Kilts and Daggers

by Victoria Roberts

  He looked back at the pallet in the corner. “I have another blanket in my bag. I donna think ’tis wet. I’ll bring it to ye. Give me but a moment. I want to see to the horses. Some of them werenae too fond of the thunder and lightning. An Diobhail was a wee bit skittish.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. An Diob—”

  When she struggled with the name of Fagan’s mount, he said, “An Diobhail.”

  “Yes. What does it mean?”

  He chuckled in response. “Do ye really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  A flash of humor crossed his face. “The Devil.”

  Her eyes widened. “The Devil?”

  “Aye, he was naught but a wee bastard when he was a colt. One day he was limping around in the field so I examined his foot. As I was pulling out a stone, he turned his head back and bit me in the arse. He’s had the name ever since, and I think it suits him quite nicely. Donna ye think?”

  Grace couldn’t control her burst of laughter and held her hand over her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry, but that is almost as good as me punching you in the eye. Perhaps your horse and I would get along famously.”

  He pulled his tunic away from his skin. “Aye, well, I’m glad ye find the tale so amusing, but I need to see to the horses and change these wet clothes.” He turned and grabbed the latch of the door, pausing. “Care to join me?”

  Since the man didn’t specify which task he had wanted her to join, she could only assume that he’d returned to his roguish ways. Before she lost her wits, she spoke in a dry tone. “I’d rather muck out stalls in the barn.”

  “As ye will…”

  When he closed the door, she gazed around her shelter. At least she’d be dry. The pallet in the corner certainly couldn’t be any worse than her insufferable time in the tent. She pulled what was left of a chair over in front of the fire. Placing her hand on the seat, she pushed on it, needing to be certain the old wood would support her. She placed her rump gently on the chair and gradually sat back.

  At least the smoke was masking the musty odor in the room. She’d been surprised when Fagan had wanted to stop so early to sup, and her belly rumbled now in response. After what the men had been through, she couldn’t very well ask them to retrieve the bundle of food that had been left on the top of the hill. She’d just have to keep her mind occupied with something else.

  Grace placed her elbow on her knee and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. This was going to be a long night. She wasn’t even weary. Her eyes went back and forth between studying the flames and looking at the dirt floor. When she couldn’t stand the restlessness any longer, she stood and stretched her back. That’s when she heard a scratching noise coming from the corner.

  Taking four carefully placed steps, she stopped when she reached the pallet. She stood like a statue. She didn’t think the sound came from a crackling in the fire. She thought again about the noise she’d heard, which she believed was more of a scraping sound. Patiently, she waited. What else did she have to do?

  Nothing stirred.

  She nudged the pallet with her boot, and there was no movement. Perhaps she had imagined it. She took her seat again and threw another piece of wood into the fire. She’d be sure not to stir up the heat too much because she had no intention of repeating the unbearable temperature that she’d had in the tent.

  There. She definitely heard that scratching noise again. Grace walked over to the pallet and kicked it with her boot. Nothing. She would go mad if she kept hearing that sound all night. Lifting the edge of the pallet, she pulled it away from the wall.

  She gasped.

  A large, wiry rat moved its way along the edge, and she squeaked louder than that abhorrent creature. Why God had created such abominations was beyond her comprehension. She hated rats as much as Ravenna despised dogs and Angus.

  When the rat moved another inch toward her, Grace began to shake as fearful images built in her mind. All she could think of was that creature crawling under her skirts. She dropped the pallet and made a mad dash to the chair. Stepping up onto the seat, she didn’t have time to worry if it would crash under her feet.

  In her frenzy to escape, she lost sight of the rat. How could she be so careless? Her eyes darted back and forth, searching. She had to calm her racing heart, willing herself not to scream. She’d already been made the fool with the deer. If Fagan had to come in and kill a rat for her, she’d be made to endure his endless taunting.

  She glanced over at the table, which might as well have been a million miles away. Her feet would have to touch the ground again. But what other choice did she have? There was a worn tankard right in the middle of the table. She looked at the floor, and when she didn’t see anything, she leaped from the chair. Hastily, she grabbed the tankard and returned to her perch.

  Grace wasn’t certain what she was going to do, but maybe she could capture the rat in the tankard and throw it out the door. When she spotted the creature in the middle of the floor, her body moved into action before her mind. She threw the tankard at the rat but missed, and the tankard thumped hard against the wall. All she had managed to do was make the vermin change direction. But at least the dreaded thing was now heading toward the door.

  She didn’t have enough courage to place a toe on the floor again to open the door. That’s when she realized there was only one thing left to do. She bunched up her skirts and pulled out her dagger that was strapped to her thigh. She could do this. Ravenna had taught her well. Grace only needed to remember her sister’s instructions.

  Moving her hand, Grace slid the dagger in place, moving the blunt edge of the blade into the crease of her hand. Putting her weight on her right leg, she kept her left leg slightly forward, trying not to fall from the chair. Her arm was perpendicular to the ground. Remembering to keep her movement fluid, she realized this was her moment of glory. She could do this by herself and didn’t need a man to protect her.

  Grace lifted the dagger and hurled it at the target.

  Fagan opened the door, but it was too late. His eyes widened when the blade lodged in the frame, mere inches from his head, as the rat ran out the door.

  Thirteen

  Fagan continued to gaze in wonder at the blade that was at eye level and still shaking from the impact. He couldn’t believe how the woman’s aim could be that bad. Perhaps Grace should stick to using her fists because she was spot-on there. Then again, maybe she was using his head as a target. He pulled out the dagger and shook his head when he saw Grace was standing on the edge of the unsound chair. He moved abruptly toward her.

  “Tha thu gus mo liathadh.” You’re driving me gray. He grabbed her arm to assist her. “Feuch nach tuit thu.” See you don’t fall. She stepped down from the chair and held out her hand for the dagger. When he placed the hilt gently on her palm, he spoke with a heavy amount of sarcasm. “Na leòin thu fhéin.” Don’t hurt yourself.

  “You do know that if you want me to understand you, you actually need to stop speaking Gaelic.”

  “Aye.” He closed the door. “I know that I’m going to regret asking this, but what in the hell are ye doing?”

  She turned away from him and shivered. “I saw a rat, a rat of immense proportions. I. Don’t. Like. Rats.”

  “Why didnae ye call me? I would’ve killed it for ye.”

  Grace picked up a tankard that was on the floor against the wall and placed it on the table. “Because after the disaster with the deer, I didn’t think my pride could handle jesting about a rat.”

  “Well, I’m here now. I’ll find it and get it out for ye.”

  “You already did. When you opened the door, the vermin ran out.”

  He chuckled. “And ye tried to kill the wee bastard by throwing your dagger at it? Did ye ever think ye might have been more successful had ye just opened the door and let it out?”

 
; She held up her hand to stay him and spoke in a warning tone. “Fagan, I’m in no mood for—”

  “All right, all right. I’ll ne’er pretend to understand why lasses have such foolish fears over naught. Between Ravenna with Angus and now ye with the rat… I think ye women should be worried about things of far more importance, rather than spending your time fretting over things that will nae cause ye harm.” He shrugged with indifference. “Mayhap I should be saying a prayer of thanks. At least I have yet to hear ye complain about the weather, the journey, your hair, or your dress.”

  Grace lifted a brow. “Is this truly the discussion you want to have with me right now?”

  “Nay, I was only making conversation. I brought ye a blanket.” He held out the cover in front of him more as a peace offering.

  She took the blanket and placed it on the table. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be sleeping anytime soon.”

  “Ye said so yourself. The rat went out the door. There is naught more to fear.”

  Grace walked over and stirred the fire.

  “My men and I are sleeping in the barn. Donna hesitate to call upon me for any reason, even for a rat. Do ye need anything else before I take my leave?”

  She took a step toward him and placed her hand on his arm. “Please don’t go. Will you stay with me for just a little while longer?”

  He knew this was a bad idea. He kept telling himself to walk out the door. Now. Turn. Go. What the hell was he doing? What was he waiting for? God, she was still waiting for him to answer, and he stood there like an idiot. He surprised himself when his eyes lowered and froze on her lips.

  “How could I refuse such a request?”

  * * *

  Grace was relieved that Fagan had agreed to stay. That way she didn’t have to confess that she was nervous about the rat. If the vermin returned or if, God forbid, another one should come upon her, Fagan would be there to ward off the intruders. Perhaps she could talk him into leaving his sword with her for the night. His weapon was certainly longer than hers. More than likely, she could send the rat to its maker without even getting too close.

  “Are ye hungry? I have something to drink and dried beef in my satchel in the barn. At least I believe the beef is still dry.”

  Thunder clapped overhead, and she jumped. Fagan had changed his wet clothes. She wouldn’t send him back out there, especially not for her. “I’m fine.”

  “Lass, ye donna speak the truth verra well. ’Twas but a simple question I asked of ye.” He shook his head. “I’ll be right back.” He grabbed the latch on the door, and she touched his shoulder.

  “You’re dry now. You don’t have to go out there for me. You and your men have done enough.”

  “I’m nae going out in the rain for ye. I’m going for me. I could use a drink, and I could eat. And truth be told, so could ye.”

  The door closed, and Grace shrugged. There was no sense talking to someone who wouldn’t listen to reason. A sudden heavy rain pelted the thatch roof. When water started to drip on the table, she briefly closed her eyes. She’d rather drown in the crofter’s hut, as long as the rat didn’t return. The door swung open, and Fagan secured it with the latch.

  “’Tis really coming down out there.”

  “So I see. You’re drenched again, Mister Murray. Sit down by the fire.” Grace grabbed the blanket from the table and shook it out. When she turned, Fagan stood by the flames. “Please sit in the chair. I’ll pull the pallet over and sit on the floor.” He sat down carefully, and she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

  He pulled the cover off his large frame. “Nay. I’m all wet. Ye’ll need this to sleep this eve.”

  “Then take off your tunic and cover yourself with the blanket.”

  He lifted a brow and gave her a roguish grin. “But all my clothes are wet.”

  “And that will never happen.”

  Fagan said something under his breath that she knew she didn’t want to hear, and then he took a swig of something. He lifted his hand and grabbed the back of his tunic, pulling it over his head one-handed. When his eyes met hers, she didn’t realize that she needed to lift her fallen jaw. His bare chest glistened in the firelight, and every line of his body was defined. She imagined her fingers exploring every single crevice of his hard flesh.

  “Are ye going to stand there and stare at me, or are ye going to take my tunic and hang it by the fire?”

  She pursed her lips. “Actually, I was going to just stand here and stare at you, but I suppose I could hang up your tunic.” He gave her the garment and she placed it near the fire on a nail in the wall.

  When she turned back around, he had covered himself with the blanket. She couldn’t say she was pleased that he was now hidden from view, but at least he had some sense because she certainly did not. She dragged the pallet across the floor and sat down beside him.

  “Are the horses all right?”

  “Aye, I placed a few of them under the trees to give them a wee bit of shelter.”

  “Is the barn dry for your men?”

  He handed her something to drink. “There are a few leaks in the roof, but we’ll survive.”

  She brought the wine sack to her lips and swallowed twice before she realized that her throat burned. She became plagued with a coughing fit and brought her hand to her lips. “What is that?”

  “’Tis what Ruairi and I drink. Uisge beatha.”

  “And what does that mean exactly?”

  “Water of life.”

  Grace turned her head to the side and coughed again. “I don’t know about life, but if I take another drink of that, your water will surely bring about my death.”

  “’Tis an acquired taste.”

  “I should say so. That’s dreadful.”

  “Here.” He handed her a piece of dried beef.

  “I’ll take anything to kill the taste on my tongue.” Hastily, she tossed the food into her mouth.

  “I donna suppose we ever have to worry about ye getting into your cups then.”

  “No.”

  She looked into the flames, trying to slow her racing mind. She was alone with Fagan, and his mere presence made her heart skip. After a heavy silence, he spoke.

  “I donna know if I’ll be returning to England with Ruairi and Ravenna for your wedding in the spring. I’ll likely send Calum in my stead.”

  She continued to stare into the fire that she didn’t see. “Is there a reason, or do you find my company that unbearable?”

  He paused. “I find that I enjoy your company too much, lass. ’Tis the problem.”

  Grace could feel his eyes watching her.

  “I am nae daft enough to believe that I could’ve ever had ye, but I donna think I can watch ye be in the arms of another man, even Lord Casterbrook.”

  She gazed up at him.

  “Ye’re unlike any lass I’ve ever met. Ye challenge me and drive me completely mad. I knew that from the first time I saw ye. I didnae think I would, but I have to admit that I rather like it. If I had something to offer ye, I would fight to make ye mine. But I have naught to give.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “I don’t like when you speak that way. A man is not defined by his wealth or his personal possessions. It is a man’s character that makes him who he is. You’re a kind and honorable man, even if your bloody mouth annoys me.”

  He smiled, and she dropped his hand. She bent her knees and hugged them to her chest. “If we’re speaking the truth, I have to confess that I haven’t decided if there will be a wedding in the spring.” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “Daniel is a kind man, but I don’t know him all that well. The more I think about it, the more I want my marriage to be like Ravenna’s.” She looked at him and smiled. “Without all the tartans, kilts, and bagpipes, of course.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course, but wh
at do ye mean?”

  “Do you see the way my sister and Ruairi look at each other?”

  “Aye. ’Tis hard to miss.”

  “Daniel and I have never looked at each other that way. And we certainly don’t talk to each other the way…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The way that I talk with you.”

  A muscle ticked in Fagan’s jaw and he stood. He grabbed his tunic from the wall, and Grace pulled herself to her feet.

  “I must take my leave.”

  She slid her body between him and the door. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Lass, if ye donna move away from that door, I cannae be held responsible for my actions. And I donna think ye’ll like them.”

  She lifted her hand to his chest and he stiffened. “Fagan, I don’t understand what this is between us—”

  “Your hand.”

  “But I know you feel the same. I’ll never share with Daniel what I’ve already shared with you. If only for one night, I want to know love. I want to feel love. And I want to know it with you. Please stay.”

  * * *

  Fagan felt like a stallion cornered by a mare. Grace’s brazen words had been spoken and could not be taken back now. She didn’t realize the danger she was in by blocking his only means of escape. She was playing with fire. He guided her hand to his kilt, perhaps to shock her back into reality and to show her what she did to him. But when her hand moved on its own accord, stroking, caressing…

  “Ye have nay idea what ye’re doing.”

  “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “Nay, lass. Ye’re doing everything right.”

  His mouth ravished hers. The time for restraint had long since passed. He cupped her breast through her dress and then slid the sleeve down over one shoulder so that he could touch her naked flesh. He squeezed her taut nipple, and she tore his mouth from his.

  “Fagan, please…”

  He wasn’t sure if she was begging him to stop or to continue. He lifted her into the cradle of his arms, and when she wrapped hers around his neck, he knew that he had his answer. Gently, he lowered her onto the pallet. He tugged her dress down enough to expose both of her breasts, and he sucked one of her nipples. Hard.