried to figure out the right pronunciation. Spittal looked up.

“Versace?”

“Aye,” Ian replied. “Vintage Versace to be exact.”

“By an Italian?”

Ian nodded.

“You had this doublet tailored in Italy?”

“It was made there. I bought it in London.” Which was entirely true.

“London. Are you English? Your accent—”

“I know, I know, it sounds English to you, am I right? I am not a spy, I was born in Scotland, just in case you were thinking to put me in prison again.”

“That will not be necessary,” Spittal said, admiring the jacket. “Since you told me who tailored this doublet. Her Majesty will no doubt want one made for her son, the King.”

“So this is why you and your henchmen barged into my chamber?”

“I did so in the best interest of Scotland’s fairest rose, the Lady Bess Campbell of—”

“She wasn’t in my chamber.” His lie came out too quickly. Spittal looked at him skeptically.

“Lady Campbell is married,” he said sharply. “To a good friend of mine.”

“
Was
married,” Ian said.

“Impossible.” Spittal sat up straighter.

“She got an annulment,” he said.

“Who granted her this annulment?” Spittal asked, his tone nothing short of demanding.

Ian stiffened a little. “Some priest.”

“Who?”

“Couldn’t say.” He saved the priest from a heart attack and was not about to send this arrogant man and his brutish bookends to him.

“Who are you?” Spittal asked with a narrowed gaze.

“Ian MacLean.”

Spittal raised a brow. “Are you Lord MacLean’s champion?”

“Sorry?” Champion?

“His guard. Sworn to protect his life with your own?”

“N—” But his denial was cut off by a beautiful and commanding voice.

“He serves a far greater purpose, m’Lord!”

Ian turned to see Bess storming across the chamber. Her fiery hair blew back from her face as she swished past Ian on a direct path to Spittle. The dampness in her clothes was still present as her skirts coolly brushed the side of his hand. He reached out to pull her back, and all he got for his trouble was a wisp of wool fibers. Bess stopped before Spittal and gave him a low curtsy that afforded Ian a lovely view of the layers of her skirts smoothed over her perfectly rounded backside.

“Ian MacLean is the greatest bard in all of Scotland,” Bess declared.

“Uh, Blaze….” Ian began. What was she saying? He knew what a bard was, and she had caught him singing more than once. What in hell was she doing? A nasty shiver sliced up Ian’s spine.

Put your hands together for Ian MacLean! The greatest entertainer to come out of Scotland since Sean Connery!

The off-strip Vegas announcer rang in his head like a rusty bell. Vegas. Where entertainers went to die. How many shows had he performed before that last night when he took a holiday to the sixteenth century? Eighty, ninety, less than a hundred. He stood there on stage, microphone in hand, staring through the glare of spotlights at the bored late night crowd sipping their watered-down cocktails, wishing he was anywhere else.

“Blaze,” he said in a warning tone.

“His voice is sent from the Almighty,” Bess said. She was speaking for him, acting as if he was not there. Acting like his manager had done before he booked the Vegas gig.

You’ve broken up with the band, MacLean. Wanted to go solo. I’m fanning the flames of your ego as best I can. After three dismal releases that barely scratched the Billboard Hot 100, your recording contract is on the line. Chill in Vegas, get it back, and then we’ll talk.

“Blaze!” Ian shouted.

She whirled around, hair flying out from her face, emerald eyes flashing. The warrior is in the building, he thought looking at her. He could not get through to the warrior, but, bloody hell, he was certain he could get through to the woman.

“I’m saving your hide,” she hissed, eyes flashing.

“Not necessary,” Ian said. “Appreciated, but so not necessary.” If she only knew how not necessary she would stop. Maybe.

He took several long strides forward, past the guards who had not moved a muscle when Bess had rushed in. They moved now, and blocked Ian again, this time from reaching Bess. He surged forward and pushed the guards aside and grabbed Bess’s arm.

“
Blaze,
” he said through clenched teeth.

“Subdue him,” Spittal said.

Four strong hands clasped Ian’s arms and wrenched them to his back. He was forced to relinquish his hold on Bess as the two guards jerked him away from her.

Bess give Ian a steady stare as if she was silently calling him an idiot.

He shook his head. “Don’t do this,” he said under his breath.

Ignoring him she said, “M’Lord, Ian MacLean is a bard of rare quality.”

Ian clenched his hands into fists, his muscles strained against the guards.

“Did he hone his ‘rare quality’ in London?” Spittal asked. He held up the jacket. “That is where he admits purchasing this garment.”

“You too have frequented London, m’Lord, to purchase silks and satins for the queen regent and her son, King James. ’Tis no’ treason to venture there.”