by Mary Wine
Jane led the boy back to the wagon, and the laird made no complaint. Muir sent her a relieved look before the business resumed.
“Are ye going to be me mother now?” the boy asked after Diocail went on collecting rent and oaths without a glance in their direction.
“For as long as we’re together, I suppose.”
He nodded. “Me name is Bari.”
“And I am Jane.”
And they were an oddly suited couple, both dependent on the will of Diocail Gordon.
* * *
“So the lad gains yer name.” Diocail stopped and placed his foot on a rock near her. “I suppose ye think me a monster for allowing him to be given to me.”
Bari was sound asleep in the wagon. Jane could walk away from it now, providing she was careful where she stepped.
“You were being kind,” she answered Diocail. “His mother won’t last a month.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Think so?”
Jane nodded. “I’ve seen it. That disease of the lungs. You likely saved his young life, for it passes easily between members of a family. If he’d stayed near her and tried to help her, I doubt he would have escaped.”
“Do ye think he has it?”
Jane saw the distaste in his eyes, but he asked anyway, clearly concerned for the welfare of all his men.
“I see no signs.”
He sent her a hard look. “Ye must tell me if ye do, Jane. I can nae take him into the tower if he has it. I will ask ye again before we make it back.”
Her name was oddly intimate on his lips. It felt as though they were becoming more and more familiar with each other. She had no idea why it unsettled her, and yet her belly was twisting once again.
“Surely you understand,” she began. “I should be long away by now. However grateful I am, I cannot stay.”
Diocail let out a long sigh. “And ye should clearly understand that I can nae leave ye in yer shift on the side of the road.” He was back to gripping his shirt, tearing once more. He grunted and muttered a word beneath his breath. “Perhaps ye think because I’m Scottish, it makes it acceptable for me to see ye starving. How long will ye last before ye turn to prostituting yerself to avoid dying? Maybe I am no’ English like yer husband, but—”
“I thank God for that,” she exclaimed. “My English husband placed my favors on a gaming table and cheerfully rolled the dice and expected me to honor his loss. You are nothing like him.”
She’d said too much. Far too much.
She’d known Diocail was a dangerous man; now she watched his expression turn deadly. “He did…what?”
She felt too much on display, her pride too torn and shredded, and tried to turn away. The only solace available was to keep her shame secret. Diocail reached out and locked his hands around her biceps, pulling her in front of him.
“Jane?” he demanded softly, but there was no missing the rage in his voice. “Explain yer words.”
“There is no point.” She looked him straight in the eye. “What’s done is done, and he was beaten to death for his excess at the dice.”
“He’s damned lucky he was,” Diocail exclaimed, “for I’d have broken his legs and left him alive.”
Oh, but she liked the sound of that.
For a moment, they stared into one another’s eyes, and he was absolutely everything wonderful in the world. A man of honor, one she might depend on to do all of the righteous things she’d been raised to believe good men did. She was so close she could smell him. Henry had never pleased her senses the way Diocail did. She liked the way he smelled and felt herself trembling as she watched his attention shift to her mouth. Everything else seemed to dissipate, leaving her with only the feeling of his hands on her and a tingle across the delicate surface of her lips while he contemplated them.
I would like his kiss…
“Is she yer strumpet, Laird?”
Diocail released her in a flash as young Bari’s voice came from behind her. Jane fell back from him, realizing she had been nearly in his embrace and completely captivated by him.
“Is that why she wears no skirts?”
With the innocence of childhood, Bari asked what was on his mind. He rubbed his eyes and cocked his head to one side as he waited for an answer.
“No, lad.” Muir was suddenly there, taking Bari up and back toward the wagon. “She’s a decent woman. No’ the sort ye say a word like strumpet to.”
“But why has she no skirts?” Bari wasn’t ready to let the matter go. “I heard the women in the village call her a strumpet and a doxy. I’ve never heard that word before, doxy.”
Jane’s cheeks heated as she heard Muir hushing the child.
“The next village is a larger one,” Diocail explained. “There will be an inn with a proper bed, and I’ll find ye something to wear or at least the cloth to be sewn.”
“I really can’t accept more from you.”
He drew himself up and sent her a look she doubted many argued with. “As I have told ye before, mistress, ye best reconcile yerself to our company. For I’ll bring ye back if ye are fool enough to try me.”
A wise woman would have let the matter be. But wisdom had led her to where she was, and something inside her snapped. “I am quite done being told what to do by men.”
Diocail had turned, meaning to leave her with those final words, but he snapped back around as her comment hit his ears. “Is that so, Jane?”
He was using her name on purpose now, trying to impress on her how little choice she had.
“And just what will ye be doing under yer father’s roof?” he demanded as he stepped close enough to whisper. “But I am no’ fool enough to send ye back to a man who has no sense when it comes to who he weds ye to.”
“I refuse to allow you to pity me.”
He liked that comment. Jane stared at him, confounded by the way his eyes lit with enjoyment. No man enjoyed a woman who was too free with her tongue.
Except for Diocail Gordon, it would seem, for he was grinning as though she was the most fetching female he’d ever set eyes upon.
She let out a huff. “You make no sense. Why do you let me tell you what I think? And speak when I have not been asked to?”
He slowly chuckled. “Because I like ye with the flames dancing in yer eyes, lass.” He reached out and hooked her by her upper arms, pulling her toward him. His attention dropped to her mouth a moment before he pressed a kiss against her lips.
She recoiled, but not because it was unpleasant.
Quite the opposite, really.
For a moment, her belly twisted, and anticipation gripped her so tightly she was breathless. Never in her life had she realized her body might experience such a level of bliss. It overwhelmed her, making her yank away from him and the uncertainty he roused in her. She struggled to comprehend the way he’d made her breathless.
Was it right?
Wrong?
A sin?
A shame?
His lips curled, and he flashed his teeth at her while his eyes flickered with a satisfaction that made her cheeks burn. She was lifting her hand and laying it across his jaw before her thoughts cleared. The hard smack of flesh against flesh shattered the strange moment like a bubble that had landed on a thorn.
Diocail Gordon released her, backing away as he chuckled. “I deserved that, ’tis a fact I did.” He opened his arms wide and offered her a slight lowering of his body in a courtesy. “And I enjoyed kissing ye full well.” He straightened, and his expression tightened into one of promise. “Jane.”
She snarled, stunning herself with how passionate the sound was.
What was happening to her? Was Scotland truly turning her savage?
It defied rational thought, and yet her heart was thumping so hard it felt as if it were hitting her breastbone, driving her blood through her
veins so fast she felt light-headed and fought to stand in one place. It was exhilarating and unsettling on a scale she had never experienced.
Henry had never kissed her like that…
Disrespectful to the dead, perhaps, and yet it was a solid truth. One that left her wondering just what else she might discover if she embraced the heat licking at her insides.
* * *
“Now I’m jealous,” Muir muttered as he nursed a flask of whisky. “I only asked her for a shirt, but ye get a kiss.”
His captain had joined him on watch sometime after midnight and clearly had no reservations about discussing what he’d seen.
“I took a kiss,” Diocail said, admitting to his sin. “And damn me for doing so when others might see. Jane deserves more respect than that sort of behavior.”
“She’s a decent woman,” Muir agreed. “And knows a thing or two most females don’t as well.”
He offered the flask to Diocail, who shook his head.
“The lads are thinking it’s a fine thing we have her to bring back home with us.”
Diocail cast a narrow-eyed glare at his captain, realizing Muir had been plotting to say his piece to him, no doubt with a bit of discussion among the rest of the men too. As laird, he would have to become accustomed to having every last detail of his life debated.
But that didn’t mean he was going to accept the will of his clan when it came to personal matters. “Christ, man,” Diocail exclaimed. “She’ll no’ be pleased by that idea.” He opened his hand, and gestured toward the wagon. “She’s English.”
“Aye,” Muir agreed. “Ye can nae miss that when she opens her mouth.” He drew a long sip of whisky, clearly fortifying himself before he spoke his mind. “And yet she has a fire in her belly. Those feet of hers were torn up and no mistake. Yet she was nae giving in. Likely why ye stole that kiss. Heard the smack she gave ye all the way over by the horses.”
“That’s the part ye should be thinking more about,” Diocail pointed at him. “I’m a savage to her way of thinking.”
Muir slowly grinned. “Scores of Englishwomen live their lives without sampling passion. Now there is something ye might give her that she’ll enjoy full well after tasting a cold English marriage.”
“We are no’”—Diocail stressed the “no”—“talking about that.”
“Glad to know ye’re no’ thinking about it, Laird.”
Diocail grunted and left Muir to the duty of watch. He rolled himself in his plaid and closed his eyes, but sleep was still elusive. Jane invaded his thoughts, and her taste lingered on his lips.
He was a rogue to have kissed her. Yet he didn’t truly regret it. Even if that thought shamed him.
And that was surprising because it had been a very long time since he’d been shamed. It made him chuckle, easing the tension that seemed to have been in his shoulders over the past year. Coming down from the north to Gordon land had always been in his mother’s plans for him, but the reality had been damned difficult.
He slept lightly because there were plenty of Gordons who coveted the lairdship. His life had become one where he’d been forced to prioritize what he had time to worry about. Manners hadn’t been high on the list. Not when he’d been focused on surviving.
Jane was a breath of fresh air. Or maybe he just understood how it felt to have Fate hurling more challenges at a person than it seemed possible to meet.
Indeed, he knew that path surely enough. Some might say that was why he refused to let Jane go, but the truth was he just couldn’t stomach the idea of what would befall her on the road, and not because he pitied her.
No, it was far worse than that.
He wasn’t going to let her go because if she was going to land in anyone’s bed, it was most definitely going to be his.
He would be shamed by his thoughts if he wasn’t so distracted by the idea of just how bright the flames would flicker in her eyes if he told her what was on his mind.
Rogue…
But at least it was better than letting her become a sad victim of harsh reality.
* * *
Jane was turned about.
She realized she’d lost her way completely when she stood facing the inn where Gillanders had so cheerfully turned her out.
To be honest, she almost missed the sign because the rain was pouring down, the sky dark with black, swollen clouds. But she caught sight of the sign as she was encouraging Bari to hurry inside where Diocail and his men were setting up to receive the tenants who had come to pay their due.
Bari scampered inside as she stopped, oblivious to the downpour, blinking at the name of the inn.
Niven ran right into her and mumbled a word in Gaelic that needed no translation, and she went pitching forward through the open door, ending up sprawled on the tavern floor.
“What the devil?” Lachie asked from where he was setting up his paper and quill.
Another retainer reached down and hooked her by the arm, hoisting her up and off the floor while she was still trying to absorb the fact that she’d come full circle.
“She just stopped,” Niven explained in bewilderment.
“Yes, I did,” Jane stammered as she pulled at her meager coverings. “It was my fault. I’m sorry, Niven.”
One of Gillanders’s daughters was serving ale. She stood with eyes as round as full moons before she realized Niven was looking at her curiously and snapped her attention back to the mugs she was filling.
“Always happy to have the laird under me humble roof.” Gillanders said as he came down the stairs. He was laughing as he spoke to Diocail. “Ye’ll not find a finer-laid table in three villages! Mark me words, me wife knows how to put the supper out!”
He caught sight of Jane then, freezing in place as his wife and daughters all drew back so that they were flat against the walls of the common room.
Gillanders was just as pompous as Jane recalled. He let out a snicker and slapped his thigh. “So ye found yerself a place with the laird’s men.” He sent a look at Diocail. “Right nice to have a bit of company along on the road when the wives are all back at home.”
The tavern owner indulged in a round of snickers as his gaze swept her from head to toe.
Muir slid up to her side, moving in front of her as the tension in the room increased. Even Lachie looked disgruntled, rising from his bench.
Gillanders didn’t miss it. He glanced around, taking in the disapproval being cast his way while his wife snapped her fingers at his daughters to send them scampering into the kitchen, the topic being too scarlet for their youth.
“Here now,” Gillanders exclaimed. “What’s the trouble? She’s an English bitch, ye can nae mean to tell me ye’d argue with me over her?”
“Ye put her out?” Diocail asked. “In her shift?”
“Well, now, her husband left a debt that had to be settled, and since the man was dead, she was the only one to be doing it with. Can nae fault a man for taking what is owed to him. I’d have lost this tavern long ago if I failed to collect on what me family’s hard work was worth.”
Gillanders gripped his wide belt. He’d buckled it beneath his fat belly and looked ridiculous while attempting to be impressive.
“Besides, I made her an offer,” Gillanders continued. “Thought herself too good to work for a Scot.”
There was disgruntled muttering behind her from the men waiting to pay their rent and greet their new laird.
“You offered me a position as a whore.” Jane likely should have kept her mouth tightly sealed, but wisdom seemed to be lacking in her at that moment. “I most certainly did decline.”
There was a snort from the line behind her and a snicker. Diocail didn’t miss it. He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Gillanders. “The lady,” he said, stressing the last word, “is under our protection now.”
“Aye.” Thei
r host offered Diocail a wide smirk, which made Jane’s cheeks burn scarlet. “I see that, Laird. No trouble at all.”
“Good.” Diocail looked past him to where his wife was wringing her apron. “Show the lady above stairs and produce her belongings.”
“Here now,” Gillanders argued, but his wife was already lifting her skirts and nearly running up the stairs. “There’s the matter of the debt owed by her husband. I took her things in payment.” He pointed at Jane.
“Well, now, as to that question,” Lachie interrupted as he came closer with the large account book in his arms. “It would seem the Hawk’s Head Tavern, owned by one Gillanders, has not paid rent in more than five seasons.”
Gillanders opened his mouth and closed it several times as he tried to formulate an argument. “There is the cost of burying her husband as well. Couldn’t let him rot on the side of the road. I’m a Christian man.”
“Of course ye are,” Muir muttered. “Only allowed the man to be murdered.”
“It was none of me doing.” Gillanders exclaimed. “He wandered out, likely because of the cold bitch he had been saddled with for a wife. She turned him away, she did. More than one heard it.”
“Because Henry brought his gaming companions up to our bed with the intention of having me settle the loss through the use of my body,” she retorted. “Christian man that you are, you stood at the door intending to watch.”
Niven growled. For all that she’d needed to stand up against the tavern owner’s remarks, the anger on the faces of the Gordon retainers’ faces made her regret her words. There was a fight brewing now, and she’d tossed on the fuel.
“Enough.” Diocail’s voice cracked like a whip. He looked over his shoulder at the men waiting, and they stopped their snickering. “He’d no’ be the first man who discovered himself on the receiving end of violence after ill-placed bets, but that is a matter between men, and I’ll no’ stand for it being applied to his wife more than any of ye would have me taking me business to yer wives.”