Heat of the Knight

by Jackie Ivie

“I am a Dugall,” she answered.

  “So I’ve just been informed.”

  “What did you do with the land?”

  He shrugged. “Naught.”

  “You have crofters there?”

  “Only those that were left. I wasn’t in time to do more.”

  She went still. “You still have it?”

  He nodded.

  “Find a Dugall and deed it to him, then.”

  His lips lifted. “They wouldn’t take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you take my gold willingly?”

  Lisle knew she flushed. She only hoped the air was laden with enough damp and dimness that it wasn’t easily seen.

  “I had to force the MacHughs to take it, dinna’ I?”

  “I wouldn’t take it because you’re the Monteith. You’re in bed with the Sassenach.”

  “Very visual description. I am not in bed with anyone. Haven’t been for some time, either, Sassenach or nae.”

  Lisle lifted her chin. “You want me in your bed, do you? Find a Dugall and gift the land to him first.”

  “You’re putting a condition on this thing between us? You doona’ ken yourself very well.”

  It wasn’t easy to continue locking eyes with him, but she managed it. She didn’t say a word.

  “Good. Think it through. Doona’ let emotion guide you. I learned that years ago. Emotion has a place. Negotiation is na’ one of them.”

  “Negotiation?”

  “That is what you did. You put a condition on something. I’m preparing to answer it with one of my own. That is called negotiating.”

  She still had his glance, but it was her eyes widening. He didn’t change by a flicker of a hair.

  “In answer to your question: Aye, I want you in my bed. Willingly. All woman. All open and trusting and loving. I will na’ take it any other way.”

  She couldn’t hold the glance another moment. It wasn’t anything like a dark-ale color, or anything except black, and the obsidian darkness of it was reflecting back at her what she’d hid from herself, mocking her. That wasn’t a pleasant surprise, at all. She dropped her gaze to the third button down on his shirt.

  “And I will na’ gain such a thing through the purchase of it. I dinna’ guess at the thing either, Lisle Monteith. I already know it.”

  “Find a Dugall and put the deed in his hands.”

  “You’re still negotiating?”

  She nodded.

  “What is it you offer?”

  “Me. Willing. Womanly. Open and trusting. In your bed.”

  “And I still say, you doona’ ken yourself very well to say such a thing.” He sighed. “Come along. We’ll check on the weaving room, just as Master MacIlvray suggested.”

  He was lifting his hands from her upper arms, and waiting for her to react. He had the look of humor about his mouth again. She didn’t know why.

  “He has the same surname as his daughter?” she asked.

  He lifted his lip to a smile. “I already told you things are na’ as they appear. If you were listening to that part when you weren’t screaming at me, you would have heard it.”

  “I dinna’ scream.”

  “You raise your voice loudly enough to scream. ’Tis very visual, too. Almost too much so—for most men, anyway.”

  “Explain.”

  “I like to think I’m na’ most men,” he replied.

  Lisle let every facet of her face drop. “That isn’t what I asked,” she replied.

  “Oh. My mistake. You’re very visual. I noted that about you when I first saw you. You do everything with such a disregard for the consequences that it tends to draw in, and intrigue, a nonemotional man such as myself.”

  Lisle tightened her lips. “I dinna’ ask that, either.”

  “Oh. What did you wish the answer to, then?”

  He thought she was very amusing. She could tell by his continuing smile. Lisle stared at it. It was much safer than looking farther up into his eyes.

  “This Katherine. She has the same name as her father, yet she was widowed. Explain that.”

  “The Widow MacIlvray has an eye for the men. You heard as much?”

  “Aye.”

  “And he canna’ get anyone to offer for her. You heard that as well?”

  Aye.”

  “Why would she wish another man, when she already has her own father-by-law, and he’s within easy reach?”

  “He’s her father-by-law?”

  “And if she had any offers for her hand, why would he tell her of them if such a thing guarantees his loneliness, and loss of the best cook in the clan?”

  “He’s her father-by-law?” Lisle repeated, not hiding the surprise very well, especially the second time.

  “And sometime lover…when another option isn’t at hand.”

  “Such as yourself?”

  “Nae. Never that. I have better taste.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I suppose she is…to some.” He reached out and swiveled Lisle in place, facing her toward one of the funnel-shaped crofts.

  “But I thought you and she—you…” Lisle lost her words. She didn’t know enough about it to describe it.

  “I ken exactly what you thought. What she wanted you to think. You were wrong. Things are na’ as they appear. Look beneath. Trust nae one, not even the proof in front of your eyes. Think everything through. Keep emotions out of the negotiating. Such a thing makes the bargaining more difficult, and adds insult where none is intended.”

  Lisle was grateful she was facing away from him. That way he couldn’t see her face. It was probably flaming. She nodded.

  “Aside from all that, I couldn’t deed the Dugall property back to a Dugall, even if I could find one who would take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they will forfeit ownership the moment it happens. I signed as much when it was sold to me. The English have strange codicils put into their deeds. That was one of them.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed. “I expect for the same reason they deported the entire clan, and the MacDonalds, as well. They had too much influence in the Highlands, too much hatred of the Sassenach, too much gold, too much responsibility for the uprising, too much of a chance it might happen again, there was too much desire to punish. All of that, I suppose.”

  “Where are they, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The MacDonalds. The Dugalls.”

  “You doona’ know?”

  “You should have listened, too, when it was spoken of. I have been away for years, Lord Monteith. I was sent away to a convent school. I have na’ seen my family since I was a child. Back then they were a proud clan in a green glen with beautiful, deep lochs and flocks of sheep, and life to each and every one of them. Now I find out they’re na’ only homeless, but deported as well…those with life still in them, that is. I doona’ think I like your surprises very much.”

  “Did it work?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Convent school.”

  “For what?”

  “Taking the life force and sucking it out of you, leaving a shell of religious fervor that only a monk would find desirable.”

  “You already called me visual,” she answered.

  “Aye. That I did.”

  “Then take that ‘nonemotional man’ part of yourself and puzzle it out…after you tell me what happened to the rest of my clan.”

  His amusement answered her, although he didn’t produce much sound. She had to guess at it from the increased breath of air at her neck, where the cloak didn’t quite reach, and her hair wasn’t covering.

  “I’m na’ certain I should say.”

  “You doona’ know?”

  “I dinna’ say that. Come. Here is the weaver shed.” He opened the door on a larger, round building, and waited for her to enter. He didn’t follow her in. He waited at the door as she went from loom to loom, each one slanted in place by a window for light, an
d looking over the quality of work before complimenting the weavers, one of whom was a little boy.

  It didn’t occur to her until she’d reached the end of the row of them that they were using a large amount of green strands to their patterns, and it was a very recognizable shade. Lisle turned and looked at him from across the room, but that was no help. He was leaning against the open door frame, his arms crossed in front of him, chin bowed slightly, and one leg before the other, in a pose guaranteed to interrupt the women weavers at their looms. And he was looking at her with an unblinking, baleful expression.

  Lisle narrowed her eyes and started back down the rows, and this time she was checking more for the yarns coming from their muckle wheels and spools, rather than the patterns and setts. Nothing about it bespoke of its origins, but it was screaming the name Monteith into her consciousness, and she couldn’t quite decide why.

  She arrived back at where he still posed, portraying nonchalance, but meaning other. It wasn’t something she could see. It was something she had to sense. She looked up at him.

  “Show me the spinners,” she said.

  He lifted one brow slightly and sucked in his cheeks to hide the expression. The response was immediate, as a flare of pleasure went through her, frightening and exhilarating her at the same time. Lisle ducked her head, but he didn’t see it. He was already leaving, and she trotted to catch up. They hadn’t far to walk. The croft he stopped at was another round one, indistinguishable from the others.

  He pushed the door open and motioned her in that one, also. Lisle stepped down into the building, smelling of smoke, ash, and drying wool, while everywhere was the sound of spinning wheels and ripping cloth. Lisle waited for her eyes to adjust, while those in the spinning shed must have been doing the same, because all the industrious sounds came to a halt.

  “You looking for something, lass?”

  It was a jovial woman approaching her, hands outstretched in greeting.

  “Nae. I—”

  “She’s with me, Mistress Hume.”

  Monteith announced it, stepping in, and then he had to slant his head slightly in order to fit beneath a roof beam. There was ample room for a man even as tall as he was, but everywhere you looked bales of wool were hanging, interspersed with the green and gold of Monteith colors.

  “My lord. Greetings! You like what we’ve done?” Mistress Hume asked, waving her hands about.

  “You’ve done wonders, as I’ve already taken note. There’s nae strand being sent over that will be recognizable as what it once was. You have my congratulations.”

  “They’re ripping apart your old clothing, and the Monteith linens. Why, hanging over there is a covering that should be gracing the laird’s bed, and probably did for years,” Lisle said.

  “You think so?” Monteith answered.

  “That coverlet does look rather threadbare. Was it auld?”

  “I’ll just be over here if you need me, my laird.” The woman called Mistress Hume didn’t want to be anywhere near the couple standing in the center of the room and looking about. Actually, it was Lisle looking about. Monteith wasn’t doing anything except looking down at her.

  “I believe it was the part of the prior laird’s linen closet. I’ll admit to that much,” Langston replied, finally.

  “Your father?”

  “Aye.”

  “You dinna’ send anything to the compost heap, did you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And you dinna’ hand anything down to your servants, because if you did so, there would be nae order placed, and nae need for it to be created, filled, and paid for.”

  “Go on,” he replied.

  “And…as you ken, nae Highlander will wear garments of Monteith green and gold, even if they’ll freeze otherwise, so you have them taken apart and created into something more palatable to them.”

  “You think so?” he asked, airily.

  “And you pay good coin for the destruction of such a garment, so that the threads can be put into other setts, and woven into other things.”

  “Very good coin,” he replied.

  “But it’s destructive.”

  “I have superior taste to my father’s. I will na’ allow anything save the best to touch myself and those I term mine. I have the gold to make certain it’s done, too. That’s what wealth is for, remember?”

  “You’re a very good liar, my lord,” Lisle replied.

  “You doona’ say,” he said.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “I’ll wait to take the proper offense to that, I think.”

  “You may take any offense you like. I can see what’s in front of me. Finally.”

  “What would that be?”

  “You speak of selfishness and waste, but that’s na’ what it’s about at all.”

  “Nae?” he asked.

  “You’re using your gold to create futures, my lord.” Lisle breathed the words, barely above a whisper, more to herself.

  “Are you certain you wish to think along this line?” Monteith asked, almost at her ear.

  “And then you posture and pose that it’s for other reasons entirely.”

  “Me? Posture and pose?” he asked.

  “At will,” she replied.

  That remark got her a grin, and there weren’t just crinkles about his eyes, they were full-out creases. Lisle felt the blood flood her face.

  “You’re na’ sounding much like a Highland lass. You ken?” he said.

  “And you are na’ looking like the devil’s spawn, either.”

  “You doona’ think so?”

  “You are very wasteful, though. That much is true.”

  “There is some waste that is na’ waste,” he replied easily.

  “These garments—”

  “Dinna’ fit a man my size. I already told you. I outgrew them.”

  “And I already noticed as much,” she answered. “So, doona’ put your frame on display again, please.”

  “Me? Put my frame on display?” he asked.

  “These women have chores to do. They canna’ do such a thing if you interrupt them at it with your presence.”

  “I have na’ done a thing.”

  “You stand there, preening and posturing and posing, and putting everything on display for all to see. Such a thing is disruptive, especially to women. We’d best leave. Now. I’m hungry, and you promised me a picnic.”

  All of which got her another grin.

  Chapter Twelve

  The afternoon was still promising rain, the clouds gathering and thrusting farther down until they were touching the tops of the trees, and yet nothing felt so alive, free, and vibrant, or as lightning-charged. Lisle inhaled deeply of the scent all about her, and kept her eyes on the man leading Blizzom’s reins.

  It wasn’t a difficult chore at the worst of times, back when she’d hated him. Now that she suspected all the good that was in him, and the self-sacrifice involved to make it happen, it was an absolute joy to sit and watch him handle his horse, and sway from side to side as he did so.

  The first splatter of rain splashed onto her nose, then her cheeks; then she watched them pelt into Blizzom’s white coat, ruffling the texture, and knew it wasn’t going to be a light sprinkling, but a heavy deluge. She opened her arms wide, rocked back onto the saddle, tilted her head, and opened her mouth.

  “You’ve a look of a child about you, Lisle.”

  She brought her head back down, looked across at him through drops that curtained her view, and stuck out her tongue. That had him staring, and on him that was as disconcerting as his grin was. Lisle hooted with shivers the rain couldn’t possibly cause, shoved the cloak aside, and opened her arms wide to it. That way, she could pull as much of the chill and wetness into herself as possible. Then she was leaning back again, running her hands through her hair, and fanning it out for the rainwater.

  “You should have more care with that cloak. It’s the best gold can buy.”

  “I know,” she replied loudly. />
  “And Monteith colors doona’ take well to such abuse.”

  “Why? Do they run?” Lisle asked, opening her eyes to the conical look of drops that were falling in earnest abandon from the sky.

  “What?”

  She brought her head back down, licked off her lips, and smiled. “I asked if your colors run. You ken…bleed? Well? Do they?”

  His face was shuttered and impossible to decipher. “Na’ so much that my laundresses ever let on,” he replied finally.

  Lisle hooted again at the serious expression on his face. “Perhaps we should test it.”

  “Now?” he asked.

  “Of course, now. You see a better time?”

  “I see a basket of food, two horses, and a lass who has lost her wits. That is what I see.”

  “You wish to eat? Fine. Pick a spot. We’ll eat.”

  “You canna’ have a picnic in the rain.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because good bread and meat does na’ take well to such effects.”

  “How about wine? How does it fare?”

  He shook his head. “Most folk seek shelter in rainstorms.”

  “Do you always do what most folks do?” she asked.

  “When it makes sense? Aye.”

  Lisle looked over at him, putting her face and body in the same level stance he was in. “You ken what your problem is, Monteith?” she asked in the same solemn tone he was using.

  “I’ve a wife with nae wits?” he replied.

  She reached down and pulled on the rein, bringing her horse closer to his. “You only wish she had nae wits, my lord.”

  “Can I get you to call me Langston?” he asked.

  “Of course. Langston,” she replied, lowering her tone to try and match his. “Langston. Langston.” She repeated it twice, every time dropping her tongue on the first consonant.

  He shook his head. “What has gotten into you?” he asked.

  “You never had a childhood, did you?” she asked instead.

  He pulled up, straightening his back. The rain was plastering his black hair to his head and neck, and the parts of him that the clothing was supposed to be covering. Lisle reached out and touched her hand to one of the wet, muslin-covered humps of muscle between his shoulders, and pushed slightly. Nothing so much as moved.

  “Very nice,” she commented.