The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  Edward looked at him blankly.

  "Relations between a man and a woman," Alex said, between gritted teeth. "You know."

  "Ah," Edward said, nodding. "I'll remember that."

  "Woo her carefully."

  "Trust me. I will."

  The worst thing about it was, Alex knew Edward would. He wasn't Ralf. From what Alex had seen, Edward was a decent guy, trying to do the best he could in very trying circumstances. If Margaret could just overlook his face, she would probably find Edward to be a very nice, very considerate husband.

  And all her fire would be completely wasted. Alex had the feeling Edward wouldn't have a clue what to do with it.

  Unlike himself, for instance.

  "Did you bring anything to drink?" Alex asked.

  "A toast to my future nuptials?" Edward asked.

  "What the hell. Why not?"

  Alex woke, shaken. Literally. Someone was shaking him. He pushed the hand away.

  "Leave me alone, Zach. Horrible nightmare. Need Twinkies."

  He tried to roll over and bury his face, and his pounding head, in his pillow. Unfortunately, all he got was a mouthful of grass. So much for chalking it all up to a nightmare.

  "My lord, please wake!"

  Alex opened one eye. Great. Sir Henry was hovering over him, looking very anxious.

  "My lord, we've been away the whole of the night. Lady Margaret will be frantic."

  "Where's Edward?"

  "Already departed for his home, my lord. He bid me tell you he will remember all your advice for him in regards to his wooing."

  Alex groaned. He put his hands to his head and sat up gingerly. Man, when was the last time he'd had a hangover this bad? It was all Edward's fault. Alex wished several bad things to come the man's way. Hives on his wedding night. A healthy case of impotence. Boils.

  "My lord, I beg you!"

  "All right already," Alex said. He let Henry pull him to his feet and help him find his horse. After several embarrassingly unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to heave himself up into the saddle. Keeping himself there all the way to Falconberg was touch-and-go, but he managed it.

  His head cleared, eventually. He turned over in his mind the events of the past evening. Ralf had been exposed for the slimeball he was. Edward would hopefully soon find himself taking over his brother's estate. Margaret would be rid of her obnoxious neighbor. Even more important, she was now suitably suitored. He had arranged everything as best he could. His task in the past was now finished and he could go home.

  So, why wasn't he jumping for joy?

  He certainly should be. The twentieth century was the place for him. It would definitely be the safest place for him once Margaret learned what he'd done about setting her up with Edward. She'd be hopping mad. Alex had no intentions of hanging around within swinging distance when she found out. Yes, reading about it while warming his toes next to a toasty fire with a Ding-Dong or two at his elbow was his safest bet. Talk about The Taming of the Shrew! Margaret would make Kate look like Donna Reed.

  He tried not to think how much he would have liked to have been her Petruchio.

  Eight

  Margaret climbed the last of the steps to the battlements. She couldn't remember how many times she'd made the climb since dawn. Easily a score. The sun was slipping down toward the horizon as she walked out onto the parapet. He'd been away for over a day. She was almost frantic.

  She'd tried to leave the keep. George had blocked her way, blade bared. If she hadn't been so distracted, she would have bested him. As it was, she had found herself disarmed within five strokes.

  So she'd taken to pacing.

  "Riders, my lady," said a guardsman to her left.

  Shielding her eyes against the sun, she could make out two riders coming slowly toward the gates. She turned and ran for the steps.

  She descended them faster than she ever had before. Twice she slipped, twice her heart caught in her throat. She gained the great hall and ran across it to the door. She threw it open and ran down the steps. The portcullis was just being raised.

  It was him. Margaret stood in the courtyard, feeling wave after wave of relief wash over her. He was home. Unharmed.

  He slid off his horse and landed unsteadily. Margaret ran across the courtyard and threw herself at him.

  "Oof," he said, staggering backward.

  "Oh," she said, ashamed.

  He didn't release her. Indeed, he gathered her even more closely to himself.

  "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm okay, Margaret."

  "I wasn't worried for you," she choked out, burying her face in his throat.

  His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. ' 'It was concern over my horse, I know. He's just fine, too."

  Margaret felt his strong arm around her, his other hand brushing lightly over her hair. She was sure she'd died and gone to heaven.

  "Do you want to hear about Edward?"

  She shook her head.

  "Do you want to hear about anything?"

  She shook her head again.

  "Shall we just stand here awhile?"

  She nodded.

  He didn't move, except to tighten his arm around her. For the first time in years, she wished she weren't wearing her mail. She pulled back far enough to look in his bloodshot eyes.

  "I could take it off," she offered.

  He looked momentarily puzzled. Then one corner of his mouth tipped up in a half smile.

  "That's very tempting."

  "Wait here. I'll be right back."

  "Whoa," he said, tightening his arm around her and stopping her escape. He bent his head to her ear. "I'll come inside with you. Your entire household is watching me maul you out here."

  Margaret looked around to find that was indeed the case. Her entire garrison, most of the kitchen help and, most notably, Sir George, were all staring at her as if she'd sprouted wings. Margaret drew herself up.

  "He has brought promising tidings," she said haughtily.

  They might have believed her had Alex not laughed. She glared at him, but he merely grinned and took her hand.

  Her dignity was in tatters about her, so she let him lead her into the house. Cook followed hard on her heels, already bellowing orders for a meal to be prepared for Sir Alexander's pleasure.

  "What are the chances of a bath?" Alex asked.

  "A bath?" Margaret echoed, horrified. "Whatever for?"

  "I'm pretty grimy. And I need to shave."

  "Cook could heat water and you could bathe in the kitchen," she said doubtfully. "If you like." Secretly she thought it a very poor idea. The maids would never recover from the sight of him naked.

  Just the thought of that made her blush all over again. She left him downstairs and fled up to her chamber. A bath? Saints, what an idea. Well, he certainly smelled better than any other man of her acquaintance. Perhaps there was something to it.

  She opened her chamber door, then froze. What if she smelled poorly? She couldn't remember the time she'd had a bath in a tub. It wasn't healthful to do so.

  She contemplated her alternatives. Death by the ague wasn't a pleasant prospect, but neither was offending Alex with a poor smell.

  She gathered her courage in hand. If he could bathe, so could she.

  An hour later she descended to the great hall. If she'd had a gown, she would have worn it. The best she could do was her youngest brother's finest tunic and least patched hose. She felt vulnerable without her mail. She'd even left her sword above. Her knife, however, was tucked safely in her boot.

  She had ceased to wonder about her actions. She knew she was being a fool. Alex was merely a man. He surely wasn't worth losing her wits over.

  Now, if she'd just held that thought a little longer while she still had wits left to use.

  Perhaps this strange malady that possessed her was like a fever. She would suffer for a few days, then it would pass and she would be back to herself. She would be sensible and wear her mail. She wouldn't risk life and li
mb to immerse herself in a tub of lukewarm water merely to avoid offending his nose. And she would put her hair in a plait again. Of course, she had left it loose simply because it would dry faster thusly. She had no desire to please Alex with the one womanly attribute she still possessed.

  She lingered in the shadows of the stairwell as long as she could. Would her people laugh at her?

  Would Alex?

  He was standing by the hearth on the far side of the hall, deep in discussion with George. Margaret stepped out from the shadows and started across what had suddenly become a vast expanse of floor.

  George caught sight of her. His mouth dropped open. Margaret couldn't decide if he were pleased or horrified. A heavy silence descended abruptly. Margaret snuck a look or two at the rest of the bodies sitting at her long tables. Every one of them was looking at her with that same open-mouthed expression. Margaret concentrated on putting one foot before the other.

  And then Alex turned.

  There was no open-mouthed look of astonishment from him. He blinked a time or two, then a look descended upon his face, a look that Margaret had never before seen, but it turned her blood to liquid fire in her veins. Her malady had suddenly sprouted a fever. She thought she might just burn to cinders on the spot. Her pace faltered, and she stopped.

  Alex strode over to her. He stopped a hand's breadth from her and stared down at her with that same devouring look.

  "It's no wonder you wear mail," he said, in a low, husky voice. "No one would get anything done around here otherwise."

  Margaret took a step back. What did he mean? She gestured behind her to the stairs. "Should I put it back on—"

  "No."

  He said the word with great conviction. Margaret felt some of her apprehension melt.

  "Then you are saying this is a good thing?"

  He grinned that wolf's grin of his. "I'm saying, don't ever go out in the lists like this. Your knights will kill themselves because they'll be so distracted looking at you. And they better not be looking at you," he growled suddenly, turning a glare on the men who were seated at the long tables.

  The men immediately looked away.

  Alex smiled down at her. "You are ... well..."

  Margaret steeled herself for the worst. "Aye?" she asked grimly.

  "Intoxicating."

  "Oh," she said. Then she frowned. Intoxicating? Perhaps he meant that he was feeling as if he'd slipped into his cups. With the foreign words he continued to use, one just never knew.

  ''If you are feeling so faint, perhaps food will clear your head," she said, gesturing to the high table. "I think your mind has been weakened from the lack of it on your journey."

  "I don't think that's my problem," he said with a smile, but he followed her to the table just the same.

  Margaret sat down next to him and squirmed until a blessed meal arrived, distracting Alex. Once his gaze was off her and onto Cook's fanciest meat pie, Margaret finally felt her blush begin to fade. Saints, but the man could keep her off balance.

  She prodded him about his meeting with Edward, but it was hard to compete for his attentions against Cook's flaky crust. Between grunts and two-word answers, she gathered that Edward had been talked to, would soon find his way to the king, and her life would be quite a bit less troubled than it had been in the past.

  "And you're certain Edward will do this thing?" she asked.

  "Hmmm," he said, chewing contentedly on a roasted turnip.

  "At least Edward has more sense than his brother."

  "Um-hum."

  ''Will he be a better neighbor if the king forces Ralf to hand over his lands?''

  Alex frowned and swallowed. "Edward is nice enough, I suppose."

  "You don't care for him?"

  Alex frowned again. "What I think doesn't matter. I think you'll like him fairly well."

  Margaret shrugged. "I won't see much of him. Hopefully."

  "You'll probably see more of him than you think," he said, with something of a growl. He dragged a hand through his hair. "At least your troubles from Ralf are over. I've done what I needed to do."

  "Done what you needed to do?" she asked.

  He nodded, then reached for his wine and gulped it down.

  Margaret felt a coldness steal over her. She had the awful feeling his next words would be and now I'll be taking my leave of you. She looked away while she could still breathe normally.

  She tortured her fingernails. She fingered her eating dagger and chopped her soggy trencher into little bits of bread. That took a goodly while, but even so, she was staring at a disorderly pile of crumbs far too soon for her taste.

  Alex hadn't moved. Margaret finally gathered her courage and looked at him.

  He was looking at her as he'd looked at his supper a handful of moments before. Then, seemingly reluctantly, he began to smile. Her first instinct was to assume he was smiling because he found something amusing about her appearance, or her person. With an effort, she held back her suspicions until she knew just why he was gazing at her thusly.

  "Why are you looking at me thusly?" she asked. She was very proud of herself. No hint in those words of what she was trying so very hard not to think.

  "Because I just can't help myself."

  She frowned. "I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad."

  "I'm certain it's bad," he said, still smiling that little smile. "Very bad."

  "Then stop yourself."

  "I can't."

  "Use more effort."

  "I don't want to."

  Margaret frowned at him again. ' 'You suffer from a serious lack of self-control. If you do not wish to look at me, then do not."

  His smile deepened. "Have you ever been near something that was so breathtaking that you couldn't keep your eyes off it? A painting? A work of art? Something so perfectly formed, so arrestingly beautiful that your eyes seemed to possess a will of their own?''

  You? she wanted to say. Aye, she could understand well enough what he meant. She nodded her head. There had certainly been times she hadn't wanted to mark the man sitting next to her, hadn't wanted to think about him, had regretted the moment she'd first clapped eyes on him. But to not look at him? She was powerless to stop herself.

  "Let's go for a walk."

  He was on his feet and pulling her to hers before she had a chance to voice her opinion. And then she found she had no desire to gainsay him. If she just hadn't found the sensation of his hand on hers so pleasant, she would have been far more able to assert herself. By the saints, he was working a terrible magic on her. In the space of less than a fortnight she'd gone from a formidable warrior to a giddy maid. But now she was beginning to understand just exactly why the serving wenches giggled when Sir Henry grinned at them. Margaret had never understood it. Sir Henry was a fair-looking man, but he didn't heat her blood.

  Not as Alex did.

  She put her hand to her forehead as she followed Alex up the steps. She wasn't feverish. But she felt feverish.

  "Cloaks?" he asked.

  She didn't think she would need one, but she fetched a pair anyway. She knew she should have been demanding to know where they were going. Instead, she found herself standing in the passageway, trembling as Alex fumbled with the clasp of the brooch that held her cloak together under her chin. She looked up at his beautiful face, so close to hers, and felt her heart beat harder in her chest. She had the most insane desire to go back into his arms, to have him run his hands through her hair again, to feel protected by his strong arms around her.

  She looked at his mouth. She knew exactly how his lips felt now. Wow was the word he'd used. Scottish dialect, obviously. It was certainly descriptive enough.

  Margaret saw fingers come to rest against his lips and realized, with a start, that those fingers were hers. She blushed and jerked her hand away.

  Alex caught it, then brought her fingers back to his lips.

  "You're killing me," he said, with a faint smile.

  Margaret looked down im
mediately, half expecting to see that one of her weapons had left its sheath and was poking him somewhere. But she wasn't wearing any weapons except her knife, which was still safely tucked in her boot. Saints, there wasn't even any mail to pinch him, should he have come close enough for that to be possible.

  Strong fingers were under her chin, lifting her face up.

  "I meant that you were driving me crazy."

  "Crazy?"

  A small huff of laughter was his answer. "I can't think straight anymore. All I think about is you."

  "Truly?" she asked surprised. "Then perhaps we are suffering from the same malady." She pulled back. "Saints, Alex, what if the entire keep comes down with this?"

  He laughed again, a more hearty one this time. "Heaven help them." He put his hand behind her head, took a step closer, and kissed her full on the mouth. "Come on. Let's go upstairs. The cold air will do us good."

  And with that, he took her hand and pulled her down the passageway. Margaret felt her lips with her free hand. He'd kissed her again, without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Saints, but she liked that about him.

  She followed him, then he surprised her by stopping at her favorite place on the parapet. The moon was full, the sky cloudless. As far as the eye could see was Falconberg soil. Margaret looked over it and, for the first time in months, felt some sense of relief at the sight. Alex had bought her time, perhaps even her freedom.

  "Thank you for your aid," she said, looking up at him.

  He put his arm around her shoulders. "It was truly my pleasure. It was worth the trip."

  "Trip?"

  "Journey. It was worth journeying here, even if all I could do was help you get Ralf off your back."

  The men on the battlements paid them no heed after the first incredulous glance. Alex led her over to the east wall, the one from which she could just make out Brackwald's keep on a clear day. Alex leaned back against the wall and opened his arms. She went into them willingly and sighed in pleasure as he wrapped his arms around her.

  "Do I smell better?" he asked.

  "I didn't care before," she murmured.

  His lips on hers startled her.