by Jackie Ivie
It was a series of uneven steps. It had to be.
“I had you fetched because ’tis such a fine day. I’m going to teach you to ride.”
Monteith announced it to her when she was finally dressed in her only daygown and escorted under a heavy guard of six serving men, two on each side and two behind, to the laird’s study. There were two guards on either side of his door—again, she noticed absently—and they both appeared to be large, strong, well-muscled types. She decided they were just the kind a Sassenach-leaning laird would want for his personal guards. She eyed them for the few moments it took for one of her escort fellows to reach out and open the door for her, before preceding her into the room. Lisle hadn’t looked to see if her escort stayed in the room behind her, or was planning on leaving. She couldn’t. Langston was too visual and had snagged her attention with his words the moment she saw him.
“I already know how to ride,” she told him finally.
Langston smiled mirthlessly and waited for the door to shut before answering. “I beg to differ. You already know how to hitch your skirts up, jump onto the backside of a horse, cling to a man, and chase down where you think your uncle just shot himself. That, my dear, is not riding.”
Lisle frowned at his use of my dear again. “It’s na’ a good day for it, I’m afraid,” she countered. “I’ve nae riding attire sewn yet. I’ll have to beg off.”
“The dress you’re wearing will do nicely.”
“There’s nae split for straddling a horse.”
Again a mirthless smile touched on his face. Lisle sucked in on both cheeks to hide what promised to be a bubble of mirth that would have her laughing if she didn’t keep it tempered. Monteith was in a quandary and it was one of his own making. He couldn’t let his wife out of his sight, now that she’d disappeared for a horrendous span of twenty minutes, and he couldn’t tell her that he couldn’t let her out of his sight.
He’d never admit to any of it. If he did, he’d have to let on that he knew she’d disappeared, and he’d have to confess how he knew it—and that he was locking her in, making her a virtual prisoner in her own room every night. If he did any, or all of that, he’d have to explain why…and that had to be a very interesting explanation.
Lisle watched the emotions crossing his handsome face and wished it was a full-out rainy day, rather than holding some promise of sun, and sending rays of it into his study and across the planes of him, highlighting every part of him for her to watch.
It was also glinting off several well-placed grooves cut right into the wood of his study wall. Lisle had to counsel her eyes not to follow them upward, where she knew they’d connect with a shortened beam, making it easy to reach any of the alcove windows, if one were so inclined.
“As I’ve already seen your legs, it shouldn’t present an issue for us. Get Her Ladyship a cloak. We’re going riding.”
She sucked in the gasp and held it. He’d seen a glimpse of her legs, and the only reason was she’d been distraught over Angus. He had no right to infer what he was inferring. Worse was the way her cheeks reddened, and she knew that they were. She let out the air and watched him glance to her bodice before he could help it. That was hardly her fault. The dress had been sewn a bit tightly, as was the fashion. The fact that the buttons up the front looked like they were having trouble staying fastened was probably her fault, however. Since she’d been numbed all yesterday, she hadn’t been conducive to puffing her chest out to make certain her feminine charms were fully measured and the space accounted for.
All of which was a moot point, besides the fact that he was taking her outside his castle, and into the scattered bits of sunshine. She didn’t know why she was against it, except that it was because she had to do it with him at her side. The servant fellow was also a hardy size, she noted when she turned her back on her husband and watched him instead. He was going to fetch a cloak, since he’d been requested to do that very thing, but he hadn’t much to do other than open the door and accept the one that was being handed to him, as if they were already well aware of what was required. Lisle stored that bit of information away for looking at later when she was locked back into her suite again, and everyone pretended that she wasn’t.
The cloak wasn’t hers, or if it was, it was newly acquired, for they hadn’t progressed to outerwear of any kind yet. Five of her seamstresses were engrossed in creating all the undergarments that a lady, who was particular enough to need the services of twelve seamstresses, needed. Five others were busily assembling daygowns of varying degrees of elegance and expense, while the remaining two seemed dedicated to putting together evening attire that was sure to make a man stand and gaze in adoration. At least, that was how the seamstress named Maggie had described it. Since she was also the woman who had spoken of Captain Barton’s handsomeness and his possible acquisition as a husband, Lisle didn’t quite trust Maggie’s taste, though.
None of the seamstresses had yet to turn their attention to cloaks and such, since the weather was turning warmer and they had other necessities to design and produce first. All of which went through Lisle’s mind as she stood there, looking at the green and gold cloak that was being held out so someone could wrap it about her shoulders.
“From my wardrobe,” Langston offered, when all she seemed capable of doing was looking at how large, well muscled, and fit the servant-fellow looked to be.
“It does na’ look capable of being your cloak,” she answered, turning around again.
“I was a lad once. I wore cloaks. We still have some of them. Only the fancy ones, of course. The rest became castoffs necessitating removal to the nearest compost pile.”
“That’s highly wasteful, my lord.”
“How so?”
“Such items should be used.”
“They nae longer fit.” He added to that statement by lifting his hands, and strengthening a portion of his chest or abdomen, and a good portion of his arms as well, in order to make everything bulge through the fabric of his shirt. That way, she had no choice but to notice the accuracy of his statement.
Lisle had to swallow around the spittle, and telling herself she was acting ridiculous had no effect on her own body. She only hoped that begging her own face not to redden was actually working.
“They could have been handed down,” she replied, finally.
“To whom?” he asked.
“Servants need cloaks.”
His eyebrows rose. “My servants all have cloaks.”
“Are they new?”
“Of course,” he replied.
He was still puffing himself out everywhere, if such a thing were possible, and making certain his frame was still holding her eye, but at least he dropped his arms.
“What do you intend to put…on your own children?” she asked.
“My children?”
“Most lairds possess children. I assume, at some point, you’ll act the same, and get some.” Her command wasn’t working. She knew she was pink.
“Oh. In that event, they’ll wear new cloaks, of course.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve no idea of the value of your own gold.”
“I beg to differ, my dear. Gold is for guaranteeing a certain lifestyle. My children, when, and if, they arrive, will have nothing but the best. That’s the goal of wealth. ’Tis my life pursuit, anymore.”
He’d called her my dear, and it didn’t mute her other reaction. Lisle’s upper lip lifted, despite her command to her body not to do anything to show how his words disgusted and upset her. “You should have offered them to the nearest child,” she managed to reply.
“You’re under an assumption that it would have been accepted, and gracefully, at that,” he replied.
Lisle’s color changed as her eyes widened. She knew she paled. “You could have done it anonymously,” she said in what sounded like complete stillness.
“True. There is a slight problem with that plan, too.”
Her chin rose. She waited until the cloak was up
on her shoulders and then she was tying the ties at the neckline by herself, before some servant fellow jumped in to assist with the chore. “What would that be?” she asked, directing the words to her hands at her chin.
“They’re all crafted in my family colors. Very distinctive. Hard to disguise. Especially hard to look at, when one dines on principles and clothes oneself in stubbornness, and makes one’s children suffer the same. Surely, you ken the feeling?”
He breezed past her as he said it, giving an airy quality to words that felt as weighty as stones, and were having the same effect in the pit of her belly. She watched him nod to another servant, who was also almost the same height as he was.
Lisle caught up at the first bend in the hall. “Your wastefulness is still appalling,” she told his back.
“Appalling? Are you certain?” he asked.
His walk was with a side-to-side, rocking motion, she noticed absently, and he only tipped his head to speak to her as he led the way out. He expected she’d be following him, without even checking. Of course, she would be. Some of his hulking servants were behind her, guaranteeing that very thing.
“You make us look like fools, my lord.”
“Oh please…call me Langston.”
His reply was said to the top of the button placket at the neckline of her dress, since he was the first one down the steps and had turned to address it to her, but wasn’t quite at the same level. Lisle watched as his eyes widened, and then he moved his head up to reach her eyes.
“Perhaps this is na’ such a good idea,” he said, narrowing his lips into slits of pink-toned flesh.
“As I’ve already listed some of the pitfalls in this plan, doona’ look to me for help with that remark,” she answered.
“Come. We’ll pick out a mount for you.”
He had one leg on the step between them, making the material of his trousers work at clinging to a muscled thigh, and Lisle had to look away before he heard her gasp. If he had to wear English fashion, he should craft his clothing of stronger, thicker material. That way, a woman wouldn’t have to watch things get defined every time he moved. He was tipped slightly forward, one shoulder just beneath her chin, and had crooked his arm at an angle, silently offering it to her for an escort. Lisle looked upward for a moment before returning her gaze to the mass of man in front of her.
“I have nae trouble walking about on my own, my—Langston,” she said, as evenly as possible.
“I would na’ wish you to trip.”
“I’ve nae problem walking about…without tripping,” she replied.
“There’s an awful lot of men and horseflesh at my stables, Lisle. Take my arm,” he said with the same nonchalant air, and then he added, “We’re being watched,” with a quiet earnestness that didn’t match any tone he’d used thus far.
Lisle took a step down, reached out to put her hand on the inside of his offered elbow, and wished she’d had a ready answer, since he brought his arm close to his body as soon as he felt her. His movement tucked her hand effortlessly into the bend of his arm, imprisoning her in place at his side. They set off, walking on a stone-set path, across the length of his courtyard, and then they were disappearing beneath the shadow of one of the gates that had a spike-tipped portcullis raised out of the way.
He took her to the original castle stables, and it hadn’t been built to house the amount of horseflesh that it appeared to contain. Lisle looked about her, as it appeared every stall had at least two horses in it, and there were more being curried in the yard out front.
“How many horses do you have, my lord?” she asked.
“At these stables, or the ones I had built because these weren’t sufficient.”
“You have other stables?”
“Several, actually. Most are near the town of Glousburg. It’s still full of Monteith clan. Very loyal. ’Tis the only place I trust with my Arabian stock. I have more stables there.”
“Why?”
He turned, looking down at her, and blocking out just about everything else. “Why do I have more stables, why is it near the town of Glousburg, why is Glousburg still loyal to Monteith, or why do I have Arabian stock?”
Lisle shook her head; opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her voice was missing. It was ridiculous. She cleared her throat. “What is…Arabian stock?” she asked.
He smiled. Her belly reacted. She barely kept her eyes from showing how horrid that sensation was.
“Arabians are horseflesh from Persia. Beautiful animals. Lots of stamina. Fast. I’ve an idea to raise and sell them all over this country. The English pay good gold for prime horseflesh, and they have an excellent eye to value. Arabian horses are unique. Much faster than our Clydesdales. The one I rode the other day when we first met? He’s my favorite. His name is Saladin. I named him after one of the Arabic generals, since he won the Sassenach in one of the Crusades of centuries past.”
“Someone won the Sassenach?” she asked, shaking her head to clear it.
“It must have been a bad day for them. It does happen. Na’ oft’, but it does happen. Have you a choice, or do you wish me to decide for you?”
“I wouldn’t have the first idea what to select,” she replied.
“Truly?”
His voice told her he was laughing at her. He already knew she was no expert! No Highlanders owned a horse, unless they catered to the English and were wealthy enough to have coin enough to house and feed a horse. Her back went straighter, and she said the first thing she could think of: “I’ve rarely been atop a horse. Women ride in wagons and coaches. We doona’ ride atop horses.”
“Well, as the lady of Clan Monteith, you’re going to have to put a change to that. I’ll tell you what. We’ll take two horses. You!” He waved his other arm, moving his body with the motion, and since he had her gripped into his elbow still, she moved with it. “Bring out Blizzom and Torment. Get them saddled.”
Her eyes went wider. They didn’t sound like comforting names for horses, and when the pure white and almost purple-black stallions were trotted out, she knew they weren’t comforting horses.
“My lord, I—”
“Doona’ worry, Lisle. I only select these for their stamina. I’ll na’ allow you to ride Torment…by yourself, anyway. Blizzom is another story. He was named for his color. He’s actually quite gentle.”
He may be gentle, but he was also nearly the size of Langston, muscled everywhere, besides, and he was pawing at the ground as she watched.
“And I’ll have your rein. Here! Fergus! Hold Her Ladyship’s reins.”
The name Fergus belonged to a man with a large beard of an orange-red color that was attached to another large, strapping, well-muscled physique. Since he had a tam covering his head, she couldn’t tell what hair color he had. She didn’t have any time to try, either, as her feet left the ground.
“Allow me to do the honors.”
Lisle’s senses assimilated how it felt to be held off the ground by Langston, and then she was above him, sliding into place in the saddle, and wondering how she’d had the presence of mind to open her legs enough to do that much.
He didn’t look like he’d enjoyed the contact, if the set of his jaw was any indication. Lisle decided it was safest to look over and beyond him, and turned her mind not to wondering why he had so many groomsmen, but to why they’d all look so fit, robust, healthy, and muscled. Then she answered herself with what everyone kept telling her. They must be the best his gold could hire. She already knew he’d pay for more men than he needed, and their wages would be triple what they could get anywhere else. It also included meals, and she knew he fed them well. She knew that from Mary MacGreggor.
Lisle decided that the best course, when surrounded by so many men, was to ignore them, including the one parading as her husband, and it was easy, until he reached over to take the reins from the Fergus fellow. Lisle looked along the line of his arm, where he was bent over slightly; up to his profile; reached his ear…and then suffered through a
flare of something so amazing, it sucked the air right into her chest and kept it there until it burned.
Lisle’s eyes were wide and her hands on the pommel shook until she got the reaction under control. She didn’t know what the feeling was, and she wasn’t going to find out, either. It was enough that it was related to what she’d experienced when giggling and gossiping about men and carnal pleasure, and everything that was illicit and sensual, and best said in the dark, in whispers, beneath the sheets, where one of the Sisters couldn’t hear. She tried telling herself that it wasn’t the same thing now. It couldn’t be. There was nothing she felt about Laird Langston Monteith except the basest hate and disgust. She had to blink the sheen of moisture from her eyes.
He was leading her out over the drawbridge, and when they were halfway up the perfection of that stone-lined road, he turned. Then he was setting out across landscape that had been cropped recently, and groomed so closely that it wouldn’t have looked churned up, even if a thousand feet had just been walking across it. Lisle watched the ground between them absently as he led her, letting his own horse have more and more lead, and nothing was making sense.
They were almost to the line of forest that he’d left in a pristine condition when the question hit. Why was the grass up here in such a condition? Excitement in her grew as she realized what it had to be. The army that she’d been imagining out on the front lawn hadn’t been on the front lawn at all. It had been over here, on a side lawn!
Her eyes looked at the proof, and she swiveled her head to look back at the pathway of it. It didn’t seem possible, but Langston Monteith could be drilling and training an army! But if he was—why?