by Rue Allyn
“’Tis a lovely palfrey Lady Du Grace brings us,” his sister murmured.
“No doubt ’tis intended for her personal pleasure and no a gift. Likely the beast will devour every oat in sight and no produce a single foal."
“Hmm.” Neilina paused. “Lady Du Grace is taller than I expected.”
“Mayhap.” Raeb cared little about the woman’s height. What he cared about was her dowry and making certain the lady left Dungarob without it. He stepped onto the dock. “Are you curious to see how the lady will react to my purposeful lack of greeting?”
“Nae, brother. I’ve no doubt your discourtesy will upset her as it upsets me.”
“Then go back to the keep as I ordered. I’ll no make any introductions, nor will I allow you to speak with her.”
He didn’t miss the quick intake of her breath. “Fine, I shall be as rude as you, but I came to satisfy my curiosity about English fashions.”
“I see.” Fashion was an unlikely interest for Neilina, who preferred useful clothing that she would give away to the first deserving wretch she found.
His English bride-to-be and her serving woman now stood alone to one side on the warped boards. Neilina, however, stared at the knot of men maneuvering a stack of boxes, trunks, and barrels into the rickety baggage cart. Interested in fashion in a pig’s eye. His sister sought out some man. Raeb took note of the three men working together. It was the first sign that her personal interests might broaden beyond lost causes and righting perceived wrongs.
“Young Ramsey doesna seem to be doing his share of work.”
Neilina snorted. “Ramsey MacEth wouldna recognize hard work if it hit him.”
Not Ramsey. “David Linden is carrying the most weight.”
“Linden is a muscle-bound dolt.”
“Mmm.” Raeb tried to sound indifferent while he eliminated Linden as the focus of Neilina’s interest.
“Tell me, do you recognize that red-haired fellow, holding the horses and talking with the ship’s captain?”
“Of course, that’s Rhu ... Nae, it canna be. What I mean is, that’s a verra redheaded man. I’d best be certain cook has supper started. I’ll see you then.” She fled as quickly as the twisted decking would allow.
“Aye, at supper.” Raeb let her go. He knew very well the man with nearly orange hair was Sir Rhuad MacFearann. What the bastard son of the most hated man in Scotland was doing at Dungarob and how he’d come to draw Neilina’s attention, Raeb determined to discover before the day was out.
He placed a smile on his face and went to greet his men. “Linden, Ramsey, I’ve come for any letters the ship brought.”
“I have them, Baron,” MacFearann volunteered.
The other two men glowered at the visitor.
“The captain asked me to deliver them because he had last-minute orders from Lady Du Grace.” MacFearann ignored the glowers and tilted his head in the direction of the two women.
Only Raeb didn’t turn his head to glance at the lady and maid standing a good ten paces farther down the dock.
“Excellent, walk with me and tell me what brings you to Dungarob keep.”
“Baron?” Linden nodded toward Lady Du Grace. “Do you no wish to escort—”
“I expect the two of you to have that cargo distributed immediately,” Raeb interrupted.
They secured the load in the wagon then stepped up to the seat and drove off.
“Let us be on our way.” Raeb motioned to MacFearann to walk with him.
“Um, you are certain you are no forgetting something?”
Raeb kept walking. “Naught of any import.” He said it loudly enough for the ladies to hear clearly.
MacFearann shrugged. “Have it your way, then.”
“I usually do,” remarked Raeb. “Now explain to me how you met my sister Neilina.”
“I will gladly do that in private, if you will explain how you discovered I am acquainted with her.”
“’Tis a fine day for negotiations,” Raeb said as he cast a glance skyward. “But you are right. Family matters are best discussed in private.”
He smiled to himself. Lady Du Grace had not been happy to be ignored. Oh she’d cast no frowns or glares but smiled and maintained a serene demeanor. However, from the corner of his eye he’d seen her posture stiffen and the knuckles of her clasped hands whiten. How long until she realized she was not welcome here?
• • •
Lady Jessamyn Du Grace waited, fuming, on the dock until well past midday before conceding that no one would return for her and her maid. How dare that man ignore her! If he thought she would go running after his lean-hipped, broad-shouldered, fatheaded self, he had a lot to learn about Jessamyn Du Grace. She’d prefer to drown before begging help from a man who should be prostrate at her feet with gratitude. It was a good thing she’d no intention of marrying the mannerless lout, or she’d be doomed to such treatment for the rest of her life.
As clouds scudded in to block the sun, she considered just how to punish the barbaric baron. Had it not been for Margery, Jessamyn would have ignored hunger and spent the night shivering on the dock. ’Twould serve the baron right if she died of an ague and her godfather wrought vengeance on the Scot for her death.
However, for her maid’s sake, enough was enough, so they approached the forbidding keep on foot. To be honest, ’twas the only practical thing to do. She might have sought shelter in one of the dilapidated cottages bordering the harbor. However, her dowry and her dear, Saracen-bred Persia were both inside the keep. She needed both horse and coin to fulfill her plans. So together with Margery she climbed the long, switchback path carved into the rock rising above the bay. Naturally as they ascended, the heavens opened, drenching them both and causing the pathway to become a treacherous morass of mud and rock.
“My lady, please, I must rest.” Margery managed the words despite heaving for breath.
Jessamyn stopped and looked back at where her tire-woman leaned against the rock wall on one side of their path.
“’Tis only a few more steps.” Jessamyn’s stomach let out a loud gurgle. She was cold, soaking wet, hungry, tired, and beyond angry at the discourtesy shown her.
Margery huffed, raised a brow at her mistress, and stared toward the salley port. In truth, a steep hundred strides remained of the rough track they climbed. Jessamyn looked closer at her still panting maid. The woman’s face was red, and she shivered in the damp and cold.
“Here.” Jessamyn produced a kerchief from a belt pouch—the only dry item she carried. “Wipe your face. We’ll rest until you feel better. Though by the rood, I swear I might swallow whole the first person I see. I am that hungry.”
Margery smiled as she patted her face. “You might have to fight me for the privilege.”
Jessamyn grinned back. “What do you think the Scots would make of lady and maid battling each other to be first to commit slaughter in the name of hunger?”
Margery let out a gurgle of laughter. “It seems that the Scots’ ill manners are wearing off onto us.”
“’Tis no more than they deserve for their callous treatment, which I vow neither you nor I shall endure for much longer.”
Margery’s brows rose. “Lady Jessamyn, please tell me you’re not planning one of your tricks. These Scots are famously bad-tempered. You’ll get us murdered.”
“I’ll do no such thing, and now is not time to talk of tempers and tricks. However, I warn you to keep these folk at a distance until we can discuss ways to achieve our goals. For the present, just follow my lead. Now, are you feeling better?”
“Yes, my lady. I’m recovered.”
“Excellent.” Jessamyn eyed the building as if she could spy the inhabitants through the thick walls. “Mayhap we can find a way to annoy these Scots into action. Place your arm around me as if I cannot proceed unassisted.”
A line formed between her maid’s brows. “What are you plotting now, Lady Jessamyn?”
“Something that will cause no harm but
may speed our way inside.”
Jessamyn leaned weakly against Margery as they slowly covered the last steps, halting before the large portcullis blocking the salley port.
“Hallo, the guard,” Margery called. “Open the gate for Lady Jessamyn Du Grace.”
No one answered. Nor was anyone in sight.
Unable to believe the keep’s entry would be left unguarded, Jessamyn studied the structure, looking for a way in or, at the least, shelter. Solid iron formed a gate of cross bars, save where hinges and a lock marked the shape of a man-sized exit. Set back behind the gate, two large wooden doors—one slightly askew and sagging—filled the opening of the salley port and closed off any view of the interior. But within the leftmost oaken barrier she spied the outline of a smaller door. Like the door of bars within the portcullis, it was a convenient portal for individuals on foot. No other entry was visible in the walls of the large round towers that flanked the gate on either side. Narrow openings sat high in those towers, and a crenellated battlement above the gate linked the two structures. Guards should be watching from the openings as well as the battlement.
“I am overset.” Jessamyn trembled visibly against her maid’s hold. “Go down to the village. Beseech bread and shelter. Bring the bread back, for I fear I shall die without sustena—” She allowed herself to crumple to the ground. In the process her surcoat and bliaut twisted up around her knees, and the wind whipped her hair into her face. She had no concern for the mud and damp that soaked her clothing and hair. Jessamyn could not be more wet than she already was. She only regretted the trouble her stratagem would cause Margery in cleaning the garments.
“My lady!” screeched the maid. She knelt beside her mistress.
Jessamyn cracked an eye open. “Pretend you think I’m dying,” she whispered. “And remember, be disdainful to all you meet.”
“Noooo!” Margery wailed. “Do not die, Lady Jessamyn.”
Rain dripped from the servant’s face onto Jess’s cheeks.
“Oh dear, oh heaven. Mary, Mother of God, save my lady’s life.”
Around Jessamyn, the maid’s hands fluttered as if she did not know what to do.
A loud creaking moaned from the direction of the keep. Jessamyn smiled to herself at the proof the guards had been watching. Had they not, it would have been much longer before the portcullis was raised.
Short moments later, Margery was pushed aside. A gossamer touch stroked the sodden hair back from Jess’s face. A warm hand smoothed her skirts down to her feet. Through slitted lashes Jessamyn saw kneeling beside her two long, muscular legs covered in snug breeches. She dared not raise her gaze higher to get a better look at the man. She felt herself lifted from the ground and did her best not to stiffen when she was clutched to a hard, hot, wool-covered surface. An even drumming beneath her ear told her the surface must be the man’s chest. She’d never been this close to any man. She suppressed a shiver. She was no lightweight. The man must be very strong to carry a woman of her stature so easily.
“Stop,” Margery protested. “Baron, unhand Lady Du Grace. Have you not shown enough disrespect to her this day?”
The man halted.
Jess’s head spun as he turned quickly. This man was the fatheaded churl? How could such an ill-mannered churl have such a gentle touch and smell so pleasantly of smoke, gorse, and leather?
“Would you have me drop your lady on the stones? Faione, woman, cease screeching lest I show you my wrath.” The deep voice vibrated from his chest into Jess’s frame. She could not restrain her body’s shaking but steadfastly refused to believe she feared his threats and anything he might do—or not do—to her person. Cold and damp alone were the source of her trembling.
“Wh … where are you taking her?” Tension rang in Margery’s voice, though she’d modified the volume somewhat.
Pride in her maid’s courage steadied Jess. Dear, loyal Margery would face down any threat. Jessamyn would do the same were the situations reversed.
“I’m done wasting time. Follow me if you wish.” He spun back toward the keep and moved forward at a pace so rapid a breeze fanned Jess’s cheek.
Her head whirled, and she clutched at the wool beneath her fingers.
The portcullis moaned shut behind them. Very soon she heard the slap of boots against rushes, and the smoke of pitch-topped torches assaulted her. Then his steps slowed and descended a short flight of stairs. A crowd of voices ceased abruptly as the man stopped. The silence was deafening. The smells of unwashed bodies, warm bread, and some sort of stew told her they were in the central hall where the evening meal progressed. Beside her, Margery continued to protest.
“Where are you taking Lady Du Grace? This is an outrage; release her this instant.”
“Neilina!” bellowed the baron, his voice booming against Jess’s ears.
“Aye!” The replying shout was distant but still audible.
“See to this caterwauling woman and send dry raiment to my chamber for Lady Du Grace.”
“Naaay. I must not leave Lady Jessamyn.” Margery’s objection faded in the distance as he strode rapidly away.
Jessamyn sucked in a scandalized breath. He was taking her to his chamber. Alone!
She felt his stride adjust to climb stairs.
She had to do something before her virtue was stolen and all her plotting to escape went for naught. If she had to lose her maidenhead, it would not be to just any loutish Scot and definitely not without the sanctity of the marriage bed.
“Unhand me.” She pushed against the massive chest and writhed in the arms cradling her body.
He gathered her closer, mashing her cheek against him.
For an instant, his blazing gray eyes held her spellbound as tightly as his strength gripped her body. Unable to look away, she shivered, but not with cold. The odor of damp wool and man nearly drowned her. All sound faded away save her own harsh breathing. This man could break a woman’s heart.
“Ho, ho!” His chuckle was impossible to miss. “So you are no dying, are you then? Well liars and deceivers must suffer the consequences of their actions.”
She refused to be intimidated. She forced her head away from him. “Is rudeness the customary greeting for your guests, Baron MacKai? I’ve a mind to refuse to wed you. Then King Edward will decline to pay you rent for docking his ships in your excuse for a harbor.
“You think you could resist me?” More chuckles shook his chest.
“’Twould be a small matter to deny an oaf such as you.”
Flames of some inner fire shone in his unyielding stare. She was unfamiliar with fear, but what else twisted in her belly and skittered just beneath her skin? She wanted to deny his effect on her but in all honesty could not.
“I could make you beg.” He warned, like some big cat poised to pounce.
“Never.” She could be honest with herself about her body’s betrayal, but she’d plenty of reason not to give the churl any hint of her weakness.
His forward motion halted, his head dipped then stopped a finger’s width from her face. His gaze bored into hers.
Her breath froze at the frenzy of emotions she saw there; anger, threat, resentment, and something she could not identify. She refused to care. Her fingers itched to slap him, and she raised her hand.
“I wouldna, if I were you.” He anchored her hand beneath a brawny arm and started walking again.
“You’ll regret insulting me.”
His brows rose. “We’ll see about that. For now, I need you safely stowed away.”
“Stowed away!” He made her sound like bothersome chattel, useful for only one purpose. She squirmed and finally released her outer hand from his hold to beat her fist against his chest. “Oaf! You will treat me with the courtesy and respect due a lord’s daughter.”
He made no response other than to quicken his pace.
She hit him harder. “You and your entire cowardly clan will rue this day.”
He stopped abruptly and shifted his grip. Her feet fell do
wnward but found no purchase on solid ground. She hung suspended from the large hands thrust under her armpits. The heels of those palms pressed against her breasts, and heat flooded her body at the intimate touch.
“You, you … ” He and every other MacKai disgusted her beyond words. Raising her head to berate him further, she stilled. Once more, the gleam in those stony eyes compelled her attention. The downward tip at the outer corner of his lids gave him a slumberous appearance belied by glints of indecipherable emotion. Those deceptive lids narrowed. She longed to hide but could not look away.
“Listen to me.”
His quiet words slid over her skin, causing a rise of goose bumps.
“You are naught but a troublesome woman. You have no power or authority here, so if you value your overly pampered English hide, you’ll no insult clan MacKai. Do you understand?”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Excellent.”
He tossed her over his shoulder, anchored her legs against him with an arm, and continued walking.
“How dare … ”
One of those huge palms smacked her rump.
“Oooo! I’ll make you regret you ever touched me.”
A second smack was followed by an order for silence.
Since her backside began to throb, Jessamyn subsided in favor of plotting retribution. She’d start with boiling in oil followed by a sound beating, and end with banishment.
She was deciding whether or not to add tar and feathers when she heard the creak of leather hinges. They crossed a doorway, and she went flying through the air to land in a heap, face down on a feather bed.
“Dry clothing will be brought. Dinna imagine I care for your comfort. I simply canna be bothered to find another heiress if you catch an ague and die.”
She struggled to right herself, sputtering and pulling hair from her face. The brute deserved the sharp side of her tongue. She gathered breath as she turned to speak, just to see the coward disappear and the door bang shut behind him.