Heat of the Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  It was immediately damp, dim, and colder beneath the canopy of trees, and there was solid undergrowth beneath the horses, obliterating any trace of a path, although it appeared they were still on one. That had to be the explanation for shrubbery and tree branches that looked like they’d been snapped off and why the overhang of limbs was just above his head at any given point she looked at.

  Lisle wrapped her cloak closer, looked to either side of her, and noticed the same thing. There wasn’t anything hanging low enough that a man would have to dodge while riding on horseback. Her eyes went back to the man in front of her that she was using as a gauge for such a thing, and a twinge hit her belly, twisting it, and making her eyes widen with the gasp.

  She looked aside, as quickly as possible, and waited for the sensation to fade. The forest on either side was safer, and the amount of space that appeared to be a cleared area looked about the same width as the path on the lawns had been. She wondered now, not only if there was an army, but if Langston was training them for his own use. If he did, it was an interesting endeavor, and had to be for a reason. She could think of several, but the most glaring was the most frightening. He needed it. Scotsmen only had one enemy they could still fight…each other.

  The thought that he needed such an army of protection had her glancing about nervously before she had her mind under control. He must know sentiment against him was high. The laird of Monteith needs this much protection? she asked herself, and then answered herself—only if his back was turned.

  She narrowed her eyes on the thought. Langston Monteith was in front of her, riding with a side-to-side sway, almost like his walk. He had a very nice back, she decided, and some very wide shoulders. She watched as he stretched, putting his arms wide, and pulling her horse’s head up with the motion on the reins. That was interesting, and broke into her thoughts, making her lose exactly what they were and why. This Langston fellow must be quite a catch, if she’d been any woman other than a Culloden widow, that is. He was young, robust, handsome, rich…alive—as many other Highland lairds were not—and he was extremely interesting to look at, as well. Handsome…masculine…virile…muscled.

  Her thoughts mellowed on the descriptions. Langston had well-developed arms, and she already knew he had a very thick, hard, and warm chest. Lisle shut her eyes and experienced such a thrill of gooseflesh over her entire body that it slackened her thighs and shook her to the point she had to reopen her eyes before she slid off her saddle, embarrassing herself.

  She looked at the man in front of her unblinkingly, questioning reason and sanity, and wondered why she was losing both of hers at the same time. Creatures like Langston Monteith were to be spit on and detested; maybe even put on a little, pointed, objective type of thing and examined by men with very long, white beards, and nothing of any interest to say, one way or the other, about it. Then, they were to be discarded.

  Lisle smiled slightly—sickly, if she thought of it—at the imagery of that ever happening. If it did, it would have to be a very large, pointed thing. She gulped, and went back to trying to decide if Monteith had an army, and why; and then she wondered what he was supplying them with for weaponry, since it had been outlawed after Culloden. Scots weren’t allowed anything that could be a weapon of war; no swords, no claymores, no muskets. The Sassenach even considered the kilt and bagpipes weapons of war!

  Her thoughts stalled as she remembered. Langston ignored the law. He flirted with imprisonment or worse. His men had worn kilts. Langston had also been wearing a kilt—tight about his waist, draped down over buttocks that probably carried as much muscle as the rest of him….

  She shuddered at the unbidden memory of it, and rocked backward until the saddle stopped the movement.

  “Are you tired? Chilled?”

  Lisle yanked herself forward, grateful for the dim shade, and was unable to look at anything except her hands on the pommel at first. She wasn’t remotely chilled. Anywhere. She knew the reason. He was sitting right beside her, looking at her. She only hoped her face wasn’t giving her thoughts away.

  “Well?”

  He’d slowed the horse, Torment, and pulled on Blizzom’s reins, bringing her right next to him, and she hadn’t even noticed? Lisle shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t let him have his head that way.”

  He tipped his head and slid a glance to her. She moved her own away the instant their eyes touched.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Blizzom.”

  “Oh. Him.”

  “Doona’ take offense, but a horse is like a woman.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Women need a gentle, but firm hand, you see. One that guides, directs, but doesn’t interfere, unless necessary.”

  “Are we speaking of horses?” Lisle asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Are na’ stallions male horses?”

  “Aye.”

  If he hadn’t answered that with a grin that went right to his eyes, Lisle wouldn’t have had the reaction she did. As it was, she was grateful he had the reins, because she wasn’t in control of anything on her body, or anywhere else. There was no way to ignore the gamut of shivers she was suffering; all she could do was prevent him from knowing about them.

  “Then…why would you speak of women?”

  “Because they react the same. Stallion. Mare.”

  Lisle sent a prayer upward, begging for help to stop the immediate response those words created, and then she was cursing the Fates that decided her prayers must not be worth answering, again. “Is this how you…teach riding?” she asked.

  “I doona’ know how to train a woman to ride a horse. I only know how to train a rider.”

  Lisle looked at the ground. It looked like it was as far away as her mattress had looked earlier. She looked at the side he wasn’t on. The trees looked sturdy, woodsy, exactly like a forest should, even one that had been pruned to allow riders through. She looked at the horses’ ears in front of her. She did everything she could not to look at the man on her right side.

  Nothing worked.

  Chapter Ten

  Lisle knew then that it was going to be a day of surprises, and some of them were not going to be pleasant. The emotion that dried her mouth, that made her heart hammer and her palms sweaty on the pommel was definitely one of them. It was unpleasant and disconcerting, and had everything unsafe and unplanned and uncertain anywhere in the world in it. So much so, her eyes went wide with it, and she watched as what had to be an answering movement happened to his eyes, too.

  “What…are you doing?” she asked.

  “Teaching you to ride,” was the reply.

  “Is this how you do it?”

  His eyebrows lifted higher. “Not usually,” he finally said.

  At least, that’s what she thought he was saying. She couldn’t hear anything above the steadily increasing beat of her own heart in her ears.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He gulped. Lisle saw the motion it made as the lump in his throat moved. Then, she moved her gaze back to his. The sun wasn’t giving them much illumination, and that tended to make his ale-colored eyes darker…blacker…and much more mysterious.

  “Because it’s normal to tie a lad on and give his mount a good smack.”

  “What happens then?”

  He shrugged, moving her glance to that. He had barely enough room in his English-tailored coat for that type of motion, she noticed with a portion of her mind. That was a good thing, since his close-fitting trousers weren’t about to give an inch. That wasn’t a good thing, she decided, wondering where on him it was safest to look.

  “He rides.”

  “What?”

  “Or he falls off. Either way, ’tis the start that’s behind every good endeavor.”

  “What?” Lisle asked again.

  “A good endeavor is only good if it’s done. And that only happens if the thing is started to begin with.”

  “What are you talking about?”
she asked.

  “Riding. What are you talking about?”

  “Not riding,” she answered.

  That remark had his eyebrows moving again, and drew her gaze to where she least wanted it, on his. All of which started that amazing, pleasant, warm, drumbeat sound about her ears.

  “At least…not the kind of riding you are,” she finished with a whisper.

  His eyes were wider than hers could possibly go, and Lisle felt like giggling at his expression. Then there was nothing amusing about anything. He pulled Blizzom’s lead, putting her right next to him, and he was too much male to do such a thing and not have it affect her. All of which added to the unpleasantness of this surprise.

  “You doona’ ken what you say,” he answered.

  Lisle swallowed and winced at the dryness. “Are you raising horseflesh, or not, Monteith?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “And are there nae mares in your plan?”

  He gave another nod.

  “Good thing. A foal canna’ come from a stallion.”

  He reached out, grabbed the front pommel of her saddle with one hand, and the back of it with the other, and pulled himself closer by using her saddle for leverage. Lisle felt it move absently, since he was inhaling and exhaling air, and making his coat look like it wasn’t tailored with much room, after all.

  “Do you ken what you’re about, Lisle Monteith?”

  She nodded. Then she shook her head.

  “You canna’. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so bold with me.”

  He called it bold. It was more like insane. She pointed at him. “You are my husband, Monteith.”

  “Na’ because you wanted it.”

  “True. That does na’ change the fact of it. You are still my husband.”

  He licked his perfectly formed lips, drawing her eye there. “Aye,” he said.

  “Then, how can you call my words bold?”

  “Because you’re a Highland lass.”

  “True,” she answered again, still speaking to his mouth.

  “And all Highland lasses detest me.”

  “Why?” she asked, moving her gaze back to his. There wasn’t one expression on him.

  “My absence from Culloden. My affiliation with the Sassenach.”

  The words made the unpleasant even more so, she decided, sitting straighter and wondering what is was about those dark, now brownish black eyes that unhinged her mind and set her mouth to talking so boldly.

  “Mayhap…things change,” she whispered, and knew for a certainty that her mind was unhinged. That was what happened when he hovered just above her and there wasn’t anything safe to look at, anywhere on him.

  “You should save such talk for when we’re alone. In my bed chamber again. Without disruption. Without company…and without clothing.”

  His voice had lowered. Lisle’s heart did the exact same thing, only it fell to the pit of her belly, where it started pounding heavily.

  “We are alone,” she answered finally, lifting her chin a bit to breathe the last word onto the lips she was almost kissing, while everything else on her seemed to be shoving toward that very thing.

  He closed his eyes on her statement, tightly enough that small wrinkles accompanied the act. Then he released her saddle with a push, making it rock back upward, the span of it going askew. Lisle sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, wishing it was his she was nibbling on, and wondered where the unpleasant idea for that had come from.

  It wasn’t entirely her fault. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t find emotions of hate and disgust when faced with the physical specimen of Langston Monteith. She only worried over why he wasn’t doing anything about it.

  “Come. I dinna’ bring you out here for such.”

  “What did you bring me out here for, then?”

  He didn’t answer at first. He simply moved forward, letting the rein slide from his hand as he did so, until there was a respectable distance of about a horse-length between their mounts. Lisle watched Torment and his rider sway as one, and tried to do the same on her mount, and then she was watching kilt-clad men drop from the trees, and come from around shrubs to surround both of them.

  Lisle’s heart stuck in place, right against the meshlike chemise, and directly behind the row of buttons up the front of her gown where Monteith had looked, what seemed like days ago, instead of just this morning. Then the pounding got worse than ever, filling her throat and ears with painful beating. Monteith didn’t do anything except sit there. He didn’t so much as try to defend himself.

  “You’d best rescue your wench, my lord. She’s about to fall from her saddle with the shock.”

  One of the men waved her way, and Langston looked over his shoulder at her. The expression on his face was a very unpleasant surprise in a day that was just starting to show how many of them it held. Lisle couldn’t move as those lips sucked into a withheld smile, held it for a moment, and then turned it into a grin, with flashing white teeth.

  “These are my groomsmen,” Langston revealed.

  “Groomsmen?” she replied, in what she hoped was an icy tone, but it sounded like it warbled to her own ears.

  “I believe my wife is wondering where your mounts are,” Langston informed them, turning his head to the left and right to encompass all of them.

  “Wife? You went off and wed?” one asked.

  “Without a betrothal?” another one piped in.

  “And without the banns?” yet a third man was asking.

  “It was a short courtship,” Langston replied, drawing out each word.

  There were sounds of amusement given his statement, as well as the droll way he’d said it. Now that she knew she wasn’t being threatened by a band of murderous Highlanders spotting the green and gold of a Monteith, she found it easier to breathe. That was also assisted by her heart, as it moved back from lodging at her breastbone and frightening her with the strength of its pounding.

  “How short was it?” another man asked.

  “I would say it took me less than an hour to select her. She was a trifle slower with her decision. Weren’t you, my dear?”

  She sincerely hoped he didn’t expect her to answer to anything. His words were taking her voice, and there were too many men chuckling and milling about, making it patently obvious that the forested space they were in had been cleared to accommodate such a horde.

  “Groomsmen, my lord?” she finally managed to ask.

  He sighed in an exaggerated fashion, moving his shoulders with the strength of it. “Come along. Show my wife where the horses are.”

  It wasn’t far. The trees thinned, opening into a meadow, where hundreds of horses were hobbled. They weren’t Arabians, either. They were the Scot Clydesdales. Lisle’s eyes narrowed as she looked at all the horseflesh, carrying either a saddle or a pack on its back. It didn’t look like Monteith was just raising horseflesh to her untried eye. She hoped he didn’t think to fool an Englishman with such a fable. The groomsmen started filing through the horses, bobbing and weaving amongst the distinctive, dark red coats.

  “How many horses do you put with each groomsman?” she asked, while Monteith sat there on his horse and watched her watch the scene in front of her.

  “Two,” he answered.

  “Two.” She didn’t state it as a question, because it wasn’t one. She didn’t know anything about it, but that sounded absurd. “Is that normal?”

  He shrugged. “I doona’ care. My horseflesh is the best quality. Their grooms will also be, and overwork makes for shoddy care and grooming. I pay for the best grooms. I can afford it.”

  She was well aware of that. Lisle looked at him, wondering if the expectant look on his face meant what it did. She decided to ask it. “You want me to ask why they’re not Arabian stock, doona’ you?”

  His lips twitched, and then he got it under control. “Perhaps,” he answered.

  “You bought Clydesdales?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I
dinna’ like the alternative.”

  “What?”

  “A horse is the first thing a clan parts with when they’re at the end of their luck. ’Tis also the first thing an English soldier dumps once he’s raped and pillaged and plundered the countryside, and has goods to sell.”

  “You know they did that to us?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You bought such ill-gotten goods?”

  He nodded again.

  “Yet, you play host to them now?”

  Again, he nodded, although there was nothing mirthful anywhere on him anymore.

  “I doona’ think I like you much, my lord.”

  “Please…” He brought his horse alongside her, imprisoning her there, and pulling on Blizzom’s rein to guarantee it, and then he finished his words. “…call me Langston.”

  There was a long low note filtering through the woods, not as distinct as she’d heard it before, but at the same exact pitch. Lisle felt the flesh at the back of her neck whisper with it, while Langston didn’t look like he’d even heard it.

  Lisle glanced about her, looking for the groomsmen, all of whom still stood, hands gentling and petting their mounts, yet with an air of expectancy she couldn’t see but had to intuit was there. The long note was followed by one short one, then silence. Lisle waited for the two that always accompanied it, but there was nothing but silence.

  Then there were smiles and movement, and men mounting to file from the meadow. Lisle frowned, and Monteith watched her do it, with the same shift to expectancy that his men had possessed just a few moments before. She knew he expected her to ask…but what?

  “Something annoy you, my dear?” he asked.

  “Your endearments,” she replied automatically.

  “That’s unfortunate. I’ve grown quite fond of using them.”

  “Try using my name. Lisle. It’s a good Gaelic name. Ancient. My da used to tell me I was named for a Celt goddess. There are so many, it could be true, I suppose.”

  “Did your da tell fables oft?”

  “What makes you say such a thing?” Lisle stared.

  “The way you suspect his word to be false. I dinna’ think it so. I thought much the same.”