The Warrior Bride

by Lois Greiman

  Shanks hissed something, but Lachlan was beyond hearing for he was already swinging up beside her.

  She kept her attention on the rutted lane in front of them. “You are not invited, MacGowan.”

  ”Truly?” Anger crowded in on the pleasure that still haunted him. “And where am I not invited to?”

  “As I have said, ‘tis none of your concern.”

  He settled back. Rage made his body tight. Fatigue made it ache. “I thought I made it me own concern last night, lassie.”

  They passed a tanner with a fresh hide slung over his shoulder. The old man glanced up at the sound of the endearment, but Rhona kept her attention strictly on the road ahead.

  “You got what you wanted,” she said, “‘tis time to be on your way.”

  “What I wanted!” he rasped. Her expression changed not a mite, so he shifted his attention to the uneven road in an effort to refrain from throttling her. “What I wanted!” His words were louder now. She shifted uncomfortably on the wooden seat and carefully avoided the gaze of a passing blacksmith. “It seems to me ‘tis what you wanted too, lass, unless I be mistaken about the knife wound in me side.”

  “Do you say you did not want it?” she asked, and glanced at him from below the broad brim of her hat.

  Desire rekindled in him, for despite everything there was something about her manner that made him remember every moment of the night just past.

  “I wanted it,” he said.

  She nodded once. “Then you should be well satisfied. ‘Tis time we parted ways.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me and you understand me, MacGowan. I will be gone for some time.”

  “So you are going to him,” Lachlan intoned.

  She said nothing. Neither did she glance his way as they rattled out of the village and onto the well worn path of the common thoroughfare.

  Anger stirred with a dozen other emotions, twisting Lachlan ‘s stomach. “So you are on your way to the fat marquis without so much as a thank you.”

  She did look at him now, but her gaze was disdainful, her eyes cool. “You are a vain cockerel, aren’t you, MacGowan?”

  “Vain! Me?”

  “I may not be as desirable as some, but I am capable of attracting others to me bed if I so wish. Do not think I cannot. Aye, you are gifted, champion. That much I admit, but do not think I will come begging for your attention.”

  He sat in absolute silence for several seconds, then, “You think I expect you to thank me for last night?”

  She went stiff. Her eyes shifted rapidly toward him and away. Her gloved fingers tightened on the lines. “Nay.”

  He continued to stare. “Aye. You did. You entirely forgot to be grateful that I saved your life and-”

  “Nay, ‘twas what I was referring to.” She glanced nervously toward him. “That and the fact that-”

  He roared with laughter. Her brows lowered like a hand beaten portcullis.

  “What the devil are you chortling about, MacGowan?” Her voice was low and her expression angry, but the world looked utterly rosy again, as bright as a fresh tomorrow.

  Lachlan chuckled to himself. Life was good. She continued to glower.

  “Truly,” he said finally. “I cannot think of a single other instance when I have been so flattered.”

  “I’m certain there’s a reason for that.”

  “There must be,” he agreed, grinning widely.

  “I meant…” Her teeth were gritted. “There is probably naught else you do as well.”

  “Better still!” he said.

  She stopped the team abruptly. “Get out.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, and struggled to control his grin.

  “Get out before I kick your arse off of here.”

  “‘Tis not that I think you frail, lass,” he said, and retrained from doing cartwheels. “In fact, I have scratches from me shoulders to me arse to prove the opposite, but ‘tis not likely that you can best me in hand to hand combat.” Not that she wouldn’t give it a go, and what a thrill that would be.

  “So…” She leaned back slightly and studied him, her eyes narrowed. “You enjoyed last night, did you?”

  He leaned closer. “Would you like me to show you how much?”

  She glanced up at him and drew a breath through her lips. They were parted and waiting, and despite the attire, the attitude, the threats of physical violence, she looked like naught more than a bashful maid. “Mayhap later,” she said, and though he knew it best to talk things through he could not help but move in for a kiss. “If you leave now.”

  He drew back with a start. “What’s that?”

  The shy maid was gone, replaced with a steely warrior who glared at him with battle-hardened eyes. “Leave me now, MacGowan, and you may feel again the burn of last night, but I tell you this… if you do not leave I will never bed you again.”

  Emotions stirred like a witch’s brew inside him. “So that’s the way of it, lass? You go to your marquis and perhaps, if I am tractable, you shall return to me bed some day.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  He swore in silence and ground his hands to fists.

  “And meanwhile what will you be doing?”

  For a moment she was silent, but finally she spoke. “I am not the spoiled son of a doting nobleman, MacGowan. Therefore, I do what I must.”

  “And you must seduce Turpin?”

  “Mayhap.”

  For a brief second he wanted to shake her until she promised otherwise, but he conquered the urge with a hard effort and nodded. “Then I must accompany you.”

  “Nay!” “Aye.”

  “Damn you, MacGowan! This is not some game I play for boredom’s sake. This is life and this is death!”

  He studied her closely. “Whose life?” he asked.

  “Whose death?”

  She paused for a moment, looking breathless.

  “Mine,” she said finally.

  He nodded once. ”Then I shall go with you, and perhaps better your odds.”

  “You cannot-”

  “I go!” He gritted the words into her face. “And there is naught you can do about it, unless you hope to end me life here and now.”

  For a moment she looked angry enough to do just that, but finally she fell silent. Slapping the lines against the team’s broad haunches, she moved them down the road toward Claronfell.

  Shortly before dusk, Rhona stopped the team and handed Lachlan the reins. Not a word was spoken as she slipped from the driver’s seat and into the interior of the carriage.

  It was not much later that they reached a village and when Lachlan opened the door of the vehicle he could not help but be shocked by the transformation.

  Gone were her muddied boots and manly attire. She wore now a flowing lilac gown that laced up the front, displaying her breasts to her best advantage. He wondered momentarily if she had managed the stays he’d purchased for her, but with one additional glance he saw that her form was too soft, too feminine, too tempting to be wrapped in whalebone.

  Nay, beneath the gown, she was unfettered. He pushed the image from his mind as he reached for her hand.

  For a minute she missed his intent as she stared out over his head, but finally she glanced at him, scowled and accepted his assistance.

  They walked to the inn together. Lachlan opened the door then gave her a mock bow, letting her precede him. She did so, her chin raised, and her fingers gloved in white kid leather.

  Nearby, a stooped man with tremendous ears ceased his labor to stare at her.

  “M’lady,” he said, finally coming to his senses with a start. Lifting his rag from the table he’d been scrubbing, he bowed as though he’d just met the queen in disguise. “How may I serve you?”

  “I’ll have a room, and be quick about it,” she ordered. For a moment the innkeeper seemed taken aback.

  “Yer pardon?”

  Lachlan chuckled, though he felt far from jovial. He could immedia
tely feel her anger, but her voice softened nevertheless.

  “My apologies,” she said. Splaying a hand across her lovely bosom, she smiled shyly through her lashes. “I fear my throat is rough after such a long ride.” The man’s gaze followed her hand and held there for a moment after she’d removed it. Her voice was as sweet as elderberry wine. “I will require a private room for the night.”

  “For yourself and… your husband, me lady?”

  “Husband?” She laughed. It was not the bewitching, silvery tone he’d heard only a few times before, but it was a fetching facsimile. “Nay, my good man. This fellow is naught but me servant.”

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron and smiled happily. Lachlan momentarily considered beating him senseless. “A room for yourself then, me lady. Very well. And for your man we have a fine room with but a pair of others letting it.”

  Lachlan considered telling him what he could do with his room and his letters, but before he opened his mouth, Rhona spoke again.

  “I am certain those arrangements will be perfectly acceptable. But for now I need a meal and someone to fetch my trunks. I fear I am not very strong.”

  “Certainly, my lady,” he said again and scurried into the kitchen to dispense orders.

  They were seated in a moment, alone shortly after. Rhona carefully removed her white kid gloves finger by delicate finger. Lachlan watched in silence as her digits were revealed, pale and talented and tapered. He was angry. Indeed, he was incensed, and yet he found that, against all good judgment, he longed to kiss those fingers, to take each one into his mouth and suckle it until she was wet and wanting.

  “‘Tis a fine inn,” she said, using that girlish tone she had adopted only minutes before. “Don’t you agree, champion?”

  Resentment ground crankily in his gut. “You’ll not manage it, laddie.”

  She turned her attention back to him, raising her brows as she did so. Surprise shone like sunrise on her bold features. “What’s that, my good man?”

  “Oh aye,” he said. Doing his best to appear casual, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched her. “You can simper prettily and act the helpless maid now, but what happens when the fat marquis refuses to behave?”

  “Refuses to behave?” Her tone was still perky. She giggled, and he found he missed her usual earthy tone with rare desperation. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean after you stab him with your dinner knife, he is unlikely to believe you are naught but a delicate maid bent on serving him.”

  “Stab him!” She looked aghast. Her eyes were ungodly wide, and she blinked several times before touching her fingers to her lips as if she’d heard something too hideous to believe. It made his hair stand on end. It was eerie how she could sound as if she had not a vile thought in her head. As if she were the most harmless of god’s witless creatures. “Whyever would I do such a horrid thing?”

  Lachlan carefully refrained from grinding his teeth.

  “Because it is your nature. Or do I have to show you me own wounds to prove it?”

  She smiled. Her lips were perfectly bowed, and her thick lashes fluttered over the creamy skin of her cheeks.

  “I know you are manly, champion.” she said, and reaching out, placed her hand delicately atop his. Though it appeared refined and ultimately gentle, it was not a fragile hand. Nay, it was strong and talented, and when he thought about what she could do with those hands, a familiar ache settled into his groin. “But I do not think it would be quite proper to reveal your scars here at the inn.”

  ”There is a hell of a list of things that are not quite proper,” he growled and pulled his hand out from beneath hers.

  She laughed again. At the table near theirs, two men stared at her with unconcealed admiration.

  He glared at them until they turned away. “Champion,” she said and made a tsking noise as she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “You are so peevish this day. Whatever has set you off?”

  !he men at the nearby table had doggedly resumed eating, so Lachlan pulled his attention from them and turned his scowl on her. “Torpin may be a fool, but even he will not believe you’re nothing more than a comely maid,” he warned.

  “You think not?” she murmured and arching her back, let her eyes go dramatically wide as she spread her fingers in dismay across her startling bosom.

  “Nay, I do not,” he growled, but in his heart he knew the truth; it didn’t matter if she fought like a foot soldier and swore like a whore, any man with a pecker and half a brain would want her.

  And damn him-he had both.

  Chapter 19

  They arrived at Claronfell on the following afternoon. The manse loomed outside the carriage window like a gray storm cloud.

  Rhona sat inside the coach, feeling sick to her stomach and pitifully weak. Oh aye, she had been on more dangerous missions, but never had the entire assignment depended on her ability to seduce. And never had she been accompanied by a growling Scotsman who refused to abandon her no matter how miserable she was to him.

  Why would he not leave? The question haunted her, gnawing at her caution, tearing at her barriers, but she fortified her defenses, for she could not risk the answers. Indeed, she had fled Nettlepath for the very same reason. She could not risk. Could not delay, for if she did she may very well find she no longer possessed the ability to leave him. Indeed, one more touch of his skin, one more kiss, and all might be lost. The memory of their time together rose up like a sweet-smelling mist in her mind, lulling her, weakening her. But she knew the truth; she should have left earlier, should have escaped before she realized how he could make her feel, should have-

  He opened the door now and stood there, staring at her, as dark and taciturn as an ancient gargoyle, as powerful as a force of nature. His usual tunic was gone.·1o its place he wore a sleeveless plaid jerkin. It had neither a lace nor any fasteners, but was held in place by naught more than a simple iron pin slipped through the fabric near his navel. Upon his head he wore a dark tarn pierced with a single ostrich feather.

  Perhaps he should have seemed ridiculous, too barbaric, too unrefined. But somehow the sight of him thus only managed to take her breath away.

  “We’ve arrived,” he said finally.

  She nodded and forced herself to lean forward, ready to step down, but he refused to back away.

  “I ask you again not to go through with this.” His voice was deep and earnest. His eyes were filled with quiet solemnity, and for a moment she almost faltered, but finally she steeled herself.

  “I must,” she said simply, and made to leave again. He remained as he was, blocking her exit.

  “And what if I do not let you?”

  Perhaps she should declare her ability to do as she wished, but standing thus, he looked as powerful as Knight, though not so mild-mannered. “Why?” she asked instead. She’d meant to say it simply, casually, but emotion had somehow crept into her tone.

  “I think you know.”

  She shook her head and he tightened his grip on the door handle. Muscles rippled from his wrist to his shoulder. From somewhere, he had secured a pair of dark hose that fit to disconcerting perfection. But his shoes were scuffed and his simple jerkin showed an immense amount of broad, sun-darkened chest. She kept her gaze doggedly on his face, the better to concentrate.

  “You are not meant for the likes of Turpin,” he said. She waited, saying nothing and feeling empty. But time was fleeting and she dare not delay. “Neither am I meant for you.”

  “Perhaps you do not know me so well as you think.” She smiled. “I know you, MacGowan,” she said softly. “You are wealthy. You are gifted, and you will someday take a bride much like the ones your brothers have wed.”

  He paused. “And you?”

  She stifled a shrug. From henceforth, she must be aware of every movement, and ladies of breeding did not oft display such common mannerisms. “Mayhap I will win me a marquis. Surely you would not deny me that?”

  “As I
said, you do not know me so very well.”

  His expression was as solemn as death, his eyes dark and earnest, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to step into his arms, to believe that he would fight for her.

  “‘Tis my choice,” she said softly. “And I shall make it.”

  “Why?”

  Anguish was in his tone. She hardened her heart.

  “Because I must.” From the corner of her eye, she saw that two brightly liveried servants approached, pacing between the looming topiary that lined the walkway from the manse on the hill. “Because it is of utmost importance,” she murmured.

  “I disagree,” he said.

  She drew a deep breath. The servants were drawing nearer and behind them came another. “That is because you do not know the facts.”

  “I will not leave you,” he said.

  Anger spurred up and she was tempted to take him by the tunic and demand that he be on his way. But Turpin’s servants were approaching, and she had no time. “You must.”

  “You have oft been wrong,” he said. “But never more than now, for I will stay.”

  “Damn you!” she swore, and he smiled.

  “A proper maid might not say such things, me lady.

  Not to her poor, humble servant.”

  “You make a horrible servant,” she hissed. “No one will believe you are aught but what you are-a bull-headed Scotsman with more balls than brains.”

  His mouth twitched before he spoke. “Me leidy,” he said, and suddenly his brogue was replaced by an outlandish accent. “Ye cut me ta the quick.”

  She longed to slap some sense into him, but the marquis’ servants were nearly upon them, so she pursed her lips, accepted Lachlan ‘s hand, and stepped into the afternoon’s full sunlight.

  “Good day,” she said, and straightened outside of the coach. It took a moment for MacGowan to release her fingers, but she refused to turn toward him. “I am Lady Rhona, late of Nettlepath, come to care for my lord’s poor wee daughters.”

  The two brightly dressed men stood at her horse’s head, while the third fellow bowed regally.

  “My lady,” he said. He was dressed well but conservatively all in dark colors, and his face bore not a hint of a smile. “I fear we were not expecting you for some days.”