Highlanders

by Tarah Scott

  Rhoslyn intervened. “Why are you here, Jacobus?”

  His mouth thinned. “I wanted to be sure you were well.”

  “I just said I was well,” she replied.

  But Melrose clearly wasn’t convinced, for his hand fell to his sword hilt.

  Chapter Ten

  “Jacobus,” Rhoslyn cried.

  She stepped forward, but St. Claire yanked her back and behind him as the remaining men drew their swords. The nearest warriors leapt to their laird’s aid. St. Claire lunged and drove a fist into Jacobus’ belly.

  “Hold,” St. Claire shouted to the men as Jacobus doubled over, then dropped to his knees, wheezing loudly.

  St. Claire seized his sword, yanked it from its sheathe then threw it to the floor. Metal clanged against stone in the now silent room, and rushes kicked up as the claymore furrowed a path across the floor, then skidded to a stop.

  Her grandfather sheathed his sword. “Have ye lost your mind, Jacobus? You are lucky I dinna’ run my sword through your belly just to teach you a lesson.”

  Jacobus shook his head and drew another pained breath. “I dinna’—” he wheezed again “—understand.”

  “Then you deserve to die,” St. Claire said in a flat voice.

  The other two men sheathed their swords, and the surrounding warriors followed suit.

  “Damn fool,” her grandfather muttered.

  Jacobus shoved to his feet, still grasping his stomach. “What did I do?” He looked from one to the other of the men, but they only stared.

  Rhoslyn stepped forward. “Surely, your father taught ye never to lay hand on your sword hilt unless you mean to use it?”

  His brows dove down in a frown, then understanding dawned on his face. He swung his gaze onto Talbot. “I would no’ attack an unarmed man. If I intended to kill ye, I would do it in a fair fight.”

  “Fair fight?” Her grandfather snorted. “St. Claire would slaughter you.” He motioned to St. Claire. “Mayhap ye are the better choice, after all—English king and all.”

  Jacobus looked at her grandfather, hurt in his eyes. “I would protect her. I will protect her, if she but asks.”

  Rhoslyn groaned inwardly. Sweet God in heaven, save me from the stupidity of youth.

  “St. Claire’s fist is but a taste of what ye will receive if you continue this idiocy,” her grandfather said. “Go home, Jacobus—and I suggest you spend some time under the instruction of a knight. You are too old to start learning, but mayhap someone can keep ye from losing your damn head before your next birthday.”

  Jacobus’ face reddened. His eyes narrowed on St. Claire, who met the boy’s gaze squarely. For an instant, Rhoslyn feared Jacobus would make some sort of foolish challenge, but he whirled and strode to where his sword lay. He scooped up the weapon, then left.

  “Dinna’ let that go to your head,” her grandfather said to St. Claire when the door closed behind Jacobus. “Just because you are more of a man than the new Earl of Melrose doesna’ mean I want ye as my granddaughter’s husband.”

  “Fortunately, your opinion is not the one that matters,” he replied.

  A gleam entered her grandfather’s eyes. “Nay, but Rhoslyn is a Seward. She has as much backbone as I do.”

  “She is now my wife, a St. Claire,” St. Claire said, “and if you interfere in our marriage, you will go the way of that boy.” He faced her. “Lady Rhoslyn, I would ask that you do not entertain any male visitors without my knowledge.”

  Ire piqued, but Rhoslyn was all too aware that she stood poised at a crossroads that could drive a permanent wedge between the man who was now her husband and her grandfather.

  “I will make sure ye know of any male visitors—who are no’ family,” she said.

  He surprised her by chuckling and saying, “That could be the whole damn village.”

  * * *

  Rhoslyn exited the castle through the kitchen door and headed for the gate. The day was still young, but not so young that she dared waste a moment. Any chance she could abort a possible pregnancy before her new husband claimed his husbandly rights would be gone after tonight. If she became pregnant immediately after St. Claire bedded her, she would never truly be sure whose child she carried until it was too late.

  Too late? What did that mean? Would love turn to hate if she someday discovered the child she loved belonged to Dayton instead of St. Claire? She certainly wouldn’t be able to end the child’s life then as she planned to now. Her stomach cramped. God have mercy. What was she doing?

  “Lady Rhoslyn.”

  Rhoslyn paused in her walk and turned. She blinked against morning sun to see St. Claire striding toward her. After the altercation with Jacobus, St. Claire had sequestered himself in his chambers with Ralf and Ingram, plotting—she assumed—to catch his brother.

  He reached her side. “Mistress Muira tells me you are going to the village.”

  “Aye.”

  “Until I deal with my brother, I do not want you leaving the castle alone.”

  “Do ye really think he will return to Buchan, much less come anywhere near Castle Glenbarr?” she asked.

  “He has done many things I would not have thought him capable of. I will not risk your safety a second time.”

  He feels guilty, she thought. Rhoslyn glanced at the gate. She needed to go to the village. Even a small chance that she could obtain the pennyroyal... Was St Claire’s interference divine intervention?

  “I am only going to the village. No one will dare harm me there.”

  “I will send men with you.”

  She nodded, despite uncertainty. “Any strangers unlucky enough to enter Kildrum will probably get run through with a sword before they can deny any crime.”

  St. Claire nodded. “Step even a foot outside the village without my men, and I will lock you in your chambers until my brother is dead.”

  Rhoslyn blinked. “What? I didna’ argue with you, St. Claire.”

  “I want to be sure we understand one another,” he said.

  Words failed her. He hadn’t waited even a day to draw yet another line in the sand. “Aye, we understand one another, ye arrogant—”

  “Good,” he cut in.

  He turned and strode toward the castle.

  Rhoslyn stared for an instant, then broke from the shock and started forward after him. She stopped. She had won this skirmish—if by accident. Tomorrow was another day, and only God in his ultimate—male —wisdom knew what lay ahead.

  Rhoslyn’s fear was realized. She wasn’t going to be able to obtain pennyroyal from her local healer. Not that she’d had high hopes. Asking for the herb was too great a risk of exposure. But it mattered not, for Rhoslyn hadn’t seen the herb amongst the others in the woman’s store. She had obtained oregano, along with several other herbs, but oregano was mild compared to pennyroyal. She trudged along the lane in the village, heart heavy. It was possible the healer had the herb in a safe place, but Rhoslyn couldn’t chance sending someone to inquire. That would be damning evidence that she carried Dayton’s child, and the villagers had already begun speculating as to what had happened after he kidnapped her.

  She didn’t yet know if she was pregnant. Her flux wasn’t due for another week, and it could delay as much as a fortnight. But she didn’t want to wait that long before drinking an herbal brew. The desire to cry rose, as it seemed to every hour. After seven long years of yearning to conceive with Alec, she wouldn’t have thought it possible that she wouldn’t want a child. What were the chances she would conceive so quickly? She had asked herself that question a thousand times. The chances were small, but what would she do if forced to bear a child that had come to her as a result of rape?

  Emotion stirred in her breast. She hadn’t considered the possibility of another child. In truth, she had avoided the idea of marriage altogether. Could she so easily end a life, even one born of violence? Whatever sin she had committed that had brought God’s wrath down upon her husband and son would surely be multiplied a hundr
edfold if she took the life of an innocent child.

  A woman’s scream yanked Rhoslyn from her thoughts. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a blur of movement between the cottages across the lane. Her hand went to the dagger strapped to her belt before the blur shot out into the lane and she recognized the billy goat belonging to the elderly Christine. The goat had a green dress between its teeth. The fabric billowed above him like a banner.

  A girl raced out into the lane in pursuit of the animal. Rhoslyn blinked. Was this Mary Boghan? Only fourteen months ago, Mary had been a slim, petite girl. Now she was...plump.

  “Stop the goat!” Mary shouted. ”That is my wedding dress.”

  A boy exited one of the cottages. He stopped and began laughing. The animal neared Rhoslyn and she jumped into the middle of the lane with the intention of turning him back toward Mary. The goat darted right. Rhoslyn lunged for him, but he feinted left, then went right, and loped past her. She whirled as Mary raced past her.

  “Bloody animal,” Mary screeched.

  Rhoslyn yanked up her skirts and gave chase, easily passing the girl. The goat let out a loud bleat that Rhoslyn felt sure was laughter. He dodged between two cottages. Rhoslyn pumped her legs faster and closed in on the animal. She was close enough to grab the dress. She made two swipes and missed, then dove for the animal as they reached the far lane. He veered left instead of right, and Rhoslyn’s arms closed around air. She hit the ground and got a nose full of dirt.

  Rhoslyn shoved to her feet and whirled in the direction the animal had run as Mary’s curses sounded behind her. Two boys had joined the chase, and Rhoslyn shot forward after them.

  After a few seconds and another loud bleat, the goat disappeared down another narrow lane. Rhoslyn made a quick right with the intention of cutting him off with a short cut. She zigged and zagged down two lanes and came out on the lane she’d seen him take. He was headed straight for her. She hurried to the middle of the lane and widened her stance in readiness to grab the animal. He raced forward, a dozen people in pursuit, the dress furled in the wind, and Rhoslyn couldn’t help laughing. He neared her, spurred on by the crowd. Rhoslyn was sure he’d never enjoyed so much attention. It seemed his gaze locked onto hers.

  He let out another loud bleat and tried to dodge right. Rhoslyn whirled and seized his tail. They tumbled through in the dirt in a tangle of fabric and spindly goat legs. He managed a kick to her thigh, and she gasped but held tight. Strong fingers closed around Rhoslyn’s arm and she was yanked upright, coming face to face with St. Claire. The goat bleated and took off again, the dress now tangled in its horns.

  “Now look what ye have done,” Rhoslyn cried.

  She broke free of St. Claire and lunged after the animal. The dress fluttered across his face, and he slowed. He was blinded by the fabric Rhoslyn realized with a thrill. She dodged left and grabbed for the dress but missed. The pounding of booted feet sounded close behind and St. Claire came into view running alongside her. He flashed a smile, then passed her with ease.

  He was going to catch the goat—and with very little effort—after she had so worked hard to catch him! She ran faster, heart pounding. St. Claire reached the creature and grabbed the dress trailing from his horns. He would tear the dress, Rhoslyn realized with horror.

  Mary must have agreed, for her shout of “Nay,” went up behind them.

  Rhoslyn reached them, and shoved St. Claire while they were still in motion. The dress whipped across her face in a stinging snap. She jammed her eyes shut and felt fingers seize her arm in the instant before she fell chest-to-chest on top of a hard body. The air rushed from her lungs and she struggled to drag in a breath.

  Rhoslyn shoved upright to find herself straddling St. Claire’s hips. She jerked her gaze onto his face and he lifted a brow. Heat flushed her cheeks. Muffled laughter caused her to look up. The crowd chasing the goat stood staring at them, knowing grins on each and every face. She swung her gaze back to St. Claire. He shrugged. Rhoslyn’s heart pounded.

  The bleating goat broke the quiet. She started to shove off St. Claire, but he grasped her waist and lifted her off. He sprang up and she staggered back a step as he sprinted after the goat. The crowd surged after him and Rhoslyn stumbled forward in their wake.

  St. Claire reached the goat. Rhoslyn was sure the animal would elude St. Claire as he had her, but the goat darted left and St. Claire lunged and seized the horns. St. Claire dropped to his knees, bringing the goat down onto its side. He swung a leg over the goat, straddling him. The goat gave a loud bleat of protest, but St. Claire held him fast and began to untangle the fabric from its horns.

  Rhoslyn and the crowd reached him as he pulled the last of the dress free, then rose and stepped away from the goat. The creature jumped to its feet and trotted off with a recriminating bleat.

  Mary stepped forward and took the dress from St. Claire. “‘Tis ruined,” she wailed. “Ruined! I am to marry tomorrow, but now I have no wedding dress.”

  “Surely, it can be fixed?” he said.

  Rhoslyn took the dress from Mary and examined it. The bodice gaped open clear to the waist, and the hem was torn in several spots where mud caked the fabric.

  She shook her head. “Nay, the dress canna’ be salvaged.”

  “I will kill that goat and make Christine pay for the dress,” Mary snarled.

  “Ye canna’ blame Christine for what her goat did,” a lad said.

  “Aye, she can,” a woman rebutted. “That goat is always causing trouble.”

  A murmur of agreement went up amongst the onlookers and Rhoslyn feared the crowd would recapture the goat and slaughter it on the spot.

  “Leave the goat to me,” St. Claire said. “And Lady Rhoslyn will replace the dress.”

  “She will?” Mary said, the surprise in her voice mirroring Rhoslyn’s.

  “What say you, Lady?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she said. “I will replace the dress, so long as ye agree to leave the goat be, Mary.” The girl hesitated, and Rhoslyn added, “I must have your word, else you will wear your work dress when you wed.”

  The girl’s lips pursed, but she nodded.

  “And the rest of ye,” Rhoslyn said. “Do you agree?”

  A chorus of ‘ayes’ followed.

  “Then I will speak with Christine. But she is old, and everyone know she loves that goat.”

  * * *

  One man’s loneliness was another man’s solitude. Talbot sat alone at the head of the largest table in the great hall. Laughter, music, and loud voices echoed off the walls of the great hall. The wedding celebration was a success—despite those that didn’t accept him as the new lord of Castle Glenbarr. His own captain harbored a grudge. Baxter haunted the large hearth while nursing an ale.

  Yet, Talbot had never felt more at peace.

  Rhoslyn chatted with Ralf, Ingram, and their two companions near the far end of the table. Color had returned to her cheeks and her spirits seemed higher than they had been this morning during the wedding ceremony. Her red mane blazed in a weave of braids that hung past her shoulders. Her olive green, velvet dress befitted her station, but he recalled her grimy face and the dusty dress she’d worn when she chased the goat, and thought her just as beautiful then as now. When she’d straddled him her exquisite weight on his cock made him wish the villagers far away. That memory would keep him awake tonight.

  He reached for his mug and took a drink as he watched Rhoslyn’s mouth curve upward in a laugh. Ralf grinned back and her smile broadened. Talbot read no womanly wiles in the action, but couldn’t help wishing she would smile at him with that much ease. But why would she? In the four days she’d known him, she’d been kidnapped by him and his brother, and Dayton had done far worse than move into her home.

  In truth, had he considered for an instant that he might feel anything more than and perhaps affection for his wife he might have...might have what? Begged Seward not to marry her to another man—then wooed her? Nothing Talbot could have said would have
changed the old man’s mind. In fact, Talbot would have done the same were he in Seward’s place.

  He took another long draught of ale. Rhoslyn now spoke animatedly with the four men. Talbot recognized the male appreciation in Ralf’s eyes. He couldn’t see the other men’s faces, but he wagered they found her just as enticing. Rhoslyn, however, seemed oblivious to their thoughts.

  He half wished she had turned out to be the horse-faced woman he’d expected. A man had to choose his battles, and Lady Rhoslyn was the sort of battle he wasn’t accustomed to fighting. She had already proven to be a distraction—and not just for him, by the looks of things. He chuckled. If he were to leave tomorrow with Ralf and Ingram, he would have to worry as much about who might bed his wife as he would about Dayton showing up at Castle Glenbarr to abduct her a second time.

  His mood sobered. Ralf and Ingram had others searching for Dayton in their absence. Tomorrow, they would return to Stonehaven to continue the search themselves. Talbot had reminded himself a dozen times that going with them was out of the question. Aside from ensuring Rhoslyn’s safety, he had yet to deal with consummating their marriage. A task that carried with it more than the weight of finalizing their union. He wanted her, and badly, but the taking would be far more perilous now that Dayton had wreaked his havoc.

  The postern door opened and Talbot shifted his gaze to see Duncan Harper enter. Talbot expelled a slow breath. So the fox had returned to the henhouse. What kind of trouble might he stir up?

  Duncan pushed his way through the crowd on a direct course for Rhoslyn as Baxter reached Talbot.

  “You see Duncan Harper is here?” Baxter said.

  Talbot nodded. “And he is going directly to Lady Rhoslyn.”

  Baxter sat in the chair to Talbot’s right and refilled his goblet with ale from the pitcher in front of Talbot. Baxter hung an arm over the back of his chair and leaned into one corner.

  “How are you enjoying your new home thus far?” he asked.

  Talbot leveled his gaze on his captain. “If you cannot be civil to even me, then perhaps ‘tis best you return to England. Edward, no doubt, would be pleased to have you lead his men.”