“We will stop when we find a suitable site to have a fire.” He shifted in the seat behind her.
“The warmth will be good,” she murmured.
They rode farther. “Ye do not mind fires, even after being thrown into one?” he asked.
Alana curled her toes in her boots as if the scars on the bottoms of her feet still seared and itched from healing. “No. Not fires. Being trapped in one, that scares me. When the flames are too big to stamp out.” She exhaled, a slight sigh coming out with it. “The nightmares I have sometimes are awful. I wish I could banish them. You must have similar nightmares, being thrown out of your home.” She kept facing forward.
“I focus on the outcome, what it will look like to win back my home,” he said, his voice tinged with the darkness of conviction. “Sleeping in the bed in which I was born, where my father slept before he died and my uncle moved in. I imagine festivals on Sinclair lands with family smiling and laughing together, with warm homes and a solid army of trained warriors to protect them and hunt for food. My sisters…sister wedding and having her own bairns who do not fear men with torches coming in the night. I imagine the respect given to Sinclairs for their strength and honor instead of hearing that we are liars, gamblers, and cheats.”
She swallowed. “If you come down from the north more, people will learn that you are not your uncle.”
“I have never been able to come down from the north because I am always trying to keep my clan from dying out or losing hope. Right now, they are considered squatters on their own family land. Only a crucial mission made me leave them alone.”
“Saving a babe,” she whispered.
“Saving my clan.”
She remained quiet after the description of his home. Somewhere through their conversation, her anger had begun to change to guilt. Shaw deserved a home, just like Alana did. She knew better than anyone what it felt like to have someone steal one’s castle. “Is your hip sore?” She glanced back at him.
“Nay.” He didn’t say anything else.
“I can make more ointment if we find an apothecary in St. Andrews. I have my own dried herbs back at Finlarig. If you return me there, I can make more.”
“After Rose sets sail for the safety of France, and…the Sinclairs are acknowledged for our service, I will take ye wherever ye wish to go.” His words were slow and his tone serious and determined.
“To Edinburgh to free my mother, or are you not helping me with that now?”
“Ye gained my promise, and despite what ye have heard, Sinclairs keep their oaths.”
“I have not actually heard much about the Sinclairs. The Campbells of Breadalbane are not the same as the Campbells who plague you up north.” She did turn then, willing him to see the truth in her eyes.
The connection was strong, like a tether between them, his eyes beautiful and stormy, like they’d seen too much killing in this world, too much heartache. It made her want to cup his bristled cheek, but she didn’t despite the fire that still sat in her belly. She watched him inhale, some of the tension leaving his face. “Aye,” he said, nothing more, and she finally turned forward again. She wanted to say more, but the words that rose in her mind dispersed like smoke in a strong wind. For up ahead, she caught sight of a tiny structure.
“Shaw?”
“Aye?”
“There is a cottage ahead.” Her heartbeat kicked up into a fast patter. Blast her carnal mind, for the first thing that popped into it were his words from early this morning. If the cottage stood empty, they might very well be sleeping up out of the dirt and leaves tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
No smoke came from the tiny, stone-stacked cottage. Grasses grew up through the thatching on the roof, giving it an abandoned look, and colorful leaves rained down over the dwelling. They rode closer in silence.
Shaw’s blood thrummed inside. All day, he’d been struggling to put distance between himself and Alana, which was not possible physically, but their discussions had started off erecting barriers.
But nothing about the lass sitting before him was simple. She was brave and lethal with a dagger. Despite being trussed up and thrown into a burning castle, she hadn’t cried in panic when his men had grabbed her. She was beautiful with curves and softness to explore. And she was honest. He could tell from her questions and reactions, which she didn’t try to hide. But she was a Campbell, the chief’s sister, and a virgin. When he’d at first realized that he could use her to bargain for his home if the bairn died, he thought the circumstances were fortunate. Now, though, he couldn’t shake the feeling of doom waiting to fall on his head if his discipline gave out against the assault of her softness.
After staring at her multi-hued tresses for hours, he’d counted the red and gold strands woven through the dark, rich brown, following it down to her trim waist. He’d remembered the details of each of her curves in the darkness of their lean-to, the scent of her arousal, the soft mews she made as he stroked her willing body.
He leaned forward, inhaling her unique scent before he remembered to guard against it. His damn jack jerked awake, and he adjusted it, his mouth hovering an inch from the gentle slope of her ear. “I will go inside first, to check that no one is home.”
“You are injured,” she said, her voice soft.
“Hardly,” he said, steering Rìgh around to the side where a small window was cut into the logs and covered by a stretched animal skin. Primitive, it was likely an old hunting cottage, forgotten over the decades. Maybe there would be leaves and dirt inside. Mo chreach, he hoped not. Damnation. His resolve was already close to dissolving.
“Stay here,” he repeated. He leaned into her, willing himself to keep moving instead of pausing to enjoy the contact. He raised his injured leg behind him over Rìgh’s rump to dismount and pushed off, landing smoothly but taking most of the impact on his good leg.
“Again,” she whispered down at him. “You are injured.”
“I am still lethal.” He drew his sword, cursing low when he saw her throw her leg over to dismount as well. Creeping toward the closed door, he strained to hear any sign of inhabitance. The wind blew, the gentle rustle above his head, and more leaves floated down as if trying to bury the old cottage until it became one of the fairy mounds his mother used to tell him about.
A crunch of leaves made him pause, glancing back. Alana had unfastened and dropped her skirt, leaving her in the black woolen trousers and her short smock. She had put it back on at dawn after finding her purchased smock dirty with his blood that had seeped past his bandages while they slept against one another. They’d been ripping away at the garment, a strip at a time, until it rested at her perfectly curved hips, looking like a lace-edged tunic. She looped Rìgh’s reins over the limb of a thin tree.
Short sword in hand, he grasped the rope pull coated with fuzzy moss and yanked. With a shove of his shoulder against the door, he pushed inward, blinking to bring the dark interior into focus.
Two windows, lit through the watertight skins over them, looked like two eyes, one on either side of the small, sparsely furnished room. There was a stone hearth, a wooden bucket, a shock of dried sticks tied together like a broom, a rickety table, and…a bed, a rather large bed.
He heard Alana come up behind him. “Anyone home?” she whispered, the hush of her voice sounding breathy like the moan against his mouth as he stroked her to climax last night.
“Nay,” he said, his voice rough as he struggled to replace the breathless sound of her with the memory of Logan, Mungo, and Alistair stripping down to wash in the lake near Girnigoe. The power that had surged through him at the possible threat inside the abandoned house mixed with the passion that he’d been suppressing all day. It was like the rub of the brittle kindling between them sparked with each of her words and touches. He took a deep breath. “Looks dry, too.”
Sword before him and the lass behind him, he pushed into the dark room. She stepped around him, brandishing the sgian dubh he’d given her. She circl
ed the room. “Cozy,” she said and ducked her head into the hearth, peering up into the chimney. “Hopefully it is all clear up there.” She backed up, brushing her hands, and took up the broom. “Just a quick dusting and sweep, and it will be quite nice for a night. Now if only there were a bathing tub.” A small frown puckered her lush mouth.
“I will see where the water source lies. Likely a cistern for rainwater or a well if the place was used as a hunting cabin.” He watched her whisk the broom around; stopping at the first window, she reached to unlatch the swinging stretch of leather that acted as a shutter. “I saw a lean-to in the back for Rìgh.”
She turned around, a slight smile on her mouth. “What a quaint little place. I would like living here.”
“In a tiny cottage when ye now live in a grand castle?” he asked. He currently lived in a cottage this size, and although it was snug, it didn’t afford him any privacy since his men were also sleeping within it.
“A place of my own,” she said with a shrug. “I do not mind if it is small, as long as I am the lady of it.”
“Now that I completely agree with. Logan snores and Alistair is always sneaking a lass inside after we are asleep.” Her eyes grew round, and he hurried to finish the thought. “As soon as the lass realizes that she’d be tupped with four other men sleeping around her, she leaves pretty quickly.”
“I would hope so,” she said and began sweeping again in earnest.
He turned to the door. “I will set some traps and bring in some water and anything that will burn in that hearth.” He strode out into the growing twilight, which seemed bright after the darkness of the cabin. “Come along,” he said to Rìgh, releasing his tether, and the horse followed him to the structure behind the house. A roof, three sides, and a fourth that he could prop over the opening. It wasn’t much, but it would keep the animals away from his faithful mount.
The cistern on the side of the house was covered with leaves, but he hefted a square lid next to it, happy to find a chained bucket there. A well, and from the dripping sound coming from it, it was full. Scooping the leaves off the cistern water to reveal what appeared to be fresh rainwater, Shaw brought Rìgh over to drink his fill. The horse grazed on some grasses that he found under the leaves while Shaw unhooked the rest of his tack, setting it in a corner of the barn.
On the outside, he found a wide wooden trough and stared at it for a moment. Aye, it could definitely work as a bathing tub for a lass. He tipped it over to wipe it free of leaves and spiders, a smile breaking through a day of frowning. He would make Alana very happy with a warm bath and a place to wash out her clothes. The work of cleaning the trough out and carrying it inside was very little to pay for the smile she was sure to show.
…
“A bath?” Alana’s voice pitched high with excitement. Maybe she had been spoiled living at Finlarig with a bath every day, for the idea of getting clean was exhilarating. “In a trough?” She laughed, her smile reaching high to encompass her face. “It will do perfectly.” She raised her gaze from the tub sitting before the fire to find him watching her. “Thank you,” she said, joy still heavy in her tone. “I have missed being clean.”
He looked pleased. “I will help ye haul the water in from the well and ye can set one to boil on the rack in the hearth.”
“And then I am washing out my clothes, at least the parts that are stained.” Blood, dirt, ash, and odors permeated both her short and long smocks, trousers, skirt, and stays. When she reached Finlarig again, she would need new clothes, for these were being sorely abused. “I can wash some of your clothing as well.”
“I will take care of them outside in the cistern. And bathe out there, too, so the cottage is yours until I can catch something for us to eat.”
“We still have two bannocks in my satchel and Fiona’s sleeping roll,” she said and waved her hand. “Do not eat the one with the currants on it.” She smiled. “In the morning, I can look for mushrooms and edible berries.”
“I set two traps behind the barn earlier. Hopefully the hares around here have gotten used to no human predators.”
The thought of hot, roasted rabbit made her mouth water. Her stomach growled, sounding loud and demanding in the quiet. “Now look what you have done,” she said, a bit of teasing in the rebuke. “The bannocks will never do after you put the idea of roast rabbit in my head.”
A slight smile touched his mouth, the same mouth that had driven her mad last night. He nodded and headed out into the night for her water. She looked at the trough. Was it a truce for his damnably true words this morning?
Shaw carried a bucket inside, lowering it to fill the wooden tub. They both bent at the same time to peer underneath for leaks. Alana huffed in relief when the floor stayed dry. She met his gaze. “I would have still used it even if it leaked. It would have just been a fast bath.”
He chuckled and walked back out. He limped, but his hip seemed much improved despite the full day of riding. Perhaps it was as he’d said that he spent most of his days moving, living in the saddle. Hiding and warring. How hard that must be, the strain on him, especially since he was the chief.
She grabbed up the bucket by the hearth. It was made of cast iron and very heavy, but she would be able to sit it right in the flames to heat. Grabbing it to her chest, she rushed outside. Darkness had come on, making the shadows thick. She stepped around the side and ran into a mountain and gasped.
“’Tis me, lass,” Shaw said, his hand coming out to steady her. It was warm through the thin linen of her smock. A simple touch to keep her from falling, but the shock of awareness that flew through Alana was not simple at all.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I will carry the water, especially in that pot.”
The heavy pot strained to fall, and she let it down to the ground between them. With water in it, she wouldn’t be able to lift it. “I think that will work better.”
He stepped around her to the door. She could hear the splash of the water into the tub, and he returned.
“All a woman’s strength seems to be focused on birthing babes. A little more muscle would help in life,” she said.
Stopping before her, he picked up the heavy pot like it weighed no more than the other. “I know a woman, a Sinclair, who lifts stones with my men. She is determined to be a mighty warrior, and she is stronger than Rabbie and maybe Alistair.”
A tug of jealousy tightened her stomach, and she frowned. “Perhaps I should start lifting stones?” She cringed at the petulance she heard in her voice.
“I am merely saying that determination can make one overcome pretty much anything.”
“Even winning back their castle?” she asked, her voice lower.
He leaned in as if telling a secret. “Especially winning back one’s castle.” He nodded slowly as if teasing. He was so close that he could have kissed her, but he slid to the side, turning to continue toward the well. She watched his large frame fade into shadow.
It felt like they were dancing around each other, trying not to collide. Of course he didn’t kiss her, wouldn’t possibly kiss her after their discussion during their ride. He was determined to cleanse the Sinclair name. Stealing away a chief’s sister was bad enough, but returning her without a maidenhead could possibly ruin any type of peace he might win from delivering the king’s daughter safely to St. Andrews.
But Shaw didn’t realize how unimportant Alana was to the Campbell clan. Yes, she was Grey’s sister, but her brother would never ask her to wed for an alliance, and with the English monarchy supporting the Highland Roses School, he didn’t need one. Most people ignored her around Killin. Had the Roses even noticed that she was taken from the festival? She snorted, noting the self-pity and ridiculousness of the thought. She strode back into the cottage.
Also, Alana had ridden horses much of her life. She’d heard numerous girls swear that they’d lost their maidenheads in the saddle. She shuttered the windows that she’d opened to air the room and stopped before the snappin
g flames in the hearth, hands resting on her hips. She should be allowed to choose to whom she gave herself.
She turned when she heard Shaw step inside. His muscles strained against his linen sleeves as he hefted the pot filled to the brim with water, carrying it over to set in the flames.
Yes, there was nothing to stop her from sleeping with a man of her choosing except…the man himself.
…
Shaw stood on the outside of the cabin at one of the shuttered windows. The faint sound of splashing water seeped from behind the taut leather seal. By now, the lass must be washing her clothes. He’d given her time to herself while he set two more traps, emptied the first two, skinned the hare he’d caught, and plucked the pheasant that had wandered into the second trap. Then he’d bathed with water from the cistern and washed his own clothes, hanging them to dry in the small barn with Rìgh. He’d given the horse his bannock and plenty of water and let him graze outside the barn for the entire time he was out of the cabin before shutting him in for the night.
He held one of the blankets from the back of his horse loosely around his hips as he walked up to the door. Alana would want to check his wound. He sighed, gritting his teeth. Maybe he should sleep in the barn. Although he’d have to lay on top of his horse, for there wasn’t enough space on the ground that wouldn’t see him trampled during the night.
I control my actions. Alana is not for the taking. All for the honor of Clan Sinclair. Holding the blanket tighter, he rapped.
“If you are Shaw Sinclair, you may enter,” she called through the door.
He opened the door and walked inside. Alana stood before the hearth, wrapped in the second blanket that he’d carried with them. Her bare shoulders and arms were covered by the flow of her damp hair, the tresses already starting to curl with drying.
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