by L. L. Muir
It all seemed believable when she noticed how men turned away from her on their way to the breakfast tables, which had been moved outside so the hall could be thoroughly cleaned.
She eagerly slid onto the end of a bench to wait as Grets had instructed. She was starving, having slept through two meals the previous day. Marta soon brought a tray full of different foods and set it in front of her, then filled a glass with what looked like wine. Dried meats. Dense scones. A bowl of hazelnuts. Besides being pre-kilt, they were also pre-eggs-and-bacon. But sadly, it wasn’t early enough in history to be lacking in porridge.
No matter how hungry she was, she doubted she could get the stuff down.
She jumped when a long leg, covered in raw leather stuck itself over her bench and under the table. When a tall, striking blond with intense eyes dropped down beside her, she realized it was Flanders, the man she’d met in the near darkness of the hall the day before.
“I assume ye slept well, my lady?”
“Yeah.” She rubbed her temples. “Too bad you people don’t have Tylenol.”
He made a face. “You people, is it? What kind of people do ye mean?” He took a bowl from Marta and gave her a quick glance that might have been meant as a thank you. Then he reached for the little pots of food on her tray. He dumped some nuts onto his porridge, stuck a piece of meat in his mouth, then used both hands to crumble one of the scones on top of the rest.
She laughed. “Hungry people, I guess.”
He widened his eyes to show just how serious he was about his meal, and laughed. He dusted off his hands, took a bit of the dried meat, and set the rest of it on the table before he turned to look at her while he chewed.
She immediately worried about those icy blue eyes. “I don’t think you’re supposed to look at me like that.”
He scoffed. “I am the one man in this fort, other than Laird Stephan, who can typically do what he likes.”
“Oh?”
She looked up and found Marta insisting she take her bowl of porridge from the tray. It was a hint that she needed to eat, and since Marta seemed to be the only waitress assigned to her table, Phoebe decided she’d better try to choke some of it down. Who knew when she’d get another meal? So, she did what Flanders had done and tried to camouflage the texture, at least.
She took up the conversation again. “So what makes you so special?”
Flanders bobbed his eyebrows suggestively. “I happen to be James Duncan’s second in command. A protection and a curse, ye might say.”
“Why a curse?”
He swallowed a mouthful of the stuff, while Phoebe was just getting her courage up to taste it. “What man wants to be considered untouchable when there are pretty lasses about, eh?”
Phoebe glanced across the commons to the stable where horses were being prepared for their journey to Loch Rannoch, then her attention was drawn to the great hall where dust was currently spewing from its doors. She thought back to the day before, when she’d been naïve and headache-free, just before she’d been drugged.
She’d sat around on her butt, waiting for her personal knight in shining armor to swoop in and take her away…
She studied the crinkles at the sides of Flanders’ eyes that said, if given the slightest reason, he might throw his head back and laugh. And she wondered if, maybe, it had been too dark in that hall to notice that her soulmate had already come…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After a visit to the glorified outhouse, Phoebe walked with Grets to the stables. She suspected the woman was so eager to see Spa leave the fort, she wanted to make sure the pretty young thing got out the gates.
Stephan had officially announced that Phoebe Mac Jones and the girl were now Flanders’ responsibility and under his protection. She figured it was a medieval version of a contract. Everyone was a witness, though there was nothing to sign.
Grets assured her that no one would dare attack them on their journey, no matter what the temptation, no matter how valuable the cargo. So she started to believe Flanders was right, that he was untouchable, and that this reward that James Duncan had offered had to be huge.
Stephan’s wife patted her knee one last time. “Remember what I told ye. If the war chief doesn’t want ye, I believe Flanders will.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never marry some warmonger. And if Flanders is just like this James Duncan, he’s not the man for me either.”
Grets laughed. “Ye act as if ye have a choice in the matter.”
“Oh, I’ll get my way, all right, without getting my tongue cut out. I know you can’t understand why I won’t play along, but I promise to rebel quietly.”
The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. “And ye have yet to understand that all women are slaves, one way or another. The only difference is that some of us are good at pretending we’re not.”
They headed for the gates, making their way between buildings while people lined the route. Even with them leaving, men were careful not to do more than glance past them as they went.
Flanders led them, so her gaze naturally rested on his broad back. Even if he was the soulmate she’d been hoping to find, she just couldn’t imagine that, if given the choice, she wouldn’t run back to the future and leave him behind. She hadn’t felt any of the chemistry she’d been hoping for, and thus far, it didn’t seem like he’d be too brokenhearted if he never saw her again. After all, he was hoping she would marry his leader so he could split this epic reward they talked about.
No. She still hoped the Muirs would show up to take her away. And every minute she had time to think clearly, she sent an SOS signal home.
Laird Stephan stood above the murder holes in the gate and watched them draw near. He held up his hand and they all stopped. Flanders in the front. One of his brown-clothed guards to either side of her and Spa, and four of Stephan’s soldiers, in blue, bringing up the rear.
Earlier, the laird had acted like it was a great sacrifice to provide a horse for her. But she knew he would do whatever it took to protect the merchandise. And she was pretty sure he didn’t want her sharing a horse with Flanders and holding onto him for dear life.
Sadly, the only thing protecting her from the boney spine of the animal was a small thick blanket of itchy wool. And Pre-Saddle Days was a terrible time to learn how to ride a horse for the first time. And, thanks to her skirt, she had to ride sideways, and with nothing to hold onto but the reins, it was pretty much like sitting on a bench while someone holding both ends tried to rock her off.
She didn’t need any help falling on her face—she was pretty capable on her own. But she was given no alternative, so she was glad when her boney bench stopped rocking, if only for a minute.
Stephan grinned and tossed something down to Flanders the size of a loaf of bread. After Flanders caught it and freed his hands, the laird tossed a second one. She craned her neck to see that they were stones.
The blond shrugged his shoulders. “What are these for?”
“Give them to Duncan, for the lasses’ first meals. Tell him that if he starves them after that, he’ll be paying, and I’ll be naming the price.”
Rocks? That was the currency in the time of Robert the Bruce? It couldn’t be.
~ ~ ~
Flanders promised Phoebe they’d go slowly as soon as they were out of sight of the fort. He might be untouchable, but he didn’t seem in any hurry to tick off Laird Stephan, who was in a hurry to get his reward. The blond’s wariness of the other man was enough to convince her she was lucky to be watching the fort and its leader in her rearview mirror, so to speak.
The horse’s muscles rolled constantly beneath her, which then forced her to use every muscle to stay on. There was no way she could relax. And after a long, painful mile, her abdominals and glutes were in screaming knots.
“Please. Can we stop, please? I’ll even walk for a while. But this is baloney.”
Flanders repeated the world. “What is baloney?”
“Riding a
horse without a saddle, that’s what.”
Apparently, he’d been asking what the actual word meant, and they laughed when they both realized where their wires got crossed.
He helped her down. “Ye’re a rare woman, Phoebe Mac Jones,” he said, then let go of her and stepped back.
“Okay. Now it’s my turn. What does Mac mean?”
He was suddenly irritated, like he didn’t believe she couldn’t understand the language when she was speaking it just fine. “It is a word even common to the Welsh. It means son or daughter of. Phoebe, daughter of Jones.”
“Oh, right. I was…thinking of something else. Uh, spelled differently, but sounds the same.” She was so full of crap.
“Spelled differently? Ye don’t mean to say ye can read and write?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me that reading and writing will get me in trouble, too.”
His face fell, then he shook his head.
“Then what’s wrong?”
It was a second or two before he would look at her again. And when he did, those icy eyes could have pinned her to a wall. “Nothing is amiss, lass. I just wonder how my friend James will be able to resist ye now.” He forced a brief smile, then went to his horse to dig something out of a sack. He returned with some cloth. “Hide behind that tree and put on these hose. Then ye can lift yer skirts for the remainder of the ride. When we are close to Loch Rannoch, ye can remove them again and none will know.”
She did what he suggested. The hose made her feel human again. As soon as she emerged, however, the break was over. Flanders made a stirrup with his hands to help her back on her horse and politely looked away while she hiked up her skirt and threw one leg over the animal’s back. When she heard a gasp, she realized not everyone had been as considerate. And chances were, she’d just given someone a flash of her pink underwear.
She hadn’t ridden more than twenty feet when she realized there was more padding between herself and the horse, which made her infinitely more comfortable. She glanced around and realized Flanders was now riding bareback.
“Thank you,” she said, wanting him to know right away that she’d noticed, that she was grateful.
He turned and grinned. “I must protect what may soon be James’, aye?” He laughed and urged his horse to move faster.
She turned and found Spa glaring daggers at her. “I’m sorry. Have I done something?”
The girl’s mouth turned down at the corners, and her eyes watered. “If James Duncan chooses ye to be his wife, I will be returned to Laird Stephan—for good!”
“Okay. First of all, I’m not marrying anyone. And secondly, didn’t Grets say you’d been kidnapped? Don’t you want to go home?”
She shook her head. “My father couldn’t pay the ransom. I belong to the laird, now, unless the war chief wants me.”
Phoebe laughed and moved her horse closer to the girl’s so she could reach out and pat her arm. “Don’t you worry, Spa. We women must stick together. And if you want to marry this war chief, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure it happens. Okay?”
Spa lit up like she’d never entertained a hopeful thought in her life, and it just made Phoebe more determined. Whatever she had to do—trip, fall, spill, break—she would make sure James Duncan didn’t want anything to do with Phoebe Mac Jones. And she’d make sure he only had eyes for Spa. Maybe, with considerate Flanders’ help, they could give the war chief exactly what he wanted, even if he didn’t yet know what that was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Another mile passed before one of Flanders’ men, the one called Turk, rode up next to her and asked how she was doing. She told him it would be all right to pick up the speed a little, even though she worried a hard run might spank her to death. But after Flanders had given up his comfort, the least she could do was make the trip shorter for him.
“How much farther?” she finally asked to the company at large. Flanders dropped back to ride beside her. “Not long. Before nightfall.”
Nightfall. They’d been riding all day, and it would be at least two hours before it got dark. There was no way she would last, so she asked for another break. This time, she ducked into the shrubbery to relieve her bladder and realized she’d already come to appreciate the luxury of an outhouse.
Lorraine! Loretta! I’m ready when you are!
To give everyone a chance to stretch, the entire party walked for a ways. Phoebe asked the blond to walk with her and Spa so he could tell them more about James Duncan.
“My laird is a fair man,” he said, “so ye need not worry on that account. Not at all like Laird Stephan. Ye’ll be treated kindly beneath his roof, but none are allowed to sit about, no matter how important they may be to the man. He’s already finished one stone tower and is determined to complete the second before the close of next year. All hands are needed, as are the stones.”
That explained the exchange of rocks for meals…
“What is he like, you know, personally?”
“Personally.”
“Yes, you know. What kind of woman is he looking for? Maybe we’ll know right away whether we’re wasting his time.” She shared a sly look with Spa, who also listened closely.
“Contrary to what Stephan believes, James is not the sort of man who will marry a woman simply because she is beautiful. In the past year, many a lovely lass has been paraded beneath his nose, ye ken? If James could be swayed by a remarkable looking lass, either of ye could be that lass. But it is not the case.”
“Spa,” Phoebe said, “I believe that might have been a compliment.”
“Auch, sure it was. Neither of ye should be left to wander about and tempt other men. And yer husbands will need to be watchful as well.” The back of his hand brushed against Phoebe’s, but she couldn’t say it was on purpose because he acted like he hadn’t noticed. “They’ll need to keep ye close,” he looked down into her eyes for a few steps, then looked ahead. “Keep ye to himself, as it were.” When his hand brushed hers a second time, she knew it was no mistake, and their fingers caught and held—until someone behind them cleared his throat.
Flanders stopped walking and cleared his throat too. “I believe we should ride now.” He moved to Spa’s side and lifted her onto her horse, then came around Phoebe’s animal to do the same.
Phoebe turned to stare down the men behind them first, and she kept on staring until they all gave up and turned their backs. But Flanders wasn’t offering a stirrup. He put his hands on her waist, pulled her close for a quick peck on the lips, then swung her up into the air. She yanked up her skirt just in time to save it from splitting and grabbed the horse’s mane to get her balance. A minute later, they were all mounted and setting off toward the orange setting sun.
Phoebe relived that kiss two dozen times before Flanders slowed to speak with one of his men. After a little shift of positions, he ended up riding beside her with Turk and Niven riding ahead, on either side of Spa.
They had ridden only a short way before he spoke.
“I wish to know what it is ye want, Phoebe Jones. What would make ye happy?”
She explained Spa’s circumstances and that she’d promised to try and push James Duncan in the girl’s direction.
“And what for ye, what would ye wish?”
What would make her happy at that moment would be if his men could get lost and he could kiss her again. How was she supposed to test their chemistry with just a peck? But she didn’t think saying any of that out loud would be helpful.
“I would be really happy if I found a man who could let me speak my mind…” She ignored it when he made a choking noise. “At least in private.”
He shrugged. “Well, then. Perhaps ye’d be happy with James, after all. In private. But if not, perhaps I might pool together enough compensation for Laird Stephan’s demand for half.”
“As long as that’s all he’d get.”
“Auch, aye.” He reached over and slid one of her horse’s reins out of her hand and held onto it after he str
aightened. As he ran it through his fingers, she felt like he was stroking her hand. “I’ll think on it.”
She laughed lightly. “You didn’t think that was a proposal?”
“Proposal?” His eyes widened. “Proposing marriage, do ye mean?”
“Yeah.”
He laughed and shook his head. “If I decide to take ye to wife, Phoebe, I’ll take ye to wife. Ye can take all the time ye like warming to the idea.”
“Right. I suppose you’ll just knock me out with your club and drag me back to your cave by my hair.”
“Ye’re just brim full of helpful suggestions. Thank ye. I’ll keep it in mind. But be warned, woman. If ye are yet unwed at the end of a sennight, Laird Stephan will demand ye’re returned to him. Truth be told, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes along in a day or two to push one of ye into James Duncan’s arms. And failing that…
“Take ye into his own.”
~ ~ ~
They rode in silence for an hour, but no one shifted positions. Flanders got more stoic the darker it got. His frown deepened, and eventually his head jerked back and forth like he was listening for something.
Phoebe couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong?”
He pressed a finger against his lips. “Stay alert, lass. And if ye need to defend yerself…” He slyly slipped one hand under his other and offered her the handle of a small knife, which she took with a suddenly shaking hand.
Hoping things weren’t nearly as dire as he made it sound, she tried to joke. “Just in case a knee to the groin doesn’t do the trick, right?”
His head jerked around in surprise and he looked at her like she was crazy. Then he broke into a smile. “Aye, lass. Just in case.”
A man shouted from high up in the trees to the left. Then someone repeated it further down the road. Turk bellowed the same phrase and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Unfortunately, that disrupted the delicate balance she’d achieved in the center of the horse’s back, and she made an inelegant noise as she slipped down between the two animals, backside first.