Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  She shook out her green dress and brushed it before pulling it on. When her hand slipped through the sleeve, tiny purple balls spilled out onto the floor.

  Heather.

  She stared at it, waiting to see if the mere sight of it might whisk her back into the tormenting dream. She almost wished… She wished she could see his face again, just one more time, to see if she remembered it correctly. That was all.

  A knuckle rapped three times against her door. “My lady? Are ye awake? Are ye dressed?”

  It was the innkeeper’s wife. But she’d told the woman she would be sleeping for the better part of the day. Something must have been wrong if she came to wake her up. Perhaps her husband wanted to rent the room to someone else for the night, like he’d warned. Scots would take precedence, he’d said.

  “Just a moment,” Bridget called through the wood, then took a moment to right the dress. She donned her cloak and made certain all her things were in her satchel just in case they asked her to leave. With a patient smile at the ready, she opened the door. But it wasn’t the woman who stood in the opening, it was the figure from those fields of heather. Though he wore a clean white shirt, he was still draped from shoulder to knee in that haunting black and gray tartan. She hadn’t noticed before that the small, pinkish line that separated the squares were the same color as the little purple blossoms that had fallen from her sleeve.

  Bridget’s legs might have failed her if she hadn’t been holding onto both the door and the wall.

  “Lady Bridget.” Rory Macpherson inclined his head, then glanced meaningfully at the round woman watching just behind him.

  Bridget forced herself to breathe. “Mr. Macpherson. I… I am surprised to see you here.”

  “Are ye now? And why would that be? Surely ye didn’t expect me to stop protecting ye just because my cousin’s boy got a bump on his head.”

  She swallowed hard, trying to swallow the news as well. Jamie is not his son, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t married.

  She schooled her features. “And your wife?”

  He gave her a stern look. “I have no wife. And ye ken full well what happened to my fiancée.”

  She remembered Tilda. “Oh, of course. Forgive me. I should have remembered.”

  The woman pushed around Rory’s arm and into the room. “So then, ye ken this mon?”

  If Bridget would have wanted to make trouble for the man who haunted her dreams, she should have thought a bit faster than she had. But it was too late for pretending.

  “Yes. I know him. He was my…escort, but we were separated.”

  Rory snorted, but it wasn’t enough to make the woman question Bridget’s explanation.

  “Would ye like me ta stay wi’ ye, while the mon’s in yer room?”

  “No need, goodwife,” Rory told her. “Lady Bridget’s family, and mine, have been close for generations. She’s like a sister to me, though she’s an English sister.” He and the woman nodded at each other, as if sharing the same contempt for all English things, and sharing the notion that Bridget was too ignorant to recognize it insult.

  That insult, however, served to remind her why the man would never have a kind feeling for her, no matter what she may feel for him.

  “Like a sister, ye say? Weel, that’s fine then, I suppose. Far be it from me to worry over an Englishwoman’s reputation…” The woman’s speech trailed off behind the closing of the door.

  With their only witness gone, Bridget took a step back. Then another.

  Rory turned from the door and she gasped when she noticed the ring of bloody marks on his forearm that had to have come from the teeth of a dog.

  He frowned at her, then followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. Compliments of King Robert the Bruce.”

  She shook her head and covered her mouth. “I am sorry.”

  He sighed and took a cautious step closer, his wound forgotten. “I believe ye are.”

  She retreated again. “But you’re going to make me sorrier, aren’t you?”

  “The suggestion has merit.” He stalked closer still, his expression unreadable.

  She suddenly decided to stand her ground. “Well, you cannot. You promised to see me safely to Edinburgh.”

  “And ye’ll go? Willingly? Now?”

  “I’ve paid for the room until tomorrow. Perhaps we can take turns getting some sleep. Leave in the morning?”

  He laughed and pointed to the floor. “I stay in here and sleep for a while? And ye’ll sit around drinking with the lads downstairs, content as ye please, until it’s yer turn for a wee nap? Is that it?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “You make it sound—”

  “Like I’d be a right fool to trust ye? Oh, aye.” He moved right up against her. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.

  “I’m sorry about the dog.”

  “Ye said that.”

  “I mean to say, I’m sorry I ran off again.”

  “Oh, sure ye are.”

  “I am. Although, coming here, alone, helped me to realize some things I might not have thought of otherwise.”

  He crooked a finger under her chin and forced her to look up from his chest. His lips were so close. Just a few shades darker than his sun-bronzed face…

  “Bridget Kennison,” he said quietly, “what the bloody hell are ye thinkin’?”

  He’d noticed her staring at his lips. It was too late.

  “I was thinking…” She realized she had nothing at all to lose by confessing a few things. It might work in her favor, earn a bit of trust. “I was thinking I should have been more grateful for your protection.”

  “And?”

  “And perhaps we should have brought our own escort through Scotland and not bothered the Grahams, or you.”

  “And?”

  “And perhaps…” She had to be careful, not to tell him too much. She needed a trustworthy escort. If she revealed everything, he’d be the one running away. “Perhaps you’re an honorable man, even though…”

  “Even though?” He straightened a bit.

  “Even though you tricked me, kissed me, when you knew who I was, in the kitchens. Then you kissed me again, last night, only to steal my weapons.” Tears stung her eyes, the memory of his insult still fresh.

  Ye really shouldn’t be surprised. Ye’re English, for pity’s sake. Ye don’t truly believe I’d have kissed ye if I’d had a choice in the matter.

  He clasped the front of her cloak and pulled her closer, his gaze jumping from her wet eyes, to her mouth, to her eyes again. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips might have given her a pinch of satisfaction. But she knew—even if he was tempted to kiss her, he was also repulsed by the idea.

  His brow, so twisted, his eyes fierce as a falcon’s as he searched far into her skull for the answer to some question he’d not yet asked of her. His jaw was set, his teeth clenched as tight as his fist locked in the dark fabric so near her heart.

  “Never fear, Highlander.” Her voice had become little more than a whisper. “My mantle will protect you.”

  He stiffly shook his head. “Protect me from what?”

  “From sullying your hands on me.” She turned her shoulders and her cloak exploded from his grasp as if he’d thrown her backward, verifying her worst suspicions.

  She needed no more prodding; she flew toward the door, stooping only low enough to gather her bag, not missing a step. Not a word came from the room as she glided out the open doorway. A woman bearing water sloshed her bucket and body against the wall to clear Bridget a path. Without much maneuvering she made for the front door, which was opened just in time to keep her from plowing through the wood.

  Water welled in her eyes then escaped the corners as she whipped her head back and forth, searching for the lad who took her horse. She circled around to the rear and found stables.

  Surely no one would stop an Englishwoman hurrying back to her rightful side of the border. She’d send word to Edinburgh, letting Mallory and Vivianne know she wouldn’t be jo
ining them. They could find ship’s passage without her. And by the time they arrived on her doorstep to ask what had happened, she’d have a good story worked out. Any story but the truth…

  That she’d fallen in love with the man who had loathed her from the start.

  Her mind railed at the idea. If anyone else had treated her so poorly, she’d have abused his ears and happily walked away. Why not this time? He was a stubborn, prideful man with no eyes in his head if he couldn’t tell how much he’d wounded her. And he’d warned her from the start. She was a fool to be so upset by his rejection!

  She’d have plenty of time to ponder on the way back to England, but first she had to get far, far away from that inn, from the air he breathed, from taverns or stables the Highlander might stumble into at any moment. In truth, she feared one more cross look from Rory Macpherson might actually wrench her body in twain.

  A large stone propped open one of the stable doors. Darkness. The prickly smell of field hay stung the air. There! The boy! Her horse beyond.

  Escape!

  “You there,” she said kindly, but urgently. “My horse. I need him now.”

  A large man stepped from the stall and waved the boy away.

  “I need my horse, sir.” Bridget pointed as she walked toward her mount.

  He shook his head, then in Gaelic told her the horse was not hers.

  In Gaelic, she told him to go ask the boy while she got the saddle.

  He shook his head. His size should have intimidated her, and on any other day, it might have. But not that day. It was unwise for anyone in the county to argue with an Englishwoman bleeding freely from the heart.

  She set her bag down and slid her long sword from the end of it as she straightened.

  “Get out of my way…or die.” She lunged forward, giving the man no time to consider. It wasn’t that she wanted to take down Scotsmen as she retreated—and retreating was exactly what she was doing—she simply had to leave. If Macpherson decided to head for home instead of taking advantage of the rented room, he’d be coming for his horse which, at the moment, stood next to hers.

  The blade connected with wood, damn it, but the man disappeared on any account. She propped the sword against the wall and reached for her saddle. When she moved between the horses, the rump of Macpherson’s beast nearly bowled her over.

  “Just another bloody Highlander! Move your arse!” She pressed her saddle against the dark rump and shoved.

  Taking quick advantage of the space, she tossed her burden up and scurried around to the far side of her horse, for the moment out of reach of all Scottish beasts. Her hands flew as she secured the saddle and forced the bridle on her reluctant mount. While she walked the animal out the rear stable door, the scene in the bedchamber replayed in her mind.

  Her chest nearly caved with pain when she remembered the silence at her back as she’d fled. Too bad she was giving the blackheart exactly what he wanted most—the boon paid, his torture ended.

  She mounted, sword in hand. Not long now. In but a few moments the wind would be in her face. She’d ride as hard as her horse would last. How far must I ride before the pain will ease?

  Chapter Nineteen

  It stabbed her again, that pain. The inn wobbled before her, a white, unstable block of white, until hot tears escaped down her cheeks. Animals and people were a blur. She was invisible. Nothing. She cleared the corner of the inn and the breeze in her hair reached into her chest. Nothing there to impede it. It was a wonder that her horse felt her substantial enough to obey.

  Two large carts blocked the roadway. She started around them, but people filled the only opening between the building and a stand of trees. Smoothly, she turned toward the other entrance, amazed at how desperation so fluidly controlled her reactions. That path, too, was blocked, but only by people.

  “Move!” she bellowed and kicked her mount hard. With a running start, her horse could have jumped them. As it was, the beast lunged then reared as their impediments stood their ground. Was her horse suddenly invisible as well?

  She bellowed move in Gaelic. “Bogadh!”

  Heads whipped in her direction, but none moved.

  They were mad. Deaf and mad, but no matter. She turned once again toward the rear of the inn. She’d have to go through the woods, burn the bloody carts, or even the White Boar itself if she had too, but she was leaving.

  A lone man stood between the inn and an outbuilding, blocking her way to the rear with his outstretched arms.

  She winced and quickly looked away from the black and gray plaid. It was him. She would not look at him again! She couldn’t. It didn’t matter what he wanted, she could never survive the sound of his voice again. Harsh words would wound her further, a kind word would slay her. She was fleeing for her life.

  Her mount spun and complained. She urged it toward the stable, but that way was now barred by a closing circle of people, arms held wide, faces stern.

  Dear Lord, what had he told them? Did he fear she would spread tales, as Tilda’s family had done? Now that she’d pushed him too far, was he intent on revenge?

  She put the reins in her teeth so she could pull the dagger from her waist with her free hand. The horse turned in backward circles until a man grasped the bridle. She swung viciously; the leather fell from her mouth, the sword whooshed through the air past the man’s arm then up to come full circle. The point stopped a hair’s breadth from the man’s throat.

  “She won’t harm anyone.” MacPherson’s confidence mocked her, and her blade naturally receded when she pulled her arm close to protect her body from the pain within. “Bridget. Come.” His voice, softer then, was at her right elbow. His hand covered hers as he eased the hilt of the long sword from her grasp.

  She would have never surrendered it had it not been his bare hand, sliding over hers. Did his skin burn where they touched? Would he ask for soap?

  Again she kicked her horse, but the animal had nowhere to step, let alone run. She didn’t need the weapon, she needed escape. Why couldn’t he just let her go?

  She closed her eyes and turned toward him. “I’ll tell everyone the debt is paid and I’ll go straight to England, I swear it. I promise to never come back. You can forget I was ever here.” She forced her eyes open, willing him to believe her. “There are coins sewn into my cloak. You can take them…for payment…for all the trouble.”

  She shouldn’t have peeked so she wouldn’t have seen his brows slam together with fresh anger. She turned away, more frantic than ever. She’d have to save his pride, force him to take the cloak.

  She tugged at the ties. They’d become tangled when he’d grasped her before. Again, her mind raced to a solution. Raising the short blade, she slid it under one tie, but the horse shifted beneath her and the sharp weapon dragged across her neck, painting a slight stinging line in its wake. She dropped the blade and raised a hand to her throat.

  “I’ve got ‘er dagger, Laird!”

  “Good,” came his growl from beside her.

  Suddenly she was swept from the saddle and into Rory’s arms. With one hand against her neck she had to use the other to keep her balance. Fighting was not possible.

  Absently, she remembered her cloak had fallen from her after she’d cut the tie. Before she was carried under the eaves and into the inn, someone spread the mantle over her, still laden with its treasure. Rory carried her up the stairs. Her cut was forgotten and her body began to quake when he strode back into the chamber she’d just fled. It seemed like hours ago.

  He sat her on the bed then backed away, taking his warmth and flavor with him. He spoke with someone in the hallway, then closed the door.

  “Ye’re no’ to speak. Ye’ll listen for a mite.” He turned toward her and raised a brow.

  She nodded once. It was a lie. She wouldn’t listen to a word.

  He nodded back.

  After he said his piece, maybe he would let her go.

  “Ye’re no’ right in the head, lass. Indeed ye’re no’.”
He moved slowly toward the bed and sat next to her hip. “Ye believe I’ve kept my distance because I dislike ye and ye’ve got it all backward.”

  Backward? Not right in the head? He thought she was daft?

  He’d insulted her, but she wasn’t allowed to be angry about it. She insisted on going home and he concluded she wasn’t right in the head. If he’d just give her a moment to clean her neck, she might be able to argue with his reasoning, but it was difficult to pay attention to insults when she felt so sticky with blood from her cut.

  “Just a moment.” She raised her free hand.

  “No. Ye’ll listen without interruption until I’ve finished.”

  Oh, she was going to miss that brogue, except when he haunted her dreams, of course.

  He put his hands together and looked at the rafters, like he was praying for patience. Then he brought his attention back to her. “Ye say ye want to pay me for the trouble—”

  “If you’ll just allow me to—”

  “Nay! Hold yer tongue woman. I mean to clear up this misunderstandin’…”

  Stupid man. She pushed the cloak away from her neck and looked at her fingers. Dark red beads of blood hovered on their tips, then dripped onto her lap. Heaven help her, would she die of a simple cut?

  The warm, wet, heavy weight of fresh blood slid down her skin and pooled at the base of her neck. Immediately, she pressed her clean hand to the wound she could barely feel.

  She raised her bloody fingers to show Rory. He shook his head in confusion and reached for her hand. Their eyes met for only a heartbeat before he lifted his head and roared.

  “Nooo!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Rory jumped to his feet and tried to make sense of the chaos before him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the red drops on Bridget’s fingers. The woman was bleeding from the neck? But he'd not touched her there! She had to have harmed herself. Just as Matilda had done.

  The room shifted beneath his feet. The sunlight dimmed as if a belligerent cloud had moved over the inn to intentionally block the sun.