by Amy Jarecki
Isaac stared at the long faces of his remaining men. After they’d crossed into Scotland, he’d sent groups of five all along the eastern lowlands. If they’d caught the marauders on the border, he would have been able to cut them down without creating too much of a stir. But now they were a few miles outside Melrose. He’d missed his opportunity to end this swiftly.
He’d nearly had them in his grasp at the old stable. He could have killed the men in his company. Not a single soldier could fire a straight arrow. He kicked a rock and watched it tumble down the crag. If they’d injured even one of the bastards, he could have returned to Alnwick with his pride intact.
Now the only thing he could do to protect his wages was travel into bloody Scotland in the dead of winter, trailing a phantom. He walked to the western slope and stopped. Only one horse descended there. Meg had doubled with a big Scot when they’d fled the burning barn. Hmm. Perhaps all isn’t lost.
He glanced at his second in command. “Split up. Follow each pair of tracks and report back to Alnwick. We’re too far past the border to fight them now. Find out who the bastards are and head for home.”
“You mean we’re just going to let them go, sir?”
“No. We’ll be smart about it—hit them when the time is right, and in a way to avoid breaking the truce.”
The soldier scratched his head. “All right. We’ll see you back at Alnwick, then.”
Isaac mounted his horse and followed the lone set of prints, praying his gut was right.
The sun had set by the time they crossed the River Tweed and rode into Peebles. Duncan tried to keep Lady Meg warm between his arms, yet her delicate frame still shivered. “We’ll find an inn and you can warm yourself by the hearth.”
“I’m so cold, I cannot imagine ever being warm again.”
He dipped his head until his nose skimmed her tresses and inhaled. Meg’s scent was as intoxicating as a cup of fine whisky. “I ken, lass, but we couldn’t ride into town with you wearing a monk’s vestments. We’d be spotted for certain.” He’d made her remove the woolen robe in the forest, and then he had doused it in the river. After it was soaked through, they stood on the shore and watched the habit disappear under the icy torrent.
“It would have been nice if we’d had something to replace it with first. I swear, men think nothing of freezing a lass to the bone. Lord Percy locked me in a chilly chamber, and now you expect me to ride through the snow without so much as a cloak. ’Tis as if you both would like to see me meet my end.”
Duncan clenched his teeth and fought back his ire. He didn’t appreciate being compared to a murdering English bastard. The horse clambered over the bridge, crossing the River Tweed. “Enough. You’ll be toasty warm in no time.”
Peebles was a typical Lowland village, with whitewashed stone cottages and buildings. Duncan stopped the horse on the edge of town and looked to his right. A short distance from the main road stood a two-story building with a shingle out front that read, BIGGIESKNOWE INN.
He pointed. “Looks like we’re in luck, lassie.”
Meg followed his finger. “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”
He led the gelding to the stable around back. After he hopped down, he held up his hands and grasped her waist. “M’lady.”
He didn’t miss the disquiet reflected in her gaze, but she said nothing and placed her fine-boned hands on his shoulders. “You have a firm grip.”
“Am I hurting you?” With the momentum of the lift, he held her against his body and tried to ease his fingers.
Her breath caught.
Level with his face, he stared directly into her eyes. He parted his lips and his tongue grew dry. Then he focused on her ruby-red mouth. He’d never seen lips draw into a taut cupid’s bow as hers did—so perfectly shaped, they begged to be kissed. He tilted his head to the side. She closed her eyes and pursed those delightful lips, her breasts still flush against his chest. Duncan’s tongue shot to the corner of his mouth. If he kissed Lady Meg now, he might not be able to restrain himself once they found a room. With a muffled groan, he slowly lowered her to the ground.
She looked up at him and blinked rapidly, then fanned her face. “Perhaps in the future I should dismount on my own.”
Duncan turned toward the horse and loosened its girth, needing a distraction to allay his inappropriate urges. “Perhaps I shall find you a mount on the morrow.”
After paying the groom to care for his horse, Duncan pressed his hand in the small of Lady Meg’s back. “Pull your veil over your tresses and let me do the talking.”
She gaped at him. “You do not believe me capable of speaking for myself?”
“’Tisn’t that at all—but we’ve a mob of angry Englishmen scouring the countryside looking for a maiden with a mane of fiery red hair. We cannot let on who we are. For tonight, you shall be Mrs. Armstrong.”
She tugged the blue silk tight over her spiral curls. “Mrs.? Isn’t that a sacrilege?”
Duncan hurried her along. “Not when you’re running from the devil.”
“I knew you didn’t like my hair.”
Ignoring her ludicrous remark, he opened the door to a rush of warm air accompanied by noisy barroom banter. “Remember what I said. I’ll do the talking.”
Meg rolled her eyes and stepped inside with a huff.
A buxom woman strode toward them holding a pint of ale in one hand, a pitcher in the other. “Look what blew in with the north wind.” At least she didn’t say south.
“Mr. Armstrong, here.” Duncan wrapped an arm around Meg’s shivering shoulder. “My wife and I need a room for the night.”
“What are you doing taking this lovely little creature out in weather like this?” The matron studied Meg, a concerned pinch to her brows. “With not even a cloak—the poor lassie is blue.”
Meg pursed her lips and gave him a sideways glare.
The woman set the ale on a nearby table. “Come with me. We’ll set you to rights.” She tugged Meg from Duncan’s grasp and marched up the stairs.
“Och, where’s me pint?” hollered a voice from the pub.
“You’ll have it soon enough,” the matron yelled over her shoulder. “Bloody tinker’s already in his cups.”
Duncan followed, none too appreciative of the matron’s vulgar language in Lady Meg’s presence. He’d been consciously trying to curb his tongue, and especially did not appreciate hearing “bloody” coming from an innkeeper’s wife.
At the top of the stairs, the woman led them down the hall and slid a key into a door at the end. “Fortunately, we have just the room.” She beamed and pushed open the door. “If this meets with your approval, I’ll have the lad come up and light the fire.”
Duncan stepped inside and gave the modest chamber a cursory glance. “This will be fine.”
“Two shillings for the night, plus a shilling if you want your meals.”
Duncan fished in the leather purse that hung from his belt. “You drive a hard bargain.”
She held out her hand. “An innkeeper’s got to live.”
The three coins clinked as he dropped them into her palm. “There’ll be an added three pennies if you bring our meals up.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched. “Newlyweds, aye?”
Meg clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed.
“Aye.” Duncan grasped the innkeeper’s elbow. “We’d be much obliged if you’d send up the lad with an armful of wood and his flint forthwith.”
Her fingers closed around the coins. “Straight away, Mr. Armstrong. And I’ve got a nice lamb pottage to warm your insides as well.”
“Ever so kind, matron.” Duncan held the door. “A hot meal is exactly what we need.”
He grinned at Meg. Her cheeks flushed red, and she looked as if she could blow steam from the top of her head. If only he could pull the feisty woman into his arms and smother her with kisses—give her a sampling of what it would be like to be newlyweds.
As soon as the door closed, Meg folded her
arms. “Only one room?” She gestured toward the narrow bed shoved against the wall. “Exactly where do you intend to sleep?”
Duncan tapped the threadbare rug with his toe. “I can make do with the floor.”
“In this chamber? Pray tell, where I will be sleeping?”
“You slept beside me last eve and didn’t complain overmuch.”
Meg wrapped her arms around her middle. Share a room with Duncan when there were other people around—when she’d all but swooned in his arms when she’d dismounted this eve? “But that was in a stable,” she objected. “With no other alternative.”
“I do not see much choice here, either. Would you prefer to be in a stable?”
“You, sir, are exasperating.” She shook her finger at the door. “You could have at least asked the woman if she had two rooms.”
“How would that look?” He spread his palms to his sides, his eyes growing dark as a stormy sky. “We are supposed to be married.”
Meg cradled her head in her hands. “Och, what will my brother think to know I’m staying in an inn with a man? Moreover, I’ll never be admitted as a novice.”
“I’ll not tell anyone.” He shrugged like a big oaf. “Your virtue’s safe with me, m’lady.”
Meg wrung her hands. She’d been “safe” with him for two days now. No, he hadn’t done anything to compromise her virtue, but he’d alluded to it enough. “This isn’t right.”
“Dammit, woman.” Duncan plodded to the door and grasped the latch. “I’ve tried to hold my tongue, but you have the most annoying way of pulling out the ogre in me.”
Meg clutched her fists to her chest and took a step back. His brows angled down over his eyes, like he was about to hit something . . . or her. “I merely wanted to point out the impropriety of”—she gestured with her arms, encompassing the miniscule room—“this.”
“Do you not think I ken? If it were not for the English spies fanning out across the borderlands, I’d have delivered you back to your brother by now and you’d never have the displeasure of laying eyes on me again.”
“I don’t—”
Duncan sliced a hand though the air to silence her, then opened the door. “Stay here. I’m off to find another horse and something to keep us from freezing to death before we reach Kilchurn.” He held up his palm. “I repeat, do not leave this chamber. Keep the door locked. Only open it for me.” He started out.
“What about the lad with the flint?”
Duncan stopped. “Aye, you can open it for the lad if his voice hasn’t yet changed.”
Meg stepped toward him, shoving her fists upon her hips. “And the matron with our supper?”
“Och, I’ll be back afore she brings the food.” He slammed the door before Meg could utter another word.
She stomped her foot. Curses to him. If Duncan weren’t so overbearing, she might care for the enormous knight. But no, he continually chose to act like a brute. Presently, she could not wait to return to Tantallon Castle and resume her life as quickly as possible.
When Duncan finally returned, Meg sat wrapped in a plaid, warmed by the fire—and thank heavens she hadn’t heeded his commands. She’d opened the door wide and allowed the matron to bring in a trencher of food, else she would have starved.
He limped into the chamber with a bundle under his arm, frowning like a lout. “I thought I said to not allow anyone in.”
A dozen quick-tongued responses came to mind, but she simply gave him a look—the same one she used when her brother said something entirely exasperating. Then he stumbled. Meg jumped up. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He pushed past her and set his bundle on the table. “Not to worry, ’tis coming good.”
“Someone should have a look at it.”
“Whom do you suggest when we’re trying to keep our identities hidden?” He opened the parcel. “Besides, I purchased a few things from a kindly Gypsy.” He held up a stoppered stoneware pot and a jar filled with dirty water. “A salve and a handful of leeches.”
Meg walked to the table and peered into the jar. “A Gypsy? I’m surprised he didn’t rob you blind.”
Duncan chuckled. “Me? He wouldn’t have survived the night.”
She tapped her top lip with her tongue. “I suppose a knight as large as you can move within many unsavory circles without fear.”
He grinned and picked up the vessel containing four ugly bloodsuckers. “I could put these on myself . . . if I had a twist-around spine.”
Meg couldn’t look him in the eye. “You want me to do it?” She clapped her good hand to her chest. “I-I don’t know much about healing.”
“Aye? Well, ’tis time you learned—I’ve no intension of being waylaid with a fever.”
Meg eyed the jar, then glanced at Duncan’s backside. A tempest of butterflies swarmed in her stomach. She’d never seen a man’s flesh—never even seen Arthur without him being fully clothed. “Do you think I can place the leeches through the wee hole in your chausses?”
Duncan unclasped his belt. “If only the hole was directly over my wound.” He chuckled. “Do not worry yourself. I’ll keep my back turned.” He pointed at the jar. “Put two leeches either side then swipe the salve right down the middle.”
Before Meg could blink, he dropped his chausses and lowered his braies. Her mouth went completely dry. His chiseled, naked bottom peeked from under his linen shirt. She gaped at the hard lines and smooth, rounded buttocks. The backs of his thighs were long, yet they bulged with sinew and muscle, peppered with black curls.
He twisted around. “Lady Meg?”
Blinking, she jolted and met his gaze.
He pointed to his right buttock. “My wound’s over here.”
Her eyes popped wide. Yes, indeed. It was a huge mass of purple, black and yellow, with an angry, jagged red cut down the center of the mess. She hissed. “That looks awful.”
“’Bout the same as it feels.”
Meg tried not to ogle the male flesh presenting to her, and focused on Duncan’s wound. She reached out her hand then quickly snapped it back. It would be ever so improper to touch him.
“I don’t reckon staring at it’ll help me heal.”
She stepped back. “True.” She fumbled with the stopper on the jar of leeches. “Two on each side, you say?”
“Aye.”
Leeches were such slimy, vile creatures. Meg gritted her teeth. Clearly, Duncan needed their medicinal magic. Even she knew leeches were one of the best options to keep infection away. She squeezed one gently and pulled it from the glass. Her stomach turned over. Fingers trembling, with a grimace she put the squirming black glob of slime beside Duncan’s wound. Her fingers brushed his flesh. Unexpectedly soft, she stilled her hand as if she’d just avoided being burned.
He grunted.
The cut oozed yellow. Meg balled her fists so she wouldn’t touch him and peered closer. “It looks awfully bad.”
“You’d best apply the other leeches, then.”
Meg did as asked until four unsightly blobs hung from his bruised bottom. “Now what?”
“They’ll feast until they fall off.” Duncan glanced at her over his shoulder. “Spread on the salve.”
Meg swallowed. For a moment, she’d forgotten a rugged warrior stood bare arsed in front of her. She mustn’t pay heed to the softness of his skin. The wound looked horrid. If she didn’t tend him properly, he could succumb to a fever—even an enormous, strapping man like Duncan wasn’t hewn of iron. “The cut needs to be properly cleansed first.” She drew her hand over her mouth—now she’d have to bathe him too.
“Very well.” Duncan shifted, sounding unflappable. “Douse a cloth in the bowl. That’ll fix me right up.”
Meg exhaled. When he’d moved, she feared he might turn around, mayhap call for a bath. Oh, God in heaven, what if she saw him from the front? She’d die. Heat pooled in the crux of her legs while her knees turned to wobbly mush.
“You want me to fetch it?” His gruff voice took on an
air of impatience.
She crossed to the bowl. “Sorry. I’ll do it.” She poured some water from the ewer and dunked the cloth.
“Are you nervous, lass?”
She nearly dropped the cloth. “No . . . yes. ’Tis just your injury isn’t in the most genteel location.”
“Apologies. If I could transfer it to my elbow to appeal to your sensibilities, I’d do so in an instant.”
“How you can jest at a time like this, I cannot fathom.”
She stole a glance at the well-formed male specimen across the room. Honestly, she shouldn’t gawk. The poor man was in pain. He merely needed her to tend his vicious wound—and the sooner she did so, the sooner he’d cover up his backside, and her ridiculous desire to stare at it would go away.
Meg held the claw in front of her nose and frowned. Remember? No man wants a woman with such a grotesque deformity.
She wrung out the cloth and boldly strode to him. As soon as she bent down, her hand started shaking again. She clutched the cloth tighter. “Just a few quick swipes.”
Duncan hissed. “Bloody oath, are you washing me with sackcloth?”
“’Tis linen.” Meg tossed the cloth on the table and reached for the stoneware pot. One of the leeches dropped to the floor. She quickly glopped the ointment on two fingers and spread it over the gash. Two more leeches dropped and writhed.
Duncan looked back. “I’ll fetch them in a moment.”
Meg looked at her handiwork. “You could use a few stitches.”
“Do you have a needle and thread?”
“Nay.”
He shifted his weight. “Feels better already.”
Meg held the pot of salve to her nose and sniffed—leek for certain, combined with something that made her eyes water. “What’s in it?”
After the fourth leech dropped, Duncan pulled up his braies and bent down for his chausses. “Gypsy magic. They may be an odd lot, but they have potent medicine.”