A laugh gurgled frae betwixt her lips. “I’ve set ye a grand task haven’t I?”
“I’ve not had much practice at this, the difficulty comes frae having but one hand, but that’s not to say I’ll give up,” he reminded her.
“Hang on to the twist of hair in yer hand and I’ll try to be quick,” she said, then like a wee laddie showing off, she clasped the reins betwixt her teeth, reached behind her head and, taking her hair out of his hands, Maggie swiftly bundled it up under the firm band of her bonnet. Reins in hand once more, she said, “There now, all done.”
“I must say ye have that down to a fine art,” he murmured, regretting the loss of close contact with her. The feel of her hip in his hand through the leather nae longer felt enough, yet he was well aware that wanting and getting were at the opposite ends of any opportunities life threw his way.
Accordingly, he held his tongue, garnering a host of impossible thoughts until the reality of where they were caught up with him. “Guid lass. We’re here now and in plenty time. Follow the path along the loch’s edge. The stables are behind the Keep and the auld bothy close by.”
“Is that where ye live, then?”
“Nae it’s the auld folks’ place, just auld Mhairi and her man, Michael who take care of the Keep for King Edgar,” he told her with absolute honesty, forgetting to mention they didn’t do a very guid job of it. The Keep might be bonnie frae the distance—a lure for some he had frightened away; the insides left a lot to be desired.
She shrugged as if it didn’t matter in the least to her, and neither it should. “I suppose yer sleeping in the stables with yer horse, presuming ye have one?” A question with a hint of sympathy that made his toes curl inside his boots.
Instantly he sought to disabuse her of the notion, “It can be a warm place to sleep in the winter, but I sleep inside the Keep, as did my forefathers.” He huffed a long sigh down through his nose and revealed the truth, “Merely through habit, though; I nae longer have any right—not since the day my uncle was persuaded to support Donald Bane. It has to be admitted that he was a man easily swayed by a sleekit tongue.”
Maggie twisted her head, looking over her shoulder at him, her expression one of understanding. Eventually, she lowered her eyelids, as if to show concern was to lower her guard, empathy being too womanly a characteristic for a lassie who preferred to dress like a lad.
A dim light squeezed through the only wee window in the wall of the bothy facing them. The auld couple would hear the strange horse and come out to see who was in the grass-tufted cobbles of the Bailey, as unkempt as the Hall itself, proof the distant view misled the eye. A moment later, he heard his horse whicker a welcome frae its stall in the stables.
Maggie pulled on her mount’s reins outside the stables. “She can smell food and water,” she said leaning forward to clap Star’s neck to curb her impatience. “There’s a lass, I’m sure Dhugal won’t grudge ye a feed.”
“Just sit still until I dismount,” he said, though he had a notion he meant, ‘fall off’ rather than the other; eventually, he was pleased to descend without making a fool of himself in front of her. He’d had enough to suffer frae without that.
Nae sooner did his foot touch the ground than he heard, “And whaus this lad? Ye dinnae usually empty a trap and bring the victim hame with ye.”
Chapter 5
Still mounted on Star’s back, Maggie grimaced at Dhugal, her fingers closing round the hilt of her sword, as she snarled in a most unladylike manner, “Traps? Mantraps? I’m nae victim for the likes of a broken man.”
The auld woman returned to the bothy without another word, leaving them to it.
He raised his palm as if to bar her frae drawing her sword. Even in the gloaming, she could see the strong lines etched across it and for a moment wondered what Rowena would make of them?
“Whist,” he said. “I don’t have victims, at least nae dead ones, as Mhairi would imply. I leave her to believe what she will. It makes her feel safe. All I ever do is make matters extra difficult for any overly inquisitive folk. If fallen trees across the path and pits deep enough to break a leg are unsuccessful, then I employ other means.”
Her mouth flattened, annoyed at herself by being cozened into liking him. “As ye did with me?” she demanded, waiting for him to talk his way out of that.
“Nae ye were different. Ye intrigued me. I watched ye stop by the burn to let yer horse drink, and I could have warned ye not to dismount. Once yon midges smell human blood, they go for the throat,” he laughed as if it were a jest, but she remembered running as if for her life to escape the wee buggers, first through the burn and then across rough ground that threw up the scent of peat with every step.
As if to reassure her, he said, “I would never have killed ye, all I intended doing was to give yer arse a kicking and send ye back to wherever ye’d come frae.”
“And instead, ye were the one beaten by me,” she smirked, determined not to be bested by him.
“I believe that was purely a piece of guid fortune on yer part. Aye, ye might say I was surprised to discover I was fighting a lassie instead of a lad. Yet even with a wound in my shoulder I could have beaten ye easily if it hadn’t been for that clump of tussock that tripped me,” he said turning their conversation into a war of words.
“Pah, ye might say it was yer guid fortune, since, if ye hadnae fallen at my feet, my next strike would have slid right betwixt yer ribs, the same way my brother Rob killed his first man, and he was only fifteen,” she flung at him, certain she of getting the upper hand.
Until then, he had kept his balance by gripping the saddle, but everything changed and not for the better once he shifted position and his palm moved, covering her knee, fingers closing around the curve above the top of her boot.
She watched, her breath quickening as he raised his chin to stare her straight in the eyes, the amber she had noticed earlier lit frae behind with the red-gold of flames. “And who was yer first, wee lass?”
“Dhugal Robertson that’s who. Ye would have been my first.” She didn’t know where the roughness in her throat came from, couldn’t remember having to scrape out her words afore. “I’ve always had my father and brother to protect me.”
His hand slid up her thigh and she stopped breathing, “I would have been honoured to be yer first. I still would if it didn’t end up killing me…”
He was flirting with her, and suddenly she felt flustered, knowing that if Dhugal had been one of the suitors her father presented to her, there was nae chance in hell she would have won any challenge she made, or would even have wished to. She felt lost for a reply but, fortunately, auld Mhairi returned carrying a lantern, saying, “Here take this into the stable with ye, there’s broth on the fire in the bothy, enough for yer wee friend an’ all, once the horse is tended to.”
Maggie could breathe again.
***
Their lack of success hardly surprised Nhaimeth since darkness began overtaking them afore they had a chance to search. Maggie could have gone in one of three directions, and it was naught but chance Nhaimeth caught sight of hoof and boot prints in the mud edging a wee burn flowing frae higher ground.
“We’ll be fortunate to see aught tonight, Shug. Best leave a marker so ye can find this place on the morrow. With that done we’ll make our way back to the camp.”
“If ye expect me to return in the morning, what’s the point in me leaving? I could roll m’sel’ in my plaid and stay the night,” Shug grumbled, a fault in him Nhaimeth discovered as they retraced their journey.
“There’s more than yersel’ to think on, Shug. In the dark, it will be safer travelling in a pair to avoid us getting lost as well. Then yer horse will need fed and a wipe down,” he explained simply, staring hard at Shug’s glowering visage until the man looked away.
The blame was Shug’s. Nhaimeth didnae intend letting him forget it, though as the big man dug a mark into the soil with his sword, then wiped it clean on his plaid, Nhaimeth shoo
k his head. He might be the smaller of the two, at least he wasnae the one lacking in nous. In a moment of empathy, Nhaimeth remembered how it felt to be the downtrodden, at every one’s beck and call.
In an effort to make up for slighting the housecarl he said, “Up with ye now and we’ll be off. Rowena will have cooked something hot to eat, and will see that ye have enough oats in yer pouch so ye dinnae go hungry on the morrow. The rest of us will return to Cragenlaw and fetch more men to help with the search. If we keep up this pace, we’ll soon come upon the fire Rowena will have lit.”
“Aye well, then, better ye face the McArthur than me to tell him his daughter’s gone wandering off. I shouted on her to catch up with the rest of us, but what can ye dae? That lass has always been wilful, and her father lets her away with it, playing with a sword instead of learning to cook for her man. If she were mine I’d gi’e her the back of my—“
Nhaimeth swore under his breath, sympathy replaced by anger. “Well she’s not yer daughter, ne’er ever likely to be under yer thumb in any circumstance, and if ye have any sense left in yer thick nonce, ye’ll keep such opinions to yersel’ and out of the McArthur’s hearing.”
Gathering up his reins, he glared at Shug. Aye, he might be the wee butt of some jests, but the McArthur had taught him to fight keeping his lack of inches in mind. “See if ye can keep up with me,” he said scornfully, digging his heels into his palfrey’s flank with all the confidence of a man who kenned his place in the McArthur hierarchy.
***
With her horse taken care of and a bowl of hot broth warming their insides, Dhugal took a grip of the lantern, saying “ Follow me I’ll show ye a place ye can lay yer head for the night.”
“Is there any chance of wee bit hot water to take with us?”
Dhugal stopped in his tracks as it dawned on him he had been remiss, of course a lass would need a lick of water to wash in, and not just any lass—the McArthur’s only daughter. So what if she carried a sword? Maggie would be used to the best, as once he had been.
“I’ll see to it,” he murmured handing her the lantern, and while the auld couple slept in their dark corner, out of the draught, all unaware of what he was doing, he helped himself to a jug and filled it frae the iron cauldron kept simmering on its hook above the fire.
He held out the jug where she could see how high he had filled it. “Will this be enough for ye?”
She raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice, “Nae, it’s not for my use. I must needs tend to yer shoulder. I noticed that ye refrained frae mentioning it to the others—and I don’t blame ye for shielding them frae worry—I can’t see any one else for them to depend on. There seems nae one else around who’s able to kill meat for their broth.”
“Ah, ye have found me out, I’m definitely nicer than I pretended when I drew my sword on ye.” It came out tinged with a goodly amount of sarcasm followed by a wash of guilt. If anyone needed Mhairi and Michael’s help it was him.
“I couldn’t do without them at the Keep. Should aught happen to the auld folk, we might eventually have a load of strangers shifting into the Keep on the pretence of looking after it for the King. Ye will see for yerself on the morrow, after the sun rises. The family”—his family—“who once lived here loved this place. They lavished it with care and pride, and not simply the building, but the possessions they furnished it with. But then ye know what they say, ‘pride cometh afore a fall’, and the Robertson’s of Skene fell a long way.”
“There are a lot in the Highlands can say the same after King Malcolm was killed at Alnwick. When folk choose sides, there’s always only two options, right or wrong. It’s fate,” she said, confirming what he already knew, fate dealt badly with those on the wrong side.
His gut clenched, twisted the way it did when he thought on what might have been. The Normans might have invaded the island’s southern shores all yon years ago, but they were like a horse discovering a field of new grass, greedy, wanting more and more. That said, a horse might become bloated and useless but that hadn’t happened. Instead they had gobbled up the whole of England and now, even though King Edgar’s father had been killed through his friendship with de Mowbray, the King had invited Normans to settle along the borderlands—creating a strong barrier of Normans who owed allegiance to Scotland, so some thought, but for a man stripped of his land and name, it left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Let’s be off,” he said, hampered by a lack of useable hands with the jug in one and his opposite shoulder being stabbed with pain. That didn’t prevent him grasping her elbow. “Hold the lantern and I’ll steer the way.”
They had almost crossed the Bailey afore she said, “My brother Rob was at Alnwick, took part in the battle where Malcolm Canmore was killed—he and Nhaimeth both out for an adventure. As ye can imagine they got more than they had bargained for, but at least men are allowed…”
“Allowed what?” he asked as her tale petered away to naught more than the sound of her breathing.
“To have an adventure.”
He couldn’t see her pout, not even by the lantern light but he heard it in her tone and laughed. “Nuh-uh, nae longer true after today. By my reckoning, yer right in the middle of one.” He might be in pain but he still recognised the way her elbow tensed against the warm curve of his palm.
She stopped walking and it changed their positions as he took another step and ended up facing her. The lantern light drifted betwixt them. To him, her face was the most beauteous thing he had ever laid eyes on. Only God knew what kind of picture he made— three days of bristles lined his cheeks, they’d glow red this close to the light—not his best feature, but it didn’t seem to faze her.
Maggie slowly pulled her elbow up out of his grasp and he let her, unable to concentrate on aught but the tension, tightening his muscles until they quivered, expanding another until it too quivered with excitement. The feel of her finger running over the bristles he abhorred almost undid him. He wanted to pull her close to his chest and would have at another time under different circumstances such as having hands he could put to good use.
That and his honour.
She was a young lass, under the protection of a broken man, and if the McArthur suspected him of seducing his daughter that would truly be the end of the Robertson’s of Skene.
“What I didn’t finish telling ye was that both Rob and Nhaimeth came home frae their adventure with wives—satisfactory conclusions by anyone’s measure.” Her hand cupped his cheek and warmth, nae heat flooded with temptation. “They’re all living happily at Cragenlaw. We have a big extended family—some related by blood, some simply by love, and lots of friends with influence in many places.”
Why should he worry about seducing Maggie when she had more than half-way worn down his innate instincts of survival and honour. He needed to remember honour, for wasnae that all he had left? Aye, through him Maggie had experienced the adventure she’d always aspired to. Why should it surprise him that she would look for more, be unafraid to seek more. She was a McArthur after all.
Atop of that, she had political instincts—nous—he could have wished his uncle had made use of. They stood in the Bailey of Skene Hall, him aware that in daylight its shadow would envelope him, plunging any hopes Maggie might encourage into darkness.
So he took the coward’s way out and sucked in a breath betwixt his teeth as if in pain, saying, “Best go indoors. By morning ye will be on yer way home. I’ll take ye.”
“There’s plenty time, my father will come a-looking, and I will not leave until yer arm’s better. I can tell yer in pain so don’t try to deny it. Now let’s take care of it.”
As he listened, she completely turned the tables on him. He led her to the Keep, aware of what a wonderful wife Maggie would have made to have by his side—a woman he could love—but he wasnae a fool. Love would be the last reason the McArthur would accept for giving away his daughter’s hand.
Chapter 6
Maggie decided she had been too for
ward, too soon. What could she say? She came by it naturally with a father like the McArthur as an example. She had never learned to be obsequious. Nae, she always said what she thought; however, too abrupt a delivery of her wishes may not be the way to go about courting.
There she had admitted her intent, if only to nae one but herself.
None of the lads her father had presented her with had garnered the slightest spark of interest in her breast, as Dhugal did now. She felt the difference while she confronted him. Under her close-fitting leather short coat, her breasts expanded, her nipples pressing through her silk shirt, rubbing the inside of her short coat with every breath she took.
She sucked in air then let out the deep breath to repeat the sensation, so she was a hedonist. She hadn’t known that afore she met Dhugal.
“Are ye all right, lass? I hope yer not apprehensive about being alone in the Keep with me. I promise ye will come to nae harm,” he said gripping her elbow once again, as they climbed the front steps.
The McArthur would welcome him with open arms—an honourable man. She could have wished him to be a bit keener to take advantage of her. Was it selfish to want him to sweep her off her feet? She’d never thought of herself as a romantic, never suspected she could ever want to give herself to a man, to lose her virginity, and here she was practically begging him to take everything that she was, and being rejected.
Why did she feel like a bairn at yuletide reaching out to snatch the last sugarplum, having her fingers rapped and told, ‘No, leave it for somebody who has yet to taste one’
The Chieftain's Daughter Page 4