Her head began to spin. “Tell me ye jest,” she said. The man was daft. Insane.
When he simply smiled his reply, a smile that said, think on it fer a moment, she felt like weeping. “Tell me ye jest!” she demanded.
With a slow shake of his head, he said, “Nay, lass, I do no’ jest. The poor fool has been in love with ye fer an age.”
“But that can no’ be,” she said, pressing a hand against her chest. Nay, Lachlan thinks of me only as a friend. Even if she made the attempt, there was no hiding her confusion.
“Why is it so hard to believe?” he asked with a wide grin.
It made no sense to her. Not once in all these years had Lachlan behaved in such a way to make her think he had anything other than a brotherly affection toward her. “He is my friend,” she told him. “Naught more.”
Lachlan did not need to threaten to kill the man in order to get the information he wanted. The coward did not protest or put up any kind of fight. As soon as Lachlan asked him who he was and what he was about, the words came spilling out.
“I be Fergus MacGavin. Me da is the blacksmith for the MacGavin clan,” he said, his voice trembling with fear.
“Then why does Mariote believe ye to be Conner MacGavin?” Lachlan asked. He still had the man pinned to the cold, damp earth.
He stammered only for a moment. “I saw her last spring at the festival,” he said.
When he fell silent, Lachlan pushed hard against his chest, warning him to continue.
“I found letters. Letters our laird wrote our lady. Filled with poetry and flowery words meant to impress her. I took them and copied them, putting Mariote’s name in our lady’s place.”
“But why?” Lachlan asked through gritted teeth. It took a good deal of energy not to pummel the bastard into the cold earth.
“I thought if she believed I was the laird’s son, I could convince her to marry me,” Fergus said raggedly.
Clarity dawned, causing Lachlan’s fury to intensify. “And improve yer lot in life.” Disgusted, he shook his head. “And by the time Mariote realized the truth…”
“‘Twould be too late,” Fergus added, his face turning purple as he fought to catch a breath.
Furious, repulsed, Lachlan let the man go and stood up, hovering over the coward. The fool had lied to Mariote. Lied well enough to make her believe he loved her. Well enough to convince her to steal away and marry him.
Fergus rolled over to his hands and knees and took several deep breaths.
“Ye be a coward,” Lachlan ground out. “Ye used the tender heart of an innocent lass.”
Fergus laughed as he struggled to his feet. “Aye, and ‘twould have worked if ye hadn’t come along.”
The idiot had the audacity to smirk, to look proud of what he had almost accomplished. The thought of Mariote being married to someone like this insipid, weak excuse for a man sickened Lachlan. “The blood on yer tunic?” he asked with a nod.
Fergus glanced down at the blood. “This?” he asked, grinning stupidly. “This belongs to the farmer who refused to sell me a horse.”
The smirk, the sinister gleam in the man’s eyes, the thought of what might have happened to Mariote was too much. Red hot fury erupted and so did Lachlan’s fist. He punched the man square in the jaw and sent him to the ground. He picked him up by the scruff of his tunic and hit him again.
Three more punches to the ignorant fool’s face made Lachlan feel only slightly better. He dragged Fergus’s unconscious and bloody body to a tree, retrieved the rope from his saddle, and tied him to the trunk.
Before leaving, he said, “Ye will no’ live long enough to hurt anyone else. If the MacGavin does no’ kill ye, I will.”
Willem knew better than anyone how Lachlan felt about Mariote. While his friend had never come right out and expressed his feelings — for warriors simply did not do such things — he knew. ’Twas the way Lachlan smiled whenever he spoke her name. The way the man stared at her like a wolf wanting to devour a doe whenever he caught sight of her. Aye, his friend wanted Mariote, and who could blame him? She was a beautiful lass, with long, wav, golden tresses and big bright eyes, and curves in all the right places.
Willem also knew Mariote had feelings for him. He valued his friendship with Lachlan too much to act on those misplaced feelings. He also valued his life too much. For if he did act on those feelings — as he would were she anyone else’s daughter — Alysander McCullum would kill him. Besides, he respected Mariote far too much to give in to any temptations he might have.
“Aye, Lachlan does consider ye his friend. But methinks he would like it to be more than that.”
From her bewildered expression he knew she still did not quite believe him.
“Trust me, lass, when I tell ye the man is in love with ye.”
She shook her head in disbelief as she swallowed back her tears.
“He’d make a right good husband,” he told her. “Men like Lachlan always make far better husbands than men like me,” he said. Laughing, he added, “I would make a most horrible husband, fer I doubt I could ever be faithful. I be far too greedy in that regard.”
“Greedy?” she asked, her pretty brow knotted.
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “I be a right greedy bastard when it comes to the opposite sex. I love all women and not in the way that is necessarily best fer them. I be far too selfish to give meself to just one woman, ye ken?”
Nay, she did not understand, not in the least. Mariote swallowed back more tears. Why was he being so hard on himself? “’Tis no’ yer fault women throw themselves at ye.”
He chuckled again. “Mayhap no’,” he replied. “But were I a better man, I might not catch all the women who throw themselves at me. Were I a better man, I would no’ take such enjoyment from it.”
Was he being honest? Or did he have a suspicion that she cared for him and was doing his best to discourage those feelings? She realized then that he was only trying to protect her. He might believe he was naught more than a scoundrel and ne’er-do-well, but she saw through his facade. He did care. But not in the manner in which she had been dreaming and wishing he would.
He was wrong about one thing, however. Lachlan did not love her in a romantic sense. She began to grow angry again, not because Willem had been honest with her about his own faults — and there were many, she realized. But because she felt he was simply trying to shove her off on to his friend so she would leave him alone.
She was about to give him a piece of her mind on that matter when she saw Lachlan thundering across the field towards her.
Beyond any shadow of a doubt, he was furious. Never before had she seen that look in her friend’s eyes. Valiantly, she fought off the urge to scream and start running for the hills.
As he approached, she could see that his lip was bleeding, but not horribly so. There were more spots of blood on his tunic. But whose? His or the blasted Conner MacGavin imposter? Part of her hoped he had killed the man, but only after he had learned who he really was and what the reasons behind his deceit were.
Momentarily stunned speechless, she could only watch as he drew closer.
Lord, above, but he is enraged! And he is looking straight at me.
Chapter 6
Lachlan’s heart seized in his chest when he caught sight of Mariote. She sat on a felled log, shivering uncontrollably, undoubtedly from the shock of being struck as well as from the frigid weather. The sun had disappeared, hidden behind dark, gray clouds that threatened snow. She looked quite forlorn and upset.
Willem was sitting next to her with an arm draped over her shoulder. Jealousy, ugly and deep, burst inside his chest. Had she finally told Willem what was in her heart? If so, he did not know what he would do. He supposed he would spend the rest of his life filled with regret for not having spoken his mind.
The expression on her face when she looked up at him nearly sent his knees to knocking. It was much like a deer frightened by an angry wolf: wide-eyed, fearful. She had never
looked at him that way before, and he did not like it. Not one bit.
“Did ye, I mean, is he…” she was struggling with her question.
There was no need for him to ask what she meant. “Nay, he be no’ dead.”
Lachlan couldn’t tell if she was relieved or not, so strange was her expression. “I left him tied to a tree.”
Willem stood to his full height. “Did ye learn his name?”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, unable to tear his gaze from Mariote. He hated the look of fright burning in her eyes. “His real name be Fergus MacGavin. He be the son of the MacGavin blacksmith.”
He watched as embarrassment turned Mariote’s skin a deep red. Knowing her as he did, she was undoubtedly cursing her own naiveté. Although he was angry with her for getting herself into this ridiculous situation, he could not hold on to that anger. She wasn’t the first young woman to have her head turned by pretty words.
“Well, then,” Willem said. “Ye take the bastard back to his clan, and I shall take Mariote home.”
Where the words came from, Lachlan couldn’t rightly say. But say them he did. “Like hell ye will.”
Mariote was caught off guard by Lachlan’s forceful tone. Words escaped her and, try as she might, she could not will her feet to move. While her heart pounded in her chest, her fingers trembled. She refused to give any credence to Willem’s insistence that Lachlan cared for her more than just as a friend.
Lachlan disappeared into the woods behind her, only to return moments later with his steed. Without uttering so much as a by your leave to Willem, he picked Mariote up and sat her on his horse. A frantic heartbeat later, he was behind her and tapping its flanks.
As much as she would have loved to protest, to tell him she didn’t like this angry side of him, she thought it best to remain silent. Lest he strangle her with his bare hands. And at the moment, she couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t. She had seen Lachlan training with the other warriors and knew he could snap her like a twig if he had the inkling to. Deep down, however, she knew he’d rather die than bring her any harm. That thought offered her some comfort, but still, he was mightily angry. There was no way she could blame him, for she had made too many ill-fated decisions of late.
They were tearing across the snowy landscape, heading back toward the keep. At this pace, ‘twould not take long to return.
They rode without speaking for what seemed an interminable length of time. The silence was as maddening. Silence afforded her time to think over everything that had transpired today. Not only what Conner’s imposter had done, but also what she had done.
Willem’s words kept forcing themselves back to the front of her mind. I would make a horrible husband. Lachlan loves ye. I be too greedy and selfish… Deep down, she knew Willem was speaking the truth, at least as it pertained to himself. She knew he was terribly promiscuous, knew all too well his reputation with women. But he was also sweet and kind.
For a long while, she tried her best to think on why she had been so convinced she was in love with him. Aye, he was a handsome, charming man, with a giving heart, for she’d seen how he had behaved so sweetly with her sister, Orabilis, and the other children in their clan. There was more to Willem than just a womanizing lout. Much more.
But why had she felt she loved him to the point it caused her heart to ache?
She didn’t like the answer her heart and her mind presented to her. Ye did no’ love him so much as the idea of lovin’ him. Mayhap because he had such a reputation with women, she thought he would be easy enough to win over.
But he hadn’t been. He’d been quite honorable with her, had left her alone, hadn’t given her even a slightly devilish grin.
And where had Lachlan been this entire time? Right beside her, as a good friend, gently nudging her to forget about Willem. But she refused to heed his good advice.
What she would not give to know what Lachlan was thinking right now. If his cold silence was any indication, however, mayhap she didn’t want to know.
Undoubtedly he was angry with her for taking such a foolhardy risk. She could not rightly blame him. Mayhap if she explained herself, it might help ease some of his anger away.
First, however, she might want to apologize. “I be sorry, Lachlan,” she whispered as they made their way up a small burn.
He was silent for such a long while she thought he hadn’t heard her, so she repeated her apology.
“I heard ye the first time,” he said.
Admittedly, she did feel safe in his arms, and quite warm. She hadn’t felt that way with Conner or whatever his name was. Nay, from the moment she had stepped out from behind the bramble bushes, she had felt quite ill-at-ease. Mayhap if she had listened to her instincts, she wouldn’t have had to face Lachlan.
“Thank ye,” she said as she turned her head to look at him. “Fer comin’ fer me.”
He grunted his response, refusing to speak to her.
’Twas not long after when the snow began to fall. Big, fat flakes. Before long, ’twas nearly impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. If the snow didn’t let up, they’d be stuck and would probably freeze to death, and she would have no one to blame but herself.
Lachlan steered the horse north, up a large embankment. Mariote supposed he knew a shortcut that would get them to the keep sooner.
Before long, as she clung to him, they carefully made their way through a dense forest. Trees stood black against the backdrop of white. Snow clung to lifeless branches and covered the evergreens. Lachlan stopped at the bottom of a rather large hill and dismounted. Still silently fuming, he pulled Mariote down. There was no reason for her to ask why, for the hill was far too slippery to climb while mounted.
Lachlan abruptly took her hand in his and led the way up the hill. She slipped once and would have fallen on her face were he not there to help her. His steed nickered once as if to voice his protest over the slick terrain.
Up the hill they went, and down again. Snow clung to her cloak and her lashes, the air growing colder by the moment. She risked a glance at Lachlan; he still looked quite angry, but not nearly as irate as earlier. Each breath hung in the air like steam from a kettle, making him look as ferocious as a dragon.
Not for the first time, she thought he was a handsome man. Mayhap not as handsome as Willem, but he was taller, and broader in the shoulders. His eyes were definitely brighter: a brilliant shade of blue, much like the sky in springtime.
At the bottom of the hill sat a small valley. Nestled between the woods and a wide, meandering stream was a small hunting croft. Deserted, from the looks of it. No light shown from within, no smoke billowed from the chimney. “We stay here until the snow lets up,” Lachlan said with a nod toward the dilapidated looking building. She didn’t care if it was a cave, as long as she could get out of the cold and snow.
In one giant gesture, he picked her up and carried her across the frozen stream. His boots broke through the thin layer of ice. Frigid water splashed upward, but he uttered not one complaint.
He set her down, took her hand again, and led her up to the door. A moment later, he grabbed her satchel from the saddle, handing it to her before pushing the door open and shoving her inside. “Wait here,” he barked before closing the door behind her.
The place was as black as pitch, forcing her to feel around with her hand in hopes of finding a window to let some light in. She bumped into several things as she felt along the walls until she found a fur window covering. Pulling it aside, she was relieved to allow a little light to shine through. But the wind also whistled in, bringing the snow with it.
’Twas a small space that smelled musty and damp. A brazier sat in the middle of the room, a few old, worn pallets rolled up against one wall. Shelves to the left of the window held some bowls, tallow, and candles. There was a stack of wood against the other.
Crouching under the window, she dug inside her satchel to find the bit of flint she had packed. Soon, she had one candle lit, which was a f
eat unto itself. Her fingers ached from being so cold. It took several attempts, but she finally managed. The candle added just enough light to the room that she could close the fur. Once she had it securely fastened, she set about preparing the brazier for a fire.
With a handful of kindling, she tried several times to get a spark but to no avail. She set the flint down and rubbed her hands together. They were numb and tingling, and she prayed she did not have frostbite. What good could she do as a healer if she lost her fingers? Or her toes, which were equally as cold.
Tears pooled in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. Ye are an eejit, she cursed inwardly. Lachlan will likely catch his death from wading into that stream, and it be all yer fault.
Guilt and self-condemnation filled her heart. Lachlan came fer ye; the least ye can do is light a bloody fire so that he does no’ die!
Holding back the tears, she tried once again to get a spark from her flint. She could barely see through the tears she refused to shed, to strike the pieces together. On her last failed attempt, she accidentally struck the flint against the knuckle of her finger. She could take no more. The tears fell.
Just then, warm arms circled her as Lachlan once again came to her rescue.
He said not a word as he took the flint out of her hands. Within moments, he had the kindling burning, as all the while, Mariote wept quietly. He did not like seeing her in such a state as this, but before he could attempt to comfort her, he had to see to it that they did not freeze to death.
The fire was soon blazing, slowly taking the chill out of the air. He removed his wet boots and woolens, placing them close to the fire to dry. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a pair of dry woolens and slipped them on. They felt good against his cold skin.
Without permission, he carefully slid Mariote’s boots and woolens off. She sat motionless and quiet as he fished through her satchel. Finding dry woolens, he tenderly pulled them over her feet.
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