by Rue Allyn
Jessamyn leaned weakly against Margery as they slowly covered the last steps, halting before the large portcullis blocking the salley port.
“Hallo, the guard,” Margery called. “Open the gate for Lady Jessamyn Du Grace.”
No one answered. Nor was anyone in sight.
Unable to believe the keep’s entry would be left unguarded, Jessamyn studied the structure, looking for a way in or, at the least, shelter. Solid iron formed a gate of cross bars, save where hinges and a lock marked the shape of a man-sized exit. Set back behind the gate, two large wooden doors—one slightly askew and sagging—filled the opening of the salley port and closed off any view of the interior. But within the leftmost oaken barrier she spied the outline of a smaller door. Like the door of bars within the portcullis, it was a convenient portal for individuals on foot. No other entry was visible in the walls of the large round towers that flanked the gate on either side. Narrow openings sat high in those towers, and a crenellated battlement above the gate linked the two structures. Guards should be watching from the openings as well as the battlement.
“I am overset.” Jessamyn trembled visibly against her maid’s hold. “Go down to the village. Beseech bread and shelter. Bring the bread back, for I fear I shall die without sustena—” She allowed herself to crumple to the ground. In the process her surcoat and bliaut twisted up around her knees, and the wind whipped her hair into her face. She had no concern for the mud and damp that soaked her clothing and hair. Jessamyn could not be more wet than she already was. She only regretted the trouble her stratagem would cause Margery in cleaning the garments.
“My lady!” screeched the maid. She knelt beside her mistress.
Jessamyn cracked an eye open. “Pretend you think I’m dying,” she whispered. “And remember, be disdainful to all you meet.”
“Noooo!” Margery wailed. “Do not die, Lady Jessamyn.”
Rain dripped from the servant’s face onto Jess’s cheeks.
“Oh dear, oh heaven. Mary, Mother of God, save my lady’s life.”
Around Jessamyn, the maid’s hands fluttered as if she did not know what to do.
A loud creaking moaned from the direction of the keep. Jessamyn smiled to herself at the proof the guards had been watching. Had they not, it would have been much longer before the portcullis was raised.
Short moments later, Margery was pushed aside. A gossamer touch stroked the sodden hair back from Jess’s face. A warm hand smoothed her skirts down to her feet. Through slitted lashes Jessamyn saw kneeling beside her two long, muscular legs covered in snug breeches. She dared not raise her gaze higher to get a better look at the man. She felt herself lifted from the ground and did her best not to stiffen when she was clutched to a hard, hot, wool-covered surface. An even drumming beneath her ear told her the surface must be the man’s chest. She’d never been this close to any man. She suppressed a shiver. She was no lightweight. The man must be very strong to carry a woman of her stature so easily.
“Stop,” Margery protested. “Baron, unhand Lady Du Grace. Have you not shown enough disrespect to her this day?”
The man halted.
Jess’s head spun as he turned quickly. This man was the fatheaded churl? How could such an ill-mannered churl have such a gentle touch and smell so pleasantly of smoke, gorse, and leather?
“Would you have me drop your lady on the stones? Faione, woman, cease screeching lest I show you my wrath.” The deep voice vibrated from his chest into Jess’s frame. She could not restrain her body’s shaking but steadfastly refused to believe she feared his threats and anything he might do—or not do—to her person. Cold and damp alone were the source of her trembling.
“Wh … where are you taking her?” Tension rang in Margery’s voice, though she’d modified the volume somewhat.
Pride in her maid’s courage steadied Jess. Dear, loyal Margery would face down any threat. Jessamyn would do the same were the situations reversed.
“I’m done wasting time. Follow me if you wish.” He spun back toward the keep and moved forward at a pace so rapid a breeze fanned Jess’s cheek.
Her head whirled, and she clutched at the wool beneath her fingers.
The portcullis moaned shut behind them. Very soon she heard the slap of boots against rushes, and the smoke of pitch-topped torches assaulted her. Then his steps slowed and descended a short flight of stairs. A crowd of voices ceased abruptly as the man stopped. The silence was deafening. The smells of unwashed bodies, warm bread, and some sort of stew told her they were in the central hall where the evening meal progressed. Beside her, Margery continued to protest.
“Where are you taking Lady Du Grace? This is an outrage; release her this instant.”
“Neilina!” bellowed the baron, his voice booming against Jess’s ears.
“Aye!” The replying shout was distant but still audible.
“See to this caterwauling woman and send dry raiment to my chamber for Lady Du Grace.”
“Naaay. I must not leave Lady Jessamyn.” Margery’s objection faded in the distance as he strode rapidly away.
Jessamyn sucked in a scandalized breath. He was taking her to his chamber. Alone!
She felt his stride adjust to climb stairs.
She had to do something before her virtue was stolen and all her plotting to escape went for naught. If she had to lose her maidenhead, it would not be to just any loutish Scot and definitely not without the sanctity of the marriage bed.
“Unhand me.” She pushed against the massive chest and writhed in the arms cradling her body.
He gathered her closer, mashing her cheek against him.
For an instant, his blazing gray eyes held her spellbound as tightly as his strength gripped her body. Unable to look away, she shivered, but not with cold. The odor of damp wool and man nearly drowned her. All sound faded away save her own harsh breathing. This man could break a woman’s heart.
“Ho, ho!” His chuckle was impossible to miss. “So you are no dying, are you then? Well liars and deceivers must suffer the consequences of their actions.”
She refused to be intimidated. She forced her head away from him. “Is rudeness the customary greeting for your guests, Baron MacKai? I’ve a mind to refuse to wed you. Then King Edward will decline to pay you rent for docking his ships in your excuse for a harbor.
“You think you could resist me?” More chuckles shook his chest.
“’Twould be a small matter to deny an oaf such as you.”
Flames of some inner fire shone in his unyielding stare. She was unfamiliar with fear, but what else twisted in her belly and skittered just beneath her skin? She wanted to deny his effect on her but in all honesty could not.
“I could make you beg.” He warned, like some big cat poised to pounce.
“Never.” She could be honest with herself about her body’s betrayal, but she’d plenty of reason not to give the churl any hint of her weakness.
His forward motion halted, his head dipped then stopped a finger’s width from her face. His gaze bored into hers.
Her breath froze at the frenzy of emotions she saw there; anger, threat, resentment, and something she could not identify. She refused to care. Her fingers itched to slap him, and she raised her hand.
“I wouldna, if I were you.” He anchored her hand beneath a brawny arm and started walking again.
“You’ll regret insulting me.”
His brows rose. “We’ll see about that. For now, I need you safely stowed away.”
“Stowed away!” He made her sound like bothersome chattel, useful for only one purpose. She squirmed and finally released her outer hand from his hold to beat her fist against his chest. “Oaf! You will treat me with the courtesy and respect due a lord’s daughter.”
He made no response other than to quicken his pace.
She hit him harder. “You and your entire cowardly clan will rue this day.”
He stopped abruptly and shifted his grip. Her feet fell downward but found no purchase
on solid ground. She hung suspended from the large hands thrust under her armpits. The heels of those palms pressed against her breasts, and heat flooded her body at the intimate touch.
“You, you … ” He and every other MacKai disgusted her beyond words. Raising her head to berate him further, she stilled. Once more, the gleam in those stony eyes compelled her attention. The downward tip at the outer corner of his lids gave him a slumberous appearance belied by glints of indecipherable emotion. Those deceptive lids narrowed. She longed to hide but could not look away.
“Listen to me.”
His quiet words slid over her skin, causing a rise of goose bumps.
“You are naught but a troublesome woman. You have no power or authority here, so if you value your overly pampered English hide, you’ll no insult clan MacKai. Do you understand?”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Excellent.”
He tossed her over his shoulder, anchored her legs against him with an arm, and continued walking.
“How dare … ”
One of those huge palms smacked her rump.
“Oooo! I’ll make you regret you ever touched me.”
A second smack was followed by an order for silence.
Since her backside began to throb, Jessamyn subsided in favor of plotting retribution. She’d start with boiling in oil followed by a sound beating, and end with banishment.
She was deciding whether or not to add tar and feathers when she heard the creak of leather hinges. They crossed a doorway, and she went flying through the air to land in a heap, face down on a feather bed.
“Dry clothing will be brought. Dinna imagine I care for your comfort. I simply canna be bothered to find another heiress if you catch an ague and die.”
She struggled to right herself, sputtering and pulling hair from her face. The brute deserved the sharp side of her tongue. She gathered breath as she turned to speak, just to see the coward disappear and the door bang shut behind him.
He was not getting away that easily. She leapt from the bed, ran for the door, and nearly jerked her arms from her shoulders when the wooden barrier refused to budge at her angry pull.
Dumbfounded, she could only stare.
He’d barred the door? Boiling oil and banishment are too good for him. I must see him drawn and quartered.
CHAPTER TWO
Ignoring the shouted curses and pounding behind him, Raeb pressed his fingers against his eyes as he tried to slow his racing heartbeat and the throbbing in his loins.
Heaven help him! The reports of Jessamyn Du Grace’s beauty had been wrong. If anything, the praise was totally inadequate. Nothing he had heard described her height or the towering passion contained within her willowy form.
He was in serious trouble. While conversing with Dougal, captain of his guard, about the plan to deceive Edward I, Raeb had seen her fall to the ground but had not been fooled by her abrupt change from lady in charge to weakling in need of support. He had gone to confront her with her deception, but the moment he had gazed on her face the compulsion to touch her overset all logic.
Impulsively, he had clutched her to his chest like a child with a treasured gift, afraid that someone might steal it away. Her softness had registered first, then her lavender, mint, and woman scent assaulted him. His body had hardened in an instant. He had prayed she would speak, so he could discover if her voice was as fair as her face or if it would squawk and screech. If she were a Scot, she would be a perfect mate. That was the thought that had caused him to think with his brains and lock her away. Now, he needed two moments to gain control of himself before rejoining his folk below. His body might lust after Jessamyn Du Grace, but neither he nor his clan could afford to have his slat guide his actions.
He was still ensnared in fantasies of golden hair, green eyes—no blue, the reports had got that wrong too—and a tall, slender form, when running footsteps approached. Dougal came into view and skittered to a halt in front of Raeb.
’Twas beyond rude to treat her like a prisoner, but he must make certain the household understood the consequences of defying his orders to shun her. Once assured of their cooperation, he’d release her.
“Baron, blood’s about to be shed in the bailey.”
He lurched into motion and pressed his lips together against the urge to curse. He’d missed his supper while dealing with his betrothed, and he was hungry—hungry for a lot more than food. The last thing he wanted to do was intervene between quarrelsome warriors. “St. Finan’s ghost, who is it this time? Linden and MacEth? I swear if they’ll no settle their differences, I’ll bash both their heads.”
Dougal spun on his heel and raced down the stairs beside his baron. “Nae, those two are still at odds, but tonight ’tis five of your men about to damage Rhuad MacFearann.”
“I may wish MacFearann to the devil, but he’s done naught to offend here and will be given the hospitality any stranger deserves until he proves he shares his father’s reputation.” Raeb’s brows clashed, and guilt rumbled like unspent wind in his gut. He’d given no hospitality to Jessamyn Du Grace, and she was the next best thing to a stranger. Aye, but she was English. God reserved a special place in hell for the English, who were thereby undeserving of the least courtesy. Yet he’d not been cruel. He’d rescued her and that screeching busybody of a maid from the rain. He’d placed Lady Jessamyn in the best chamber, thus forcing himself to sleep in the barracks with the guards. Despite great provocation, he’d not hurt her, and would be sending her back to her father untouched. That was more than hospitable enough for someone already cursed.
“The trouble blew up quickly when one of our men took exception to how MacFearann looked at your sister.”
Dread swarmed into his mind. “Which one?”
“Neilina.”
Pity he and his visitor had both been so occupied that their private conversations had not taken place. With more information, Raeb might have been able to prevent this kind of trouble.
Raeb and Dougal came to a halt in the bailey. Before them five MacKai clansmen, swords and knives drawn, surrounded Rhuad MacFearann.
“C’mon, cowards. You outnumber me and no one of you has the claches to strike the first blow,” Rhuad snarled.
Ugly murmurs spread through the crowd of onlookers.
With a growl the largest MacKai lunged and swung for MacFearann’s neck.
Rhuad sidestepped neatly.
The big MacKai’s momentum carried him forward. He scrabbled to maintain his balance. But MacFearann’s foot on his opponent’s backside sent the fellow to the ground, skidding across the cobbles. The watchers scattered to avoid being bowled over like ten pins. The clansman only stopped moving when his head smacked into the courtyard wall.
While Rhuad was disposing of his first attacker, two others leapt on him from behind.
A roar of outrage went up from the crowd at the cowardly attack.
MacFearann went down under the weight of the two men and a melee of fists and blades ensued.
“Stop,” Raeb roared.
Between the shouts of the crowd and the grunting insults hurled by the fighting men, no one heard the order.
“Dougal, take two men and get buckets of water. We’ll have these dogs separated in a trice.”
Dougal sped away.
Rhuad struggled to his feet. One hand on the neck of each opponent, he knocked their heads together.
The last two MacKais circled close, taking jabs at MacFearann but never coming near enough to get in a killing blow nor for him to strike solidly at them. Blood ran from numerous gashes all over the man’s body. His balance was unsteady, but still he growled, daring his attackers to make an end.
The man facing MacFearann raised his blade to slash. The one behind pulled back to stab.
“Naaae,” keened over the noise of the fight and the crowd. A pathway formed, severing the circle of onlookers. A screaming fury hurtled into the cleared area and stopped directly between the fighters.
“N
eilina, nae!”
But Raeb’s shout came too late.
She plastered her body to MacFearann’s, shielding him in the only way an unarmed woman could.
The slashing blade sliced the side of her bliaut as MacFearann swiveled to move her out of striking range. A red line welled where the cloth gapped.
Rhuad’s movement caused the second stabbing blade to miss its mark. Still, the point scored his thigh.
Water flung from the buckets Raeb had ordered, drenched everyone in the fighting field.
The crowd leapt back. Dougal ordered the MacKai men away from MacFearann.
Raeb pushed his way through, but by the time he reached the center, Rhuad held a fainting Neilina against him with one arm and threatened all comers with the blade in his opposite hand. Battle light still hazed the man’s eyes.
“She needs aid, Rhuad, as do you.” Raeb kept his voice level. The last thing he wished was to set off a blood-fueled rage.
Blinking rapidly, MacFearann fixed a stare on Raeb. “You’d have me trust you when you set your men to attack a guest? ’Tis nae the type of hospitality offered elsewhere in the Highlands, even to a MacFearann.”
Blood covered the man’s leg, and he staggered. His blade never wavered, and his hold on Neilina tightened.
“You should know better than to think I issued such an order. Now give over my sister and lower your sword, else I’ll have no choice but to kill you myself.” Raeb let his hand hover above the hilt of his sheathed sword, so MacFearann would know the truth of the threat.
Rhuad bared his teeth. “What assurance have I that you’ll no kill me once I release her?”
As if answering his call, Neilina stirred in his grasp and came alert. “Set me down, you godless dolt.”
MacFearann smiled. “’Tis glad I am you’ve recovered, beag duais mo.”
The crowd laughed, for Raeb’s sister was far from little.
She clouted Rhuad on his ear and regained her feet. Arms akimbo, she stuck out her chin and snarled. “I am no a small prize for any man. Even were I such, I’d nae be yours.”
“Mo cridhe, have pity,” MacFearann pleaded. He turned his sword hilt toward Raeb. “You may be anything you wish if you will just please tell your brother he’s no reason to kill me, for ’tis an honest woman I’d make of you.”