As soon as the search party left the woods, Catrìona returned to the little house, hoping to hide within, thinking that even if the owner returned, he had been kind enough to offer her something to wear. Mayhap he would offer her a safe haven as well?
In return, she had been willing to help him complete his roof—something every woman in her clan knew how to do as no one was treated any differently simply because one had an appendage dangling between one’s legs. She had been raised to earn her keep, and this was no different.
She hoped that because the Scot lived alone—or at least she supposed he did—he might not realize they were searching for her. Those devils had bound her and stripped her but she had managed to escape. Och but she’d rather die than become a pawn to subdue the last of her people! She had so little faith in these leaders of Scotia. But she couldn’t return home either—not yet.
It had worked out better than she anticipated. The owner of the house had yet to return, but when he did there would be no need to ask him if he wanted her help—no need to weather his dubious expressions, for she was nearly finished now, and he would surely not refuse her a place to sleep once he saw all the work she had done for him.
The thatch was good and tight—as she had been taught to weave it—so that it would not leak even with the halest of storms.
He was quite sweet—the Scot. And handsome besides—just the sort of man she might have wanted to wed some day. His blond hair was thick and clean. His jaw was well defined, with just the tiniest hint of a cleft. His green eyes were as deep and dark as moss—but most of all they were kind.
However, he had obviously forgotten how to dress like a man. The gown he had given her was lovely, but she wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in embroidered dresses.
Then again, neither was she accustomed to running about naked as the day she was born either, but she wasn’t ashamed of the body she had been given—fie on them! As though that should stop her from trying to escape their greasy clutches!
As for her Scot… he had barely been able to take his eyes off her breasts, and the memory made her smile. Truly, she would never have even painted herself, save that it was an act of defiance. It was her way of showing them that she would never bend to the will of these arrogant curs—and neither would her kinsmen. They had survived wave after wave of pillages from the north, and the endless politicking of the Highland tribes after the son’s of Aed and Constantine had returned from Ireland two centuries past. Nay, but her people were survivors, and they would never abandon the old ways. She would keep her faith until the last frail breath left her lungs for she was a child of old Albion, a sister to the wind and a daughter of the forest.
Humming while she worked, she inspected the dagger the Scot had left. It was a fine dagger, much like the one her brother had given her when she was ten. The bastards had taken that from her too. She wanted it back.
She sighed and tossed the dagger down. It landed precisely where she intended it to land, in the heart of the log where the Scot had been sitting when she found him, drinking from his flagon.
Diabhul, he was a beautiful man!
A man who wore dresses, but beautiful nevertheless.
She grinned at that, and returned to work, smoothing down the thatch she had stolen from a nearby farm.
CHAPTER 4
It was growing dark by the time Gavin made his way off the blufftop, so he made his way home instead of dallying through the woods at night.
His grandminny had often told stories about a man who had been consigned to walk the earth for all eternity as a punishment for his crimes. That man had been allowed one grace, she’d said—a burning shard of pit coal to warm him and light his way. He used it instead to lead travelers onto treacherous paths. That man she also claimed was responsible for the will-o'-the-wisp. On the other hand, his Da had sworn bog gas was responsible for the mysterious lights, not spirits or fair folk.
Whatever the truth of that matter, any man in his right mind knew to stay out of the forests at night in these parts—especially alone in these days of unrest.
The house could wait another day.
That night, he slept like a bairn, pleased that all had gone so well, and in the morning, once he verified that his brothers were not yet ready to renew efforts on the storehouse, he made a quick stop at the potstill to check on Seana’s whiskie, despite that he had no clue what he was supposed to do if anything went awry—except to hie back and tell Seana. Her potstill was a complete mystery to him. Built by her late father, the only person who knew how to work the blamed thing was Seana herself.
Luckily, everything seemed to be brewing as usual. The potstill was making all the familiar noises, chugging and spitting like an old man with phlegm in his throat, and fuming like his grandminny’s pipe. Gavin winced over the smell and waved a hand before his nose.
Not surprising, this morning, there seemed a plethora of cats lolling about the still—black cats, white cats and more tabbies than he could shake a stick at. God’s teeth, but he had never seen so many bluidy felines. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were all having a party with Seana’s whiskie. With every day that passed, more and more congregated around the still. It didn’t bode well for Brownie. His poor dog would surely lose his head around here. Resigned to the fact that his dog was like to be chasing cats for the rest of his days, he continued on to the edge of the woods, singing a tune his grandminny had taught him when he was a boy.
O western wind when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
He didn’t know any other verses, but he didn’t much care. Soon his house would be completed and he couldn’t wait to share the news. Three grown men under a single roof was simply too much to contend with.
Still singing, he broke through the tree line, into the clearing, and for a moment, the sight before him didn’t quite register. And then it did, and he stumbled in his step, blinking.
The house was already finished.
The roof had been raised.
His painted lady sat upon the rooftop, smoothing down the last of the thatch. “Good morn to you!” she bade him, waving as soon as she spied him.
Gavin couldn’t find his voice to speak.
For a moment, he wondered if the fumes from Seana’s potstill could have had the same affect as her whiskie because he was nearly certain he was hallucinating.
He moved forward cautiously, mouth agape.
It was a damned good roof—as good as any he had ever constructed—nay, better! But it wasn’t even remotely possible. Even if she weren’t a woman, a roof that size should have taken nearly a week to raise.
Nay, it wasn’t possible.
“What is this?” he asked, peering up at her, waving a hand at the roof.
Undaunted, she glanced down at him, grinning, her cheeks revealing the tiniest dimples. “Well, I believe they call it a roof,” she said smartly. “Do you like it?”
Did he like it?
Of course he liked it, though it was physically impossible for her to have completed it in the time since he’d been gone. He stood staring at her, looking like a daft mon, he knew.
“Aye, but where the bluidy hell did it come from?”
She winked at him. “Faerie magik,” she quipped and laughed, the sound as musical as a song. Then, more soberly she added, “’Tis my way of thanking you for this lovely dress.”
“It’s a tunic,” he explained irascibly. “No’ a bluidy dress!”
She scooted to the edge of the roof, dangling her legs over the side and there she sat, beaming down at him, looking entirely too lovely, and swinging those bare legs—legs that were perfectly fit and lean.
Gavin averted his eyes, not daring to look up beyond her knees. Still, despite his resolve to be a gentleman, his cock stirred beneath his breacan. “Christ!” he said. “Come down from there! Come down right now!”
T
he paint upon her legs was gone, as though she’d laved somewhere. Gavin tried not to think of her standing bare as the day she was born, washing in the loch, her little hands caressing those perky breasts. His body tensed, and his blood began to sing in his veins.
“Nay,” she refused. “Not ’til you say go raibh maith agat,” she admonished, though still she smiled, and Gavin shook his head—not to refuse her request for a thank you but because he still could not believe his eyes.
“Di’ ye do this all by yourself?” he asked, nonplussed, unable to move beyond the sudden appearance of a roof.
Her pale brows drew together. “Och, well, who else di’ ye think would help?” She waved a hand. “All these bluidy cats?”
“Nay, but this is just not possible!” he persisted, peering up to see that she was climbing down now, giving him a fine view of the moon of her arse as she made her way off the rooftop.
“By the good saints, lass, didn’t your minny ever warn ye to keep your bits to yourself? It’s bad manners!”
She stopped halfway down, legs dangling, holding herself up by those arms—firm arms that, like her legs, seemed accustomed to work. He could easily reach up and smooth his hand over her little rear to see if it felt as firm and smooth as it appeared. “My bits?”
Gavin waved her down, desperate to remove himself from temptation. “Never mind. Get down!” he demanded. “Get down!”
She dropped to the ground in front him, facing him squarely, looking quite disgruntled with him suddenly. “If you ask me. Bad manners is a mon who canna say thank you for a simple gift!”
The startling green of her eyes could make a man daft, Gavin reasoned. He shook his gaze free of it. “Thank you,” he said belatedly.
But he still couldn’t believe his eyes. He peered up at the roof again, and then ventured inside the hut, inspecting the meticulous roofwork from beneath.
She followed, watching. “Do you like it?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
It was truly incredible, though equally impossible.
Gavin turned to face her, scratching his head in utter confusion. “You did this?” he asked again, stressing the word “you,” so there could be no mistake exactly what he was asking.
She nodded, grinning.
“It’s incredible!” he admitted. “This would have taken me a good week to finish on my own!”
She shrugged.
“But you did this all by yourself, without any help at all!”
Her brows furrowed and she shrugged, as though she didn’t comprehend why he should be the least bit bemused by the feat and she was beginning to be annoyed by his persistent interrogation.
In fact, much of her paint was gone, he realized—only a little blue discoloration remained about her face and arms, a bit on her long, graceful neck—though her skin was just as perfect as he recalled.
And damned if his tunic didn’t look so much finer on her than it ever had on him. On her, it was snug, but not too snug, showing off her delicate curves. It fell just above her knees, floating above willowy limbs.
“I dinna believe this,” he said, turning to inspect the interior of the little hut. Overnight, it had become a home. Soft muted light poured in through the two little windows he had constructed. Now all it needed were shutters and a door... and a bed—he turned to look at her, envisioning her in the bed he planned to bring from the manor. It wasn’t quite the size of Colin’s massive bed, but big enough for two—and quite enough room for romping if it pleased them.
She was still watching him with furrowed brows and his cheeks warmed.
Gavin shook away the carnal images that were cavorting through his head. Damn, but this was his home—not hers. Even if she had helped him complete it. Anyway, the thoughts going through his head were the most ridiculous notions he had ever entertained, because the lass hadn’t asked to be his wife. She had simply given him the gift of a roof, impossible though it seemed.
He looked at her suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Again she furrowed her brows and repeated, as though she hadn’t understood, “Want?”
“Aye,” he said. “No one does this sort of work for naught. What payment are ye looking for, lass—because there isna much I have to give,” he hurriedly added.
She peered down at the sack he had brought from home. It was full of a day’s supply of victuals. “Mayhap just a bite to eat,” she suggested. “If you have enough to share?”
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “If ye’ve a bit o’ faerie magik seems to me you’d conjure up your own brekkie,” he said irascibly. His tone was rife with sarcasm. “Forsooth, wench, ye can raise a hefty roof, but ye canna fill your tiny belly?”
Her hands went to her hips and her green eyes glinted suddenly with green fire. “I need nothing from an ungrateful knave!” she swore, and turned and walked out of the house, marching toward the forest.
Gavin followed her out, experiencing an instant of fear at the thought of her disappearing yet again. “Wait!”
In truth, he had brought more than plenty, which only made him wonder that he must have expected—or even hoped—to encounter the lass again. And that precisely was at the heart of his suddenly sour mood, because for the first time in his life he craved something he, in truth, had never hoped to have.
Something about the girl made him yearn for things he could not name.
She stopped and peered over her shoulder, her green eyes full of uncertainty.
Gavin nodded, lifting the sack between them. “Indeed, I do have plenty,” he assured. “Come back. Ye’re right. I’m an ungrateful arse and ye ha’e my deepest thanks.”
Still, she hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Dinna go, lass.” He lifted up the sack higher, offering it to her. “I have bread and cheese and oatcakes.”
“Oatcakes?” The tiniest smile returned to her lips and she hurried back. Gavin felt something like sparrows take flight in his breast.
“What’s your name, lass?” he asked as he watched her approach, his skin tingling strangely at the sight of her lovely legs hurrying toward him.
“My friends call me Cat,” she said, and Gavin arched a brow.
Piers de Montgomerie stood in front of his barn, scratching his head as he contemplated the missing thatch. The cart certainly appeared as though it had once been filled with bundles of straw, but it was sitting exactly where they had left it, empty but for a few short sprigs.
They had been preparing to put a new roof on the little church his wife had constructed for her brother, but the material was gone now. Meggie was bound to believe it was simply another delay, but it wasn’t. And yet building a church for her youngest brother to spout sermons that Piers didn’t want to hear, admittedly, was far less of a priority, than say, rebuilding a barn, or repairing the damned fence her brothers had destroyed during the course of their feud.
And then, of course, Gavin hardly seemed interested in sermons of late. Piers couldn’t recall the last time the lad had even visited. He’d taken to brooding, and kept mostly to himself now.
“It was all right here,” Baldwin swore. “And then it was gone. I swear it, Lyon!”
Piers shook his head—not entirely because of the self-evident statement. He had hoped his long time friend would eventually stop using that silly epitaph. He’d been given the name by his men after a particularly bloody battle when they’d said he’d appeared to them coming off the battlefield, with his long, gilt mane of hair and bloodied face, like a lion fresh after its kill. It wasn’t an honor he was particularly proud of—especially now that all he aspired to be was a husband and farmer. He had grown quite accustomed to a quiet life and had no stomach for fighting any longer.
Baldwin tilted him a look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if the Brodies were back to their thievin’.”
Again Piers shook his head. “Meghan would have their arses. They might not fear any reprisal from me, but they wouldn’t cross their sister for any booty.”
Piers blew out a sigh, wondering the same.
In truth, he had never expected to find himself a laird and he was learning as he went how to deal with these canny Scots. He had come to truly admire them for they fought their battles by some strange code of honor that appealed to him. They stole your goat; you stole their sheep; and so on and so on—all of it done openly, as though thieving your good neighbor were the most natural and honorable thing to do. However, never accuse one without proof, he’d learned, for they defended kith and kin unto their dying breath. But the Brodie brothers had already come to accept him and he didn’t believe they would resort to thieving anymore—particularly since this particular booty was intended to benefit the youngest of the brood.
Nay, something else was amiss here.
Scratching his head, he turned and walked out of the barn, into the bright sunshine, only to find riders approaching in the distance. He squinted to see the banner, and spied the bright gold with the royal blood red lion rampant at its center. King David—and despite his poor reputation in these parts, he rode with only a handful of men.
Baldwin offered him a look that was full of trepidation for despite Piers’ friendship with David, they both knew that David’s presence here meant trouble.
Together they waited in the open field until the riders reined in before them.
Piers noted the scowls upon his mens’ faces. “What brings you to these parts again so soon?” he asked.
Unsettled, like its rider, David’s horse protested his weight and the anxious king dismounted and stood before Piers, hands upon his hips. His men remained mounted, sour faced and sweating. “We brought a prisoner from the Mounth,” he said without preamble. “A woman.”
Piers frowned, as there were no women amongst them now.
Highland Song Page 4