Heat of the Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  The drawbridge closed behind them. She couldn’t hear it; she had to sense it by the loss of light as they went into his courtyard. Her mouth filled with spittle that she was too frightened to swallow, and then when she did, her ears popped with the released pressure.

  She only hoped she didn’t burst into tears.

  The coach stopped with a rocking motion the coachman had probably needed many years to perfect. Lisle watched the empty seat in front of her with unseeing eyes, pushed another swallow down her throat, and grimaced at the heavy, hard feeling of the ball of fear she was harboring.

  She told herself she was being stupid. There was nothing to be frightened over. She was simply going to ask him what he wanted from the MacHughs, and then she was going to bargain for the best price for it, and then she was going to take her leave. She wasn’t going to give him the time to create a reaction of any kind within her.

  The door was opened, showing her a sun-kissed inner keep that made her gasp. The rocks used to construct his keep were nearly a story high each, and constructed vertically, so they looked like they were thrusting up from the ground into the sky, before being molded to another rock that appeared to do the same. And they were marbled-looking, giving the castle walls veins of gold and amber and brown and white, and making it look like there wasn’t any amount of money that would have made such beauty.

  “His Lordship is awaiting you in his study, Mistress.”

  She thought the servant waiting for her was different from the groomsman that had assisted her in, but she wasn’t certain of it. She hadn’t paid him enough attention, and this one was wearing gloves, too.

  Then she saw the three doormen, all wearing Highland attire. There was no stopping her jaw. It dropped, completely and mortifyingly. Imprisonment and confiscation by the Crown was the penalty for a Highlander in a kilt, and Monteith was begging for that very thing. She didn’t think it possible that he was that stupid. But he had to be, or he wasn’t afraid of the penalty because he was immune from it.

  Her upper lip lifted in a sneer, and some of the hard ball in her throat dissipated with it. He was immune. How right she’d been about him! He was in league with the devil, all right, but the devil was the Sassenach. Every Scot knew that. Lisle no longer felt any fright and she smoothed her hands down the silken-feeling fabric of her traveling gown, not even caring if the motion caused more snags than it had earned with use.

  She was a true Scot. She was born a Dugall. She’d married a MacHugh laird. She could still look herself in any mirror on any wall in any castle, Jacobite or not, perfectly maintained or not.

  The mirror he had in his front foyer meant this was an excellent time and place to put that to the test, and Lisle looked at herself, seeing for the first time the yellowish purple of her left eye, which still wasn’t as fully open as the other one. Then she was looking at how her cheeks looked like she’d just come in from a run about the moors, because of the agitation. It surely wasn’t due to anything like a blush.

  She swallowed, and wondered how she was supposed to keep from looking like she was blushing. Rice powder would have worked, but if she’d had anything the MacHughs thought contained something like rice, she’d have probably found a way to make it edible by now. Lisle smiled at the thought, and watched as it made her look her age, for a change.

  The expression instantly turned into a frown. She couldn’t afford to look like a girl of eighteen and a half. She was here as the matriarch of the MacHugh clan, on business, and the entire family’s fortunes could very well turn on what transpired in the next few minutes. There wasn’t any place in that plan for being a young girl.

  She untied the ribbon at her chin and removed the bonnet that had kept the worst of the sun from paining her eye. Then she patted strands that had escaped her bun, frowning further at that. Her hair wouldn’t ever behave, and she’d used the last of her lavender softening soap on it, hiding it at the loch since the girls would have been in a dander over how she’d kept it from them.

  “If you’ll follow me?”

  Lisle jumped at the voice. The woman who owned it didn’t show any response, pleasant or unpleasant, to Lisle’s reaction—no smile, no commiseration, no sympathy, nothing. She didn’t look interested at all. Lisle kept her head high and her gaze straight ahead as she passed hall after hall, doorway after doorway, showing rooms of luxury and size, and full of so much furniture it looked impossible to move about in most of them.

  The woman took a right turn halfway down the main hall; then she took another right, and then a left. Lisle’s eyes widened with each turn, and after yet another left, she was in danger of getting disoriented to the point she’d need help finding her way back out.

  Contrary to the clutter he looked to have filled most of the rooms with, the halls were free and clear, large and with a high ceiling span that made it feel like she was in a cathedral. The woman stopped at a door with two guards standing at attention on either side of the carved wood entryway.

  Lisle nearly rolled her eyes, except she knew it would hurt too much. The expense of keeping guards here had to be offset by the need for them. That was the only reason for such a waste of gold. What enemy could possibly find a way in here, long enough, and far enough, in order to be a threat to their liege? Monteith had guards posted outside his chambers? Ridiculous. The only reason had to be because he must feel he needed them.

  Then the door was opened for her, and everything she was thinking went straight out of her head as the Monteith laird stood from a position in a very large, leather chair and took over her entire vision.

  She’d already proven that the men she’d seen so far, wearing outlawed Highland garb, were enough to make her jaw drop. The laird was every bit of that and more. Lisle kept her teeth clenched to prevent it from happening again as he moved around his desk and walked toward her, an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

  Lisle looked down. She didn’t have a choice. It was self-preservation and instinct in their most pure form. Little needles of sensation were hitting at the tips of her fingers and even at her scalp, almost like she’d had the areas asleep. She didn’t know hatred and disgust felt like that. Then he spoke, and the reaction went right to the peaks of her breasts, hardening them, to her absolute dismay. She gasped and almost covered herself, except that would make him look. And make him think.

  “You…came.”

  Wonder colored the words that were said in a deep pitch no man should be able to wield so easily. Lisle scolded herself, gulped, took a deep breath, and then looked up, promising herself that she was going to meet his eyes this time.

  She reached his chest. He was breathing hard. That seemed fair to her. She made her eyes move higher, past the lace that was cascading from his neck, heaving with each of his breaths. She dared herself to look higher…his chin…. It wasn’t possible. She dropped her gaze again.

  He cleared his throat, making it worse.

  Lisle tipped her foot, putting the scuffed toe of one boot against the wood grain of his floor, and chided herself for being an idiot.

  “Can I offer you some refreshment? A chair? Take your wrap?”

  She shook her head to each query.

  He chuckled. Softly. At her. Lisle’s back felt the insult first. Then, it penetrated her mind. Culloden widows didn’t act like startled rabbits. Her head snapped back and she glared up at him, although she had to take a step back before it worked, and then she was using everything at her disposal to keep every response hidden. She couldn’t prevent her lips when they parted, however. She had to let the gasp in.

  Monteith was wearing a kilt of his clan colors, topped by a black leather jacket. He had more lace at the cuffs of his sleeves, cascading onto the hands he had perched to his hips. There were gold-trimmed epaulets on the shoulders of his doublet, a double row of gold buttons, and his sporran was hung with gold fringe. Even the tassels on his socks were of gold.

  Sunlight was streaming in the floor-to-ceiling window, turning his bl
ack hair into shined ebony…wet, shined ebony. He was wet? Her eyes narrowed. The light was also causing a shadow to dust where his eyelashes reached his cheeks and the cleft of his chin. She pulled back farther, moving her neck this time, and wished heartily that he was a spindly, weak, and pale sort. It was a forlorn wish. Nothing about the man in front of her fit the definition of weak or spindly, or anything save large, strong, and innately raw. He was every definition of big, brawny, and beautiful…the kind of man women swooned over. He knew it, too. The smile playing about his lips betrayed it. She detested him. Completely.

  There wasn’t a drop of moisture anywhere in her mouth with which to swallow, so she didn’t try. Lisle kept her eyes on him as she moved two steps sideways into the room, listening for the shutting of the door behind her, and yet dreading it at the same time.

  She got both, and the resultant silence felt like they were in their own, encapsulated, luxurious world. Lisle had to force herself to do something other than stare at him. She blinked, and pretended to look over the books lining the walls to the right of where he stood. Then she moved her gaze to the fireplace that was of a size a royal palace could claim, and from there to the magnificence of the dark green lion passant-emblazoned shield above it, stretching clear up into the wooden rafters crossing the ceiling two stories above her.

  She lowered her head from studying it, caught his gaze for more time than she dared admit to, while her heart hammered faster, stronger, and with a hum to it that was every bit as loud as anything the clan armies could drum out. Then she moved her gaze to the window, and to the picture beside it, and on the left. It was obviously a relative, one hand resting on a hunting dog, while his other lay across the chair that had to be the exact one Monteith had just risen from.

  There was nothing left, save to do what she’d come to do, and somehow find her way back out of this maze of rooms and riches and furniture. Lisle cleared her throat. It sounded like Aunt Fanny’s coughing had, and about as confident. She tried again, wincing a bit at how it pained her dry throat.

  He was probably smiling; anyone with such a complete win over a MacHugh would. She avoided looking. The floor was safest…again. She concentrated on the slatted wood of the floor beneath them, covered with enough overlapping rugs that she could leap across from rug to rug and never touch wood if she didn’t want to.

  “I’m gratified I was on hand to welcome you to my humble home,” he said.

  That time she did roll her eyes, gaining every bit of the ache she knew it would cause. It wasn’t worth it. He hadn’t even seen it.

  “To what do I owe this surprise…visit?” he continued.

  “Let’s na’ waste time with words. You know why I’m here,” Lisle said.

  “Agreed. You’ve acceded to my offer,” he replied softly, and with a mesmerizing tone that could lull a beast into submission.

  She lifted her head and looked at him, hoping disdain was the expression on her face, but she couldn’t do a thing about the flush. She felt it clear to the roots of her hair beneath the bun, and all the way to the toes in her socks, but she didn’t blink, or make any other sign of any kind. It took every bit of her determination, too.

  “I’ve na’ even read it,” she answered, finally.

  His eyebrows rose. She had to gulp and move her gaze away. There was no way to continue watching him, unless there was a scar, or at the very least a pockmark, somewhere on his face, to focus on.

  “Would you like another one?” he asked.

  She glanced over, caught a glimpse of pursed lips—unscarred, perfectly formed, pursed lips—and moved quickly away. The mantelpiece looked safe, and since it was over his right shoulder, she could pretend she was looking at him.

  “I won’t sell any land cheaply,” she answered the mantel.

  “It’s na’ land I want.”

  She frowned, but didn’t move her gaze. “I’ll na’ sell the loch without the land.”

  “I doona’ wish any land or any water from you, Mistress MacHugh.”

  “Why na’?”

  “Because I have enough, I think. And what I already own is of better quality. I can raise better cattle, and better sheep.”

  The flush went hotter at the insult. Her upper lip curled. “What is it you do want, then?” she asked. She moved her eyes directly to his, and kept every bit of what was happening to her very own body at the locking of his gaze deep down, where she could hide it. It wasn’t easy. Her heart felt like it shut down, skipping several beats before restarting, and her breath clogged her chest with how it went missing as she held it.

  In reply, he started unbuttoning his vest. Lisle watched, only the widening of her eyes betraying her. Then he was reaching inside and pulling out yet another wax-sealed tri-folded piece of parchment. This time he waited, holding it toward her, and not even blinking through his regard.

  Lisle had to step forward to reach it. The moment she had it, he turned, the motion making his kilt swirl as he strode to the far window and stood, hands on his hips again, and his back to her. She opened it and read.

  Chapter Four

  Monteith wanted Lisle. Her? Barefoot, hoydenish, poverty-stricken, wild, red-haired, hot-tempered Mistress MacHugh? And not for just one night, either, or even a week—which she might be able to live through and then try to forget. He wanted her for life, at his side, as his wife. His wife?

  Her steps halted, knowing she had only deep-rooted mulishness to blame that she’d had to find out what his offer was in person. His wife? she repeated in her thoughts yet again. No. Not that. Any portion of MacHugh land was better than that. Anything.

  The shock was what had gotten her from the steps of his keep and across his drawbridge without having to ask one soul the way, or wait for anyone to open a door or lower a bridge. Anger got her all the way to the castle gate, more than half a league distance, and then it became rage, which had her stomping along the fence-lined roadway outside his property. Then the emotion turned to stubbornness, making it easy to ignore the blisters on her heels that were breaking open, the way the sun seemed to beat down on her, making sweat rivulet down her back, and how even the growth beside the road tried to reach out for her, catch and imprison her.

  Despair dogged every step and every breath as the sun set behind her, sending her own shadow farther and farther along the road, and frightening her more than any deserted farmhouse along the way could. It should have taken nearly the night to reach the MacHugh property, rather than arriving just as the moon was sliding from behind the clouds, stirring wind and whispers and ghosts to accompany her.

  It was exhaustion that owned the final leg of her walk, making every step on the well-worn path seem endless and futile. There was more written. She’d been too shocked to absorb it, but tinges of it flew into her mind then, when all she had to look at was the moonlit path in front of her, stirring over with the first vestiges of night mist.

  There was a lot written after the word marriage…something about inheritances and land, supplying coin and dowries to her MacHugh stepdaughters, a payment of gold to the other MacHughs…children. There was something written about trusts set up for children; riches beyond her dreams. Children. He’d written the word children….

  Their children.

  Her feet stopped, and her body had no choice but to obey as the emotion resembling liquid fire touched through her belly and up through her breasts again at the memory. Children? Oh, dear God, she couldn’t! No one could make her. She’d rather starve! She’d rather walk the streets in rags than give one instant of thought to the shiver way down deep that had started the moment she read the words, and that no one would ever get her to admit to.

  It had to become anger again, and that gave impetus to her feet and legs, turning her long strides into a semijog that put a stitch in her side and made her lungs burn worse than her thighs.

  Then the resignation came, completely and totally. She knew she had no choice. He knew she had no choice. That was why no one had lifted a finger
to stop her flight from the Monteith estate. He knew she was going to have to do it.

  There was light coming from the lower MacHugh castle windows. Lisle stopped and looked at the place that had been home for a year now. That was ending. It had ended the moment she’d awakened this morning. She just hadn’t known it. Lisle dragged her feet the remaining steps to the door and opened it, looking at change only the devil’s gold could make, and knowing that the MacHughs hadn’t even waited for her to agree before accepting Laird Monteith’s terms.

  “Angus?” she croaked from a throat dry enough to soak up a sporran full of liquid. “Mattie?”

  “Look, lass! We’re in the parlor. Just look!”

  They hadn’t used the parlor since before the Yule, because it was too large to keep warm in, and without any furnishings it was too vivid a reminder of what they were facing. That wasn’t the case anymore.

  Lisle stood, swaying until she had to lean against a doorjamb to disguise it, at the three aunts snuggled into new woolen blankets and rocking in identical chairs, while the other members of the MacHugh family lounged about on what appeared to be some of the same furniture they’d bartered away before things got so dire.

  “The butcher still had my chair. Can you believe it?” Angus rose from the chair that had embraced him like a lover, and approached her, arms outstretched. Then he turned and used his arms to encompass the entire room.

  “And look at the settee, and the tables, and even the mirror! He still had them as well. Isn’t it grand?”

  “Aye,” she replied, through the same dry throat.

  “We’ve you to thank, too, lass. Now, thank Lisle Dugall, all. She’s gone and saved the MacHugh clan. That she has.”

  Lisle’s eyebrows rose a bit, but it was too much effort to move them much farther, and she let them fall back down. She didn’t have the energy to lift her own brows?

  “Dugall?” she asked, with the croak of voice she had left.