by Lois Greiman
As he watched, she sighed gently and wriggled deeper into the warmth of his cape. Sleeping thus, she looked like a small, frail angel fallen—
He was doing it again. Despite the fact that she had the face of a saint and the form of a goddess … regardless of the way her eyes mesmerized him and her hair shone like gold even in the grimmest of weather, she was only a woman. And he had no desire to touch her. Neither body nor soul.
After all, he was no fool. Nay, he was a man who, once testing fire, had no need to feel its burn again. And though he had made a few mistakes since meeting her, he would remedy them now. He would see her safely to Levenlair and be gone, never to think of her again.
With that decision made, he tenaciously ignored the weight in his crotch and reached across her waist to tug his cape from beneath her. Her eyes snapped open instantly. From inches apart, their gazes met. Emotions, unshielded and unexplained, sparked between them. His fingers crept toward her of their own will, but even before he touched her, she was watching him with cool disdain.
He paused for a fraction of an instant, then, grasping the cape, he yanked it from beneath her.
The effort was worth the pain that accompanied it, for with his movement, she was jerked onto her back, gasping.
“What are you doing?”
“Relieving a terrible ache.” He rose jerkily to his feet, grimacing at the pain from his injured arm.
“Tell me, Notmary,” he said, standing above her. “Whence did your flirtatious ways flee?”
She bounded to her feet, as if she dared not be in so vulnerable position in his presence. When in truth, she had spent most of the night curled like a kitten …
Ramsay chopped off his errant thoughts and sharpened his control.
” ‘Twas only yestereve that you blatantly baited me brothers,” he reminded her.
Raising her chin slightly, she brushed leaves from her skirt without glancing down.
“I did no such thing.” Her voice was husky with early morning drowsiness.
“Aye,” he said, and tried to ignore how the seductive rasp of her voice thickened the blood in his loins.
“You did. Yet last night you were desperate to leave them.”
“I was desperate to save my life.”
“Mayhap,” he said.
She stared at him. Her pursed lips were impossibly red, her loosed hair littered with leaves. His wick stirred. He’d always had a weakness for loosed hair littered with leaves. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her, he told himself.
” ‘Tis time to be going,” he said, his voice a husky echo in their little den. “Unless you’ve an inclination to tell me the truth.”
She turned away immediately, as regal as visiting royalty as she made her way from the dripping copse.
They rode all that day, staying to the woods as oft as they could. Ramsay felt like a coward, slinking through the underbrush like a whipped cur, but he had little choice, for with the hours of damp inactivity, his arm felt increasingly stiff. If the Munros found them, he’d be lucky to have enough strength to battle a flea. Hiding was his only option, but the hours droned on forever, and the soggy drizzle only abated long enough to give them hope before starting up again. Notmary shivered against his chest. As for himself, he’d rather keel over in silent death than admit his own discomfort.
It was nearly dusk when they smelled the smoke. The mere tinge of woodsy aroma made his mouth ache with hunger.
“Someone’s nearby.” Her voice was very quiet.
“Aye.” He stared through the close packed tree trunks toward the origin of that heavenly aroma. “So tell me, Notmary, shall we approach them, or do you have enemies that I should know of first? The Munros, mayhap?”
He felt her stiffen. “As I have told you, I know no Munros.”
“Aye, you told me. So there’s no reason we should not ride directly into their camp, aye?” he said, and nudged Gryfon forward.
Her small body was taut with tension as the trees thinned. Off to the right a trio of shaggy black cows lifted their heads to watch them pass, and from up ahead a bell rang, sounding loud and clear as it floated above a wooden palisade.
“A village!” she gasped.
“Aye,” he said, and tapped Gryfon with his heels. “Were you expecting something else? Or someone, mayhap?”
She didn’t deign to glance his way, though it was clear that she’d been nervous. Still, she was silent as they made their way across a boggy stretch of fen to the city’s front gate and beyond. A young lad with a sagging hat and slanted plaid gazed at them as he guided a herd of swine toward a thicket fence. The squinty eyed pigs grumbled amongst themselves as they went their way.
The city’s narrow thoroughfares were a charmless combination of rutted mud and sloping cobblestones, but they didn’t have far to go, for fifty rods from the village entrance, Ramsay stopped Gryfon at a wattle and daub inn. It tilted drunkenly toward the grocers on the far side of the street, and above its arched door, a drooping sign displayed a misshapen bottle and faded loaf.
“We’re stopping?” Anora asked, scowling at the disreputable looking inn.
“We need a place to spend the night.”
“Here?”
“Methinks the king’s court may be a bit far.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Perhaps we should push on.”
His wound throbbed. “We stop here,” he said. “Unless you’ve an irresistible yearning to spend another night in me arms.”
She lifted her chin and brows in regal unison. “In truth, I would far rather be pelted with rotten apples and dragged through the courtyard by my hair,” she said.
He snorted, and inadvertently brushing his arm against her breast, refused to apologize as he stiffly dismounted.
“Bonjour,” someone said.
Ramsay turned toward the threshold of the inn. A man stood there smiling. How the hell long had he been there? And how much had he heard? He was dark haired and narrow faced, with the kind of combed good looks associated with the French. The roving eye was not lacking either, and as his attention rose to the girl, Ramsay felt his temper stoke even as the other bowed. “I am Leverett de la Court. How may I serve you?” he asked, and managed to drag his gaze back to Ramsay.
“We need a hot meal, a stable for my steed, and a dry place to spend the night,” Ramsay said.
“Certainly, monsieur, and since my wife is away on business and the new maid just hired and untrained, I will see to your needs myself,” he said, and flashed a toothy leer at Anora.
Something coiled in Ramsay’s gut—something that felt nauseatingly akin to jealousy. Just looking at the Frenchman made him want to shove the girl inside the nearest room and lock the door, but what could he do? Proclaim her to be his wife?
Hah! He’d be dead within seconds if he attempted such a foolish stunt, executed by her scathing hauteur. Better by far to let her fend for herself. After all, she was no innocent babe who must be coddled and pampered. No wounded bird from his youth that must be taken home and nursed back to health.
“We’ll have our meal first,” Ramsay said, making no explanations as to his relationship with the girl.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“And a bath.”
The Frenchman’s glance slipped with lightning quickness over Notmary’s breasts. “The bathing is usually done in the kitchen, my lord.”
“Not today,” Ramsay growled, and struggled hopelessly with errant feelings that spun in his mind like wind blown leaves—foolish protectiveness, struggling pride. “Send it to the lady’s chamber.”
“Ahh.” The Frenchman’s eyes sparkled as he drank in the soggy fabric plastered to the girl’s body. ” ‘Twill be my pleasure to deliver the bathing tub myself,” he said, and stepping forward, took her hand in his. “And your name, mademoiselle?” he asked, drawing her fingers toward his lips.
Her eyes widened for a fraction of an instant, and then she snatched her hand from his grip. By the time the innkeeper had rais
ed his wounded gaze to hers, her regal expression was firmly back in place. Her hand, however, was wrapped like a wounded sparrow in Gryfon’s black mane. There was a breathless pause, as if the world waited, and then, “Madame,” she corrected. Her back was as straight as an arrow and her mouth slightly pursed. “And I shall be sharing a room with my husband, of course.”
Ramsay locked his knees to keep from keeling over like a felled oak.
“Of course,” said the Frenchman, and turned with slow regret back to Ramsay. “Will you be dining in the common room or in your chamber?”
“We shall dine alone,” she said, filling the silence with her regal tone.
“As you will.”
“Robbie!” de la Court called, and turned impatiently toward the inn only to collide with a chunky lad who was just scurrying out.
“You called?” asked the boy, stumbling backward as his master found his balance.
De la Court glowered. “See to my lord’s steed, then hustle back to the kitchens and tell Farley we’ll need a meal for two. Do you hear?”
“Aye.”
“Good.” The Frenchman turned with a smile to his customers. “If you’ll but follow me.”
Placing a hand on Gryfon’s neck, Ramsay turned toward the lass. Atop the horse, she was in the perfect position to look down her nose at him. How handy.
“So …” he said dryly. “You couldn’t resist me after all.”
She pursed her raspberry lips and glanced at the Frenchman, who had retreated to his doorway. “Merely the lesser of two evils.”
Ramsay snorted as he reached up to help her dismount. Gryfon flicked his tail and turned an evil eye toward his master, but the girl set a hand gently to the stallion’s russet neck.
“Shall I be flattered?” Ram asked.
“Not unless you’re pathetically desperate,” she said, and deigned to be lifted down.
The effort jolted a shock of pain through his right arm, but he was not above holding her close in a sort of evil payment. “Mayhap I am desperate,” he said.
“You are a man,” she said.
“Now I am flattered.”
She arched a brow at him.
“That you noticed,” he explained and pulled her marginally closer.
“Beware, or I’ll change my mind and choose the Frenchman,” she hissed.
He smiled, employing all the besotted adoration of a newly wedded bridegroom. “Surely you do not think I would risk you with a stranger,” he said. “Not when you are such an honest innocent.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the innkeeper interjected.
“Is something amiss?”
“Nay,” Ramsay said, and turned toward the lad called Robbie. “Give him an extra ration of barley, but be wary,” he warned, nodding toward Gryfon. “He can be mean-spirited.” Then, turning toward the Frenchman, he tucked Notmary’s hand under his arm. “What could possibly be amiss when me bonny bride is by me side?” he asked, and almost laughed as she gave him a sour looking smile.
The common room was fairly crowded. The scent of smoke and stew and hard working bodies filled the place. Laughter erupted, then dwindled as the occupants noticed the new guests. A half score of lusty male faces turned toward them. Notmary glanced at them, her expression aloof, her fingers almost imperceptibly tighter upon Ramsay’s arm.
The uncarpeted steps were narrow and steep. Notmary gripped the long sapphire gown in her free hand as they followed their host to the top.
“Here you are, then. Our last room,” said de la Court and swung an iron bound door wide. Only inches from Notmary, he turned his gaze toward her. His dark eyes dipped and sparkled as he bowed. “If there is anything you desire, Madame, I will consider it a privilege to serve such a lovely—”
“Me thanks,” Ramsay said, and slammed the door behind them.
The girl turned in the silence, her back straight as she glanced about the humble room.
‘Twas a narrow space, boasting little more than an ancient leather trunk and a bed that seemed to fill the room like a war horse in a garderobe.
Ramsay cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Here we be, alone together, and you without a single person to pelt you with rotten fruit.”
Chapter Nine
“Believe you me,” she said, and raising her chin, felt fear fan her belly in a hot wave of feeling. Maybe she would have been safer with the Frenchman after all. At least he didn’t have MacGowan’s rugged strength, and if it came to a struggle, she might stand a chance, but with Ram … she skimmed his broad form for an instant, calming her breathing. “Pelted fruit would surely be the lesser of the two evils.”
He leaned his back to the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. Dear God, he looked imposing in these narrow confines. “The greater evil being …”
“You,” she said, and paced nervously across the oak slatted floor. The room was small and close, with nowhere to hide and no one to come to her aid. She felt her throat close up and turned away, striving for calm.
“But lass …” His tone was perplexed, and though she did not immediately turn to him, she knew he shook his head as if wounded. ” ‘Twas you who proclaimed us wed. I meself—”
“Would have left me to the Frenchman?”
Had he heard the quaver in her voice? Still facing the wall, she squeezed her eyes shut and wished to hell she hadn’t spoken. She was supposed to be haughty, self assured. Impervious. ‘Twas the mask she had chosen to wear with this man.
“And what’s wrong with the Frenchman, lass? I thought him the type women found appealing.”
Opening her eyes, she eased her hand out of her skirt and took a steadying breath. He was probing, trying to find her fear. “I did not say differently.”
“Then—”
She turned abruptly toward him, chin raised. “Just because he is appealing does not mean I care for his attentions.”
“Unlike me brothers.”
“What?”
“Me brothers,” he said. “You were eager enough for their attentions. Why is that, Notmary?”
” ‘Tis simple,” she said. “Your brothers are gentle men.”
“Gentle men!” He snorted. “Enamored fools, more like.”
She shrugged delicately as she turned to study the window. They were only one floor above the street. Not so far a jump if the worst presented itself. “Is that what you call chivalry, MacGowan?”
“Aye,” he said. ” ‘Tis exactly what I call it.”
“Then why did you deign to protect me at all?”
He was silent for a moment, and in that silence, she turned, intrigued.
His scowl was dark as if he himself were uncertain. “Even dolts do not deserve to die.”
She raised a questioning brow with superior disdain and stifled a shiver as much for the closeness of the room as for the cloying cold of her garments.
“Me brothers,” he explained. “I do not wish for them to be harmed just because they cannot see beyond your bonny face.”
She raised both brows now and forced a smile. “So you think me bonny?”
“Not as bonny as you think yourself, lass.”
Surprised, she laughed, but the sound quavered slightly. “Ahh, that’s right, I cannot have every man swooning at my feet, can I?”
He didn’t answer.
“So you resent me for being the fairer of the sexes?” she asked.
“Fairer? Is it fair that women would use men’s affections like a sword against an—” He stopped abruptly.
She stared at him. “Against who?” she urged, but a muscle jumped in his jaw and he refused to continue. “I think,” she said, “that you are confusing me with another.”
He took a step toward her, his gaze as steady as a falcon’s. “So you are saying your intentions were true, lass? That you were, in fact, as infatuated with me brothers as they were with you?”
She felt her heart pump faster as he stepped nearer, while the walls seemed to close in like swinging doors.
“They are …” She refused to shiver, though his stare added to the cold that stole to her very bones. “They are … good men.”
“Good men?” He stood only inches from her now. “The truth is, lass, the ‘fairer’ sex does not become infatuated with ‘good men.’ “
“Oh? And tell me, Sir Angry—in your vast experience, what does the fairer sex become infatuated with?”
“Power,” he said instantly, crowding her slightly toward the window. “Money. A man’s ability to heighten her station in life.”
“Such a jaded soul,” she said, and refused to back away, though her breathing was irregular now and her body stiff.
“Aye, I am that, lass. But I am also the heir to a dukedom. Did you know that?” he asked.
“A dukedom?” She remained where she stood, though they were almost toe to toe now. “How very impressive.”
“Aye. Think on it. If you were a duchess, even the Munros would not dare bother you.”
“The who?” she said, barely breathing.
“Tell me, lass, is this lying an acquired gift or did you inherit it at birth?”
“Tell me, MacGowan, who wounded you so that you cannot believe a simple truth?”
For a fleeting moment, she thought he might actually answer, but in a instant he turned away. “Take your clothes off.”
Her throat closed up, choked with fear. “What?”
“Your clothes,” he said, still not turning toward her. “I’ll not have your death on me hands. Remove your clothes afore you die of the ague.”
“You, sir,” she said, “have an astounding sense of the preposterous.”
“And you, Notmary, have a grave need to return to your homeland, though I do not know why. Still, me-thinks your return would be more advantageous if you were alive rather than dead.”
“How far sighted of you. But I have no intention of dying just yet.”
“Then take off your clothes.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He swore with astounding verve. Pivoting toward her, he grabbed her arm.