“I dinnae want to alarm you,” he said, clearly unaware of his effect on her. “But vice and debauchery in nunneries has been on the rise for years. Some establishments are little better than the most unsavory joy houses.”
“Then I will take care not to enter a tainted one.”
Iain shook his head. “Nae, I shall take that care.”
It was the least he could do for her. And for his own dented pride, now that he no longer possessed a single fleck of untarnished honor.
“See here…” He softened his tone. “If you have no preference, I shall escort you to Duncairn,” he proposed, choosing the last stop on his journey.
If he couldn’t keep her, he might as well enjoy having her near for as long as circumstances allowed.
“Aye, lass, Duncairn is a good choice.”
“Duncairn?” Her eyes rounded.
“Aye. ‘Tis an ancient and worthy establishment.” He smiled, warming to the idea. “My clan has ties to the bishopric, so I can leave you there with good conscience.”
“Duncairn Cathedral?” she echoed.
“Is there any other?” Iain studied her, noting the furrowing of her brow.
She knew Duncairn and didn’t want to go there.
“Duncairn is as good as any,” she said with a too-carefree shrug.
Feigning disinterest, Iain glanced at the rain clouds in the distance. “We can consider other nunneries along the way,” he said, testing her.
“Splendid.” She pounced. “That would please me. I am eager to take the veil.”
A lie if he’d ever heard one.
But she was eager about something.
“Ah, well.” Iain’s mind raced. “My journey will take us past St. Fillan’s and its healing pond,” he suggested, choosing this possibility for its nearness. “Perhaps you will be happier there?”
“Oh, aye,” she agreed, even smiling. “I have heard of the pond’s restorative qualities.”
Iain tamped down the urge to argue.
As he’d suspected, she jumped on the suggestion of St. Fillan’s, even turning aside to hide her relief. But when she swung back, her own gaze probed and a shadow that could have passed for regret stole some of the warmth out of her eyes.
Sure enough, she frowned.
“So you are on a pilgrimage?”
“Of sorts, aye,” he admitted. He’d rather say he was simply traveling the land. Tell her he was attending clan business for his brother, the laird.
But he wouldn’t lie.
“I am doing a penance,” he said, his gut twisting on the admission.
“Why?” No accusation in her tone, only interest.
“I did something terrible.” He went to his horse, using the breadth of his plaid-slung back to shield how deeply her lack of scorn touched him.
“But dinnae you worry – I am no’ a thief or murderer,” he added. “You will be safe riding with me.”
Turning, he gestured her to him. “I will tell you the reason for my journey after we’ve paused for the night. The light is fading and we must hurry to reach adequate lodgings. It is a lengthy ride to the next township.”
She blinked, but came forward. Hesitantly. “A town?”
“Would you rather camp the night in the roofless shell of another burned cottage?” Iain glanced at the darkening sky. Even the wind now held the fresh smell of rain. “A storm brews. I would have us sheltered and dry before it breaks.”
Rubbing her arms, she recalled the cottage’s scorched remains. “Nella and I have slept in less welcoming places.”
“Well, you shall not this night,” Iain decided for her.
Reaching for her, he seized her by the waist and lifted her onto his horse’s back. Quickly, before she could object – or tear off through the heather, costing them an unnecessary sprint across the rough, uneven ground.
A fool’s errand that would only end with his catching her. And maybe demanding a kiss as payment for his trouble. After all, she appealed to him greatly – so much that he was wont to kiss her now.
Her brow pleated, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I do not want to stay in a town.”
“A shame, then.” Iain vaulted up behind her, pulled her back against his chest. “You have nae choice,” he said as he kneed the horse into motion.
And neither do you, his MacLean heart taunted him.
Not in wanting her.
Nor that, even now, he was already contemplating ways to win a kiss from her.
Frowning as darkly as the fast-approaching rain clouds, he urged his horse to greater speed and ignored the damning truth…
He was an unchivalrous arse.
He proved it when a good hour later, he spied a monastery where they would surely have found refuge. Instead, he dug in his knees, urging his horse onward. He even possessed the gall to be glad the lass slept and couldn’t notice.
He knew, but he rode on, keeping to the northern path until the rugged moorland gave way to even higher ground. The hills were now heavily forested and cut through with long, deep glens, but eventually sloped down to just the type of settlement he’d hoped to find.
Not quite a township, but a sleepy cluster of low-browed, thatch-topped cottages built around a small, gray-walled kirk. A long-ruined fortalice stood on its mound some distance away, and cattle grazed on the rolling pastureland.
Any visitors to such a forgotten hamlet would have no choice but to spend the night at the local inn.
Such as it would prove to be…
A humble establishment offering pallets of straw on the common room floor, a flea-ridden bed shared by many in a room that hadn’t known a breath of fresh air in centuries – or private quarters, tiny but clean, if the innkeeper was shown a handful of coin.
And Iain had coin a-plenty.
So he cantered toward the village and what he hoped would be the first pleasant night he’d spent in ages. Accepting, too, that his less-than-noble ambitions marked him for the kind of lout he could no longer deny he’d become…
A self-serving blackguard.
And a greater one than his clan or any who knew him would ever believe.
Chapter Fourteen
Deepening twilight, wind, and rain accompanied Iain through the settlement. The worsening weather and muddied road spoiled any appeal the village might have held on a less stormy night. But rumbles of thunder warned of seeking shelter elsewhere.
So he rode beneath the arched gate of the village’s sole hostelry and spied the ale-stake, a long, horizontal pole projecting above the door.
Adorned with bundles of leafy green branches, the ale-stake bobbed in the wind – and marked his chosen lodgings as an alehouse rather than the more commodious and hospitable inn he’d hoped to find.
He reined in beside a pile of cut peat not far from the stables. Glancing about, he surveyed the alehouse’s foreyard.
Chickens pecked at straw scattered across the mushy ground and pigs grunted in ankle-deep muck. The noisy beasts edged near and Iain frowned, sure he’d left his wits somewhere on the moorland behind him.
Right about where he’d spotted the monastery tucked away in a dark wood, and chose to ride on. His hands fisted around the reins, guilt again piercing him.
But he’d so wanted a kiss. Or rather quarters for the night that would’ve proven helpful in gaining one.
Instead, he’d found a wee scrap of an alehouse. A dubious-looking establishment he doubted could offer an ewer and basin of warmed water and soap, much less a private, vermin-free room.
A shudder snaked down his spine, and he glanced again at the wind-tossed ale-stake. His every instinct told him to wheel about, spur his horse, and be gone. To ride away before the lass awakened, journeying the night through if need be.
Wet wind, empty belly, or nae.
But the yellow pools of light spilling from the alehouse’s half-shuttered windows beckoned. More than that, he caught a whiff of deliciously roasted meats.
His stomach growled. Madeline was sur
ely hungry as well. She needed to eat.
He looked at her, something inside him softening. She still slept, leaning so trustingly against him. And her soft, warm weight stirred more than his physical body. She’d pulled Amicia’s arisaid – a MacLean plaid – over her head, using its woolen folds to shield her from the drizzly rain.
That, too, touched him.
Made her seem needful of him, a prospect he found almost impossible to grasp.
Iain MacLean, scourge of his clan, now rescuer of a fair maiden in distress.
In turn…
She made him feel alive again.
He inhaled deeply, savored her perfume. Her scent’s clean, heathery lightness chased the dark from his soul and sent cracks spreading across the hardened casing of his heart.
Blinking, he tried to rid himself of such foolish notions. He was anything but a romantic. Yet the more he sought to banish such thoughts, the worse they became.
The wilder, more bold, and far too hurtful to allow.
He frowned up at the heavens, his resentment at the foul weather almost as great as his scorn for himself. The heavy, gray clouds marred how wonderfully right it felt to have her in his arms.
This time of year, the night should have been still and shining, graced with finest luminosity until the small hours. And had the fates been kind, kissed with enough magic to spare him a dollop or two.
Instead, the alehouse door opened and the proprietor stepped outside, a slop pail in his hands.
The lass awakened then, twisting around to peer at him, her eyes hazy with sleep. “Where are we?”
“Our lodgings.” Iain spoke true. “We cannae keep on. The weather is thickening.”
He frowned as the portly ale-keeper flung the contents of his slop pail onto the muddy ground. The man then tossed aside the bucket and strode forward.
“Ho, good sir!” he called, wiping his hands on a cloth hanging from a wide leather belt slung low beneath his girth.
“Lady.” He dipped his head to Madeline, amiable if a bit ingratiating. “Welcome to the Shepherd’s Rest,” he greeted them, a speculative gleam in his eye. “How may I serve you?”
“We have been riding far and are weary.” Iain dismounted, then reached for Madeline. He eased her off the horse’s back, but kept her in his arms, holding her high against his chest so her dangling feet remained above the wet ground.
“My wife and I require a good meal, decent ale, and your best room for the night.” He started forward, closing the short distance between them. “Private quarters, and clean.”
The ale-keeper bristled. “Meals here are praised for miles around, and many claim I serve the best ale in the land,” he said, holding the door wide as Iain stepped past him into the common room. “But I’m full up for the night – lest you wish a pallet on the floor?”
“That willnae do.” Iain stopped just inside the threshold and glanced about the alehouse’s crowded interior. Smoky blue haze from a low-burning peat fire hung in the air, its pleasant, earthy tang laced with the stronger smell of ale-soaked floor rushes.
Iain turned to the proprietor. “You must have something better?”
“‘Tis a busy night, sir.” The man shrugged, then gestured to his patrons. Flush-cheeked and loud, they filled all but one of the rough-hewn tables – a smaller one near the door and full in the draught of the cold, damp air pouring through the windows’ shutter slats. “You have eyes and can see yourself. Even pallet space will be cramped.”
He turned back to Iain. “Nothing I can do about it.”
“Try.”
“A pallet will serve.” Madeline gripped Iain’s arm. “I told you, Nella and I-”
“Hush, sweeting.” Iain frowned, his mood worsening. “My lady wife will no’ sleep on the floor.”
“I have nothing else, lord.” The ale-keeper hitched up his belt, waited as a serving lass hurried past with a tray of empty ale mugs. “You came on a bad night – for yourselves, anyway.”
And he wasn’t lying.
Even the settles flanking the huge stone hearth proved occupied. And those were most often ignored, the stifling heat thrown off by the fire making the hard-backed settles less desirable seating than the bench-lined trestle tables.
“It doesn’t matter.” Madeline dug her fingers into his shoulder this time. “I can sleep anywhere. As long as we are dry and warm.”
“I can give you extra blankets,” the ale-keeper offered. “My daughter will sweep out a corner before she spreads your pallets.”
“Good sir, pallets are no’ acceptable.” Iain felt his temper rising. “We have had a day of long and hard riding. My wife is tired,” he said with a glance at the black-raftered ceiling. “Are you sure you haven’t a wee niche hidden away abovestairs?”
The ale-keeper gave another apologetic shrug. “Most fancy folk hereabouts make do sleeping on one of the common beds in the back room. But even those are spoken for this night.” He spread his hands. “Six to a bed last count.”
“Perhaps we should ride on,” Madeline whispered into his ear. “I do not want to attract attention.”
“Too late, sweetness.” Iain would’ve laughed if he weren’t so annoyed.
Worse, something in her tone prickled his nape. Trying not to show his ill-ease, he lowered her onto the bench of the only empty table and patted her on the shoulder in what he hoped she’d perceive as a gesture of reassurance.
“The heavens just opened,” he said, and a furious clap of thunder lent truth to his words.
She jumped, stared up at him with rounded eyes. “But-”
“Leaving is no’ an option. We’d be soaked before we left the ale yard.” Iain leaned close, smoothed a damp curl from her brow. “I willnae see you catch ill,” he added, raising his voice above the rain and wind. “Do you no’ hear the storm?”
Before she could answer, he straightened to face the ale-keeper. He also squared his shoulders, assuming his best brother-of-the-laird posture. “Even the humblest of establishments keep quarters for those wishing privacy. Is your Shepherd’s Rest different, then?”
“Aye, well…” A glimmer of interest flickered across the man’s face. “Let me think.”
“Do that.” Iain lifted a fold of his plaid to reveal the leather purse hanging from his waist belt. “It would serve you well if you can provide such a chamber.”
“There is one room,” the ale-keeper owned, eyeing the coin pouch.
Iain let his plaid fall back in place. “Is it clean?”
The man hesitated, moistened his lips. He slid a glance at another serving lass, this one replenishing burned-out candles on the tables. “I will have the bed linens changed. But the room is dear…” He let the words tail off, toyed with the end of his drying cloth.
Smelling victory, Iain fished a few coins from his purse. “I’ll double your profit if you send up a bath and triple it if you make haste.”
The ale-keeper bobbed his head. “I shall see to it as you enjoy your dinner, milord.” He thrust out his hand, accepting the coins. “You shall bathe in rose water and sleep on swan down.”
“See you only that the room is private and suitable for a lady,” Iain said, taking a seat across from Madeline.
He reached for her hand, tried to tell himself his conscience wasn’t glaring at him from over her shoulder – and that the talk of bathing wasn’t the reason for her sudden pallor.
Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “I know you washed at the spring. We need heated water to make the sphagnum tincture,” he said, rubbing gentle circles across her palm with his thumb. “A true bath will soothe your aches.”
“I am fine.” She pulled her hand away. “Save for this pretense. I do not like it.”
“Nor do I, but here we are. Dinnae think I am pleased.” He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she’d suppose. “Mind you, I am a man and a hungry one,” he blurted before he could stop himself.
Pulling a hand down over his chin, he tried again.
“It
has been overlong since-” he broke off when the ale-keeper’s daughter plunked a brown-glazed jug of heather ale and two wooden cups on the table. An older woman, perhaps her mother, set down a platter heaped with brown bread, cheese, and a roasted capon.
Iain nodded thanks, but knew greater relief to see them leave.
“Since what, sir?”
Madeline’s sweet voice caught his ear. Odin’s balls, had he truly been about to admit how long it’d been since he’d lain with a woman? Even worse, that his MacLean heart knew her, his soul recognizing hers. That only she among all women could banish the hunger inside him, heal the ache in his heart and make him whole.
A declaration that would have surely sent her bolting from the Shepherd’s Rest and into the stormy night, never to be seen again. The truth was, were he the gallant she’d styled him, he’d warn her to run, to do whatever she could to escape Iain MacLean, hot-tempered scourge of the Isles and killer of innocent wives.
Disappointment to all who knew him.
“Sir?” She reached across the table to tap his arm.
“Aye?” He blinked, her touch sending a jolt of sensation through him. He struggled against the urge to grab her hand and drag her fingers over every inch of his flesh.
Frowning, he shifted on the hard bench, every fiber of his being crackling with the fierce need to share intimate touches with her. He burned to press her hand over his heart so she could feel its thunder and know she stirred more than his baser needs.
Much more.
But for now she was peering at him, round-eyed and curious, and making him ache just to hear her call him by his name.
And to learn hers – her full one, clan ties and all.
“I told you my name is Iain,” he reminded her, lifting the ale jug to pour two cups of the frothy brew. “No’ sir or lord, just Iain - even if you have given me a splendid style.”
He slid one of the cups across the table. “It would please me if you used my name.”
“Iain, then,” she said, taking the cup. Watching him, she sipped the ale. “You haven’t told me what you meant a moment ago, sir … Iain.”
“Only that I am no’ a monk,” he blurted, instantly regretting his words.
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