Without a word, Maggie picked up the quill and when she wrote all this down in Artair’s ledger, while the steward watched with an unmistakably satisfied expression, Maggie Bryce wore a wee little smile.
They heard twelve more cases that morning, from charges against Ernst Wiley that he’d shirked his communal duties of plow work to Gavin Ogg, accused of causing damage to the brewers cart while inebriated and joyriding, it was alleged.
There was not one moment, during any of the proceedings, that Iain was not aware of Maggie sitting so close to him. She whispered several times to Artair, asking about the spelling of some words, he thought, and twice he saw her lower one hand beneath the thick wooden table to cover her belly, which drew a curious frown from Iain.
And when all the cases had been attended and the hall had cleared, Iain knew that he wanted more time with her, wanted her to himself for a while. Buoyed by the grateful and steady gaze she’d settled upon him earlier, and provoked further by the smiles she’d given to both Artair, after he’d said something quietly to her, and then to Archie, when he’d approached the table and had advised that she might want to get used to writing many of these names.
“Aye, lass,” said Arch, in his usual disgruntled tone, “repeat offenders, that’s what we call ‘em, and hard pressed I am to no’ insist on bashing some heads together rather than doling out the punitive fines.”
She’d lifted her gaze and closed the ledger, giving Archie the first cheery smile of the day. Not entirely cheery, Iain thought, noting that her expression was tainted with some stiffness.
He stood abruptly, drawing her regard as well as that of others. “You’ll come down to the beach with me, lass?” He invited with about as much finesse as he was sure Gifford Norrie employed when wanting to bed his sorely aggrieved wife.
Iain sensed Archie’s frown but did not look his way.
Maggie was surprised by the invitation, he could see, but he gave her no chance to refuse him, standing behind her that he might pull back her chair for her.
Nudging the chair, he silently bid her comply, wanting to be away from the watchful, befuddled gazes of Duncan, Archie, Eideard, and Artair, not entirely sure of the reasons for his own sudden and inexplicable need to have her away with him.
Iain directed her out of the hall and toward the postern gate, not at all oblivious to the fact that she was reticent now, again, her lips pinched when he held the door open for her. He supposed the awkwardness should not have come as a blow. For all intents and purposes, he’d just plucked her out of a fairly pleasant situation, offered her escape she did not need, and had done so with very little elegance. He had to wonder if his private company—no soldiers nearby to offer some outlet if needed, no hall filled with people to keep so much of his attention from her—was the cause of her present aloofness.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN THEY REACHED THE spot where the embankment declined sharply, he preceded her, jumping down lightly and landing squarely. When he turned to collect her, he saw that she had continued to walk, north along that ridge until she reached a gentler decline, quite a distance from him, and made her way down by herself.
She met him then further down on the beach proper, the bulk of her hair drawn over one shoulder, which she was braiding as she walked. Iain liked the color of her hair, honey and berries, he might have said, kissed by the sun, highlighting all the red and gold.
As he’d done previously, as he’d done a thousand times in his life, he sat in the sand close to the water and shed his boots and left his belt and sword next to them. Facing Maggie, he was surprised that there wasn’t need for any cajoling, as she sat as well, removing her hose and shoes, her hands under the skirts of her gown that she bared no skin.
Since he’d taken her directly from the hall, she did not wear her hat. Iain thought she was particularly pale today, but couldn’t imagine that owning the hat but one day would have erased what color the sun had given to her in the last few weeks.
“You’ve been dipping your toes, then?”
Maggie glanced up at him, her eyes as green as the sea, her freckles on greater display in the pallor of her cheeks. “I have, several times now.”
She stood, without his help as he’d moved too late toward her, being that he was rather caught up in her indifference. She marched forward, swatting at the sand on the back of her skirts and walked until the water reached just below her knees, her gown and kirtle held up and out of the water.
Iain doffed his tunic at the last moment and followed her to the sea. He went for a quick swim, dunking himself completely to rid himself of the day’s grime and dust. The action was nearly as familiar to him as riding or walking that it required no thought, that he was able to consider Maggie’ solemnness. While she’d been mostly quiet inside the hall, he’d decided that she had certainly been more animated and engaged than he’d noticed in the past few weeks, excepting their trip to the market.
Resurfacing, Iain stood again, his feet touching the sandy bottom and the water hugging his hips as he remained many feet from her. The sea was not calm today, that he swayed in the water with each wave that rolled past him. Maggie, being closer to the shore, was less impacted by the crashing waves, only once or twice having to lift her skirts higher to keep them dry.
She stood with one hand holding her skirts and one hand holding her belly, staring beyond him at the sea. For the first time, he deduced just the smallest roundness to her stomach, accentuated by her hand pressing the fabric close.
It had not escaped his attention that she looked to him, at him, not once.
“Are you feeling poorly?”
She didn’t exactly answer, but asserted, “I’ll be fine.”
Iain stepped closer to her. “You’re not yourself.”
“What is me?” She wondered, giving her gown a lift as a wave passed.
“There was a time you found yourself stranded in a cave with seven strangers, any one of them twice your size, carrying swords taller than you...and you—you embraced it, if I recall.” And he did recall. He’d forgotten nothing, not one minute of those three days.
“That was a lifetime ago.” She met his gaze now, levelly and with more curiosity about this conversation than with any interest in him, it seemed.
“Aye.” It was a challenge now, he had to get her to smile, he had to find that light in her gaze. Was he mistaken? Had it been there, even briefly, for others but not him, or had he only imagined it? Was it the pregnancy that had soured her? Had anything changed since their trip to the market? Had his thought to kiss her—a fantastic missed opportunity, he knew—sent them two steps backward?
She was staring at his naked chest. Her mouth formed a small o for the sight.
Damn, but he’d rather forgotten about his scars. He was accustomed to them, had carried them for so long, he thought little of them.
But she was shocked. Repulsed? He couldn’t know, as she hadn’t moved.
“What—how did this happen?” She looked over every inch of his bare torso, seemed to walk toward him without consciousness. There was plenty to keep her gaze busy.
He didn’t recall that he’d ever been embarrassed about the legacy of his time as an English captive. Until now. And then more so when she lifted her hand, as if she might touch him, touch all the angry slices and welts and burns. She squeezed her fingers once more, and pulled her hand back, tucked it against her chest.
When she lifted her gaze finally, it was filled with pity. Iain pursed his lips with some scorn—he courted no one’s sympathy—and tried to make light of it. “A slight disagreement with a few fine Englishmen some years ago.”
Tilting her head, she challenged his dismissiveness.
He returned the challenge. “We all have scars we’d sooner no’ make into conversations, aye?”
Her lips parted again. Obviously, she understood his reference and agreed with him, nodding slowly.
Surprisingly, she returned her gaze to his chest and abdomen but he could n
ot say just now that she showed any pity, couldn’t say what it was that pinkened her cheeks and had her turning her head away even before she’d removed her eyes completely from him.
“Maggie, have I done something to cause you any upset?”
She lifted her face to him, another frown showing. “No,” she lied.
And he knew she lied, same as he had when she’d told him fibs previously. She’d taken her gaze away from him with her answer, gave her regard only to the skirts she held above the water. She’d moved further into the sea that she was forced to hold her skirts up past her knees to avoid the crashing waves. But then she tired, of either the refreshment of the water or of him and the scarce conversation. She turned and headed back to shore. Iain wasn’t specifically trying to catch up with her, but his greater size allowed him to stride through the sea with ease that he was at her side fairly quickly, and then fortuitously so. A larger wave, taller and stronger than any thus far rolled over them, sending Maggie teetering precariously to the right. Iain moved swiftly and caught her up with an arm around her waist, lifting her feet off the floor of the sea just before another rogue wave swept past them.
“Whoa!” he said, with a laugh, some far off memory teasing him, of chasing waves such as that when he was a lad. He carried Maggie several more feet before he realized she was pushing against the arm around her waist.
Abruptly, Iain set her down in water that reached only their calves and shins. She backed away from him, her green eyes uneasy.
“Bluidy—Maggie, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? The babe?” He held his hands out but did not touch her.
She shook her head, but he would swear her eyes were about to well with tears.
She pivoted awkwardly, the water preventing any graceful movements that getting away from him was not so easy.
Lightly, Iain touched her arm, forgetting in his desperation how she abhorred his touch, until she ripped her arm out of his grasp. She marched on, her gaze on the water and her steps. The large waves had undone all her careful attempts to keep her gown dry and it was soaked from the knees down.
“Maggie, Stop. Tell me what—
“Please don’t ask me what is wrong,” she begged as she trudged on.
Iain raced in front of her, walked backwards as he stated, “I will. I am. Maggie, what has happened?” No small amount of frustration crept into his voice.
“Nothing,” she said, “everything is fine. Please, let me pass.”
The water only swept their ankles now that she tried darting around him.
“Maggie, what have I done that—”
“You’ve done nothing.”
He persisted. “But I must have or why would you—”
“Because I thought you might kiss me!” she cried, stopping to holler this at him. She stood in the sand, where only the very last breath of any wave might reach and clamped her lips, breathing hotly through her nose.
“I—” he began. But truly, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think there had ever been a time, certainly not after he’d kissed her all those months before, that he had been in any close proximity to her, that it hadn’t crossed his mind. At the very least, the memory of it beckoned him often, made incredibly strong after their almost kiss of market day, not lessened at all by the scent of sandalwood that had teased him all this morning.
She composed herself. Speechless, he watched the process: she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her mouth. She swallowed and opened her eyes to gaze up at him.
“The other day, I thought you’d meant to....” This trailed off, while she gathered her thoughts and words. “Then when you invited me to the beach,” she said, her voice level, “I don’t know why but I thought you might have done so to...to try to kiss me. And I was terrified—and angry—but then you didn’t, or haven’t, and—” she stopped, rolled her lips inward, biting back whatever might have come.
He’d get to that, what else might have been revealed, but first: “Terrified? Angry?”
She sighed harshly, which sounded almost like a cry. Her shoulders sagged so greatly that she appeared to deflate in front of him.
“Terrified, because...because I don’t want to be kissed.” She stopped and breathed quickly again through her mouth, several short breaths, to gather nerve or to get past something, Iain could not say. Her voice was small when she said, “And angry at...him for making me this way.”
Jesu, but that was so much information. However, he needed the rest of it to process it entirely and effectively. “But then I didn’t kiss you, or hadn’t yet kissed you and...?”
Maggie closed her eyes, tilted her face to the sun even as her entire person appeared whipped. “And I was—it made me sad.”
He supposed he’d not ever been so gape-jawed, so many times, in so few seconds. Bloody hell, but how to proceed?
And then, Hallelujah! For all this enlightenment.
“How can you possibly be—what is there to smile about?” She cried, her frustration evident, that he’d forced her to admit what she had, that he could grin now with all this mess between them.
Iain sighed now and stepped closer to her. She backed away, just one step.
But she held his gaze. The incomparable green of her eyes, the tortured expression begged something of him, but he could not know what.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
Her chin quivered but otherwise she didn’t move.
“Maggie Bryce, I’m only asking for your hand right now.”
She didn’t move.
Iain was not discouraged. “’Twas only three days in those caves, lass, only a few weeks here at Berriedale, but you ken me. And you ken I’d no’ ever harm a hair on your head.”
Her gaze just now said only that she wanted to believe this, but that she could not. Nearly imperceptibly, she shook her head back and forth.
Iain lifted his hand, palm up. “Give me your hand, Maggie Bryce.”
Maggie lowered her eye to his outstretched hand. Iain waited. When she finally raised her hand and set it into his, the action was accompanied once again by a great and visible stiffening of her body. She only waited, it seemed, for him to reveal a true and nefarious purpose.
Closing his fingers lightly around hers, he held her hand in his palm, traced his thumb over the back of it, along the soft skin. “Maggie Bryce, I recall that kiss in the caves, so long ago. Jesu, I’ve brought it to mind so many times that it seems fairly fresh in my memory.”
She folded her fingers but did not pull her hand away.
“I’d like nothing more than to repeat it, if you’ll let me.”
She moved not at all, not her eyes or her lips or her hand. Indeed, it seemed she stopped breathing. Even the wind seemed to halt, that her heavy skirts were no more flattened against her legs and flapping out toward the east.
Iain stepped closer. She wanted to back away. Holding her hand, he would not let her.
“Look at me, Maggie,” he said, waiting until she did. He wasn’t sure if that were a small nervousness or outright fear in her pretty green eyes, so still did she hold herself.
“Remember that kiss, lass? The one in the bothy, the one where my lips worshipped you? This one will be the same.”
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded, giving consent.
That’s my girl.
But for her abject misery—that was what he saw as he lowered his head—and his own heart breaking, he might have laughed. With her eyes slammed shut and face screwed up in a wince, this was exactly the reception she’d given him the first time he kissed her.
Iain touched his mouth oh, so softly to her stiff lips. “I won’t ever hurt you. You ken that, lass,” was said against her lips as he moved his gently back and forth.” He tipped her chin up with a thumb under her jaw. He thought he felt her whimper, applied his lips with some expertise against hers, didn’t force her, was content to be patient, thought to remind her of more. “This will be much more enjoyable if you kiss me back, Maggie Bryce.” She defi
nitely whimpered now, but Iain thought possibly it was seeped with some delight at these repeated words, certainly imbued with no less than acceptance.
He might have groaned with his own desire and with the joy that came for the chant in his head, I am kissing Maggie Bryce again. And when she sighed into him and moved her beautiful lips against his, ever so tentatively, Iain knew such need that he thought surely his soul might scream its joy. Still, he held himself in check, let her navigate this kiss at her leisure. She did so beautifully.
Only their lips and their hands touched. But she leaned into him and answered every bit of desire he showed her, the kiss growing as did her courage, as did his need.
But then she stopped, left him so abruptly he imagined she was pulled away by a force greater than longing.
Until she bent over, her hand holding her middle, a cry escaping that was neither of desire or delight.
“Maggie!”
“Oh, God,” she moaned, one hand on Iain’s forearm to steady herself.
Iain reacted instantly, only immediately understanding that Maggie was suffering and there was some trouble with the bairn, so he scooped her up in his arms. He grimaced as she cried out again but cradled her securely against his bare chest and made haste to the keep. He was surefooted and furrowed of brow and called out to the guards on the wall when he thought he was close enough that they might hear him.
They had, that the gate was opened for him and he stormed through it, barefoot and half dressed, now shouting for his mother inside the bailey.
Glenna appeared in the doorway of the hall, her hand finding her chest when she saw Iain carrying a visibly distraught Maggie. “Right up to her chambers,” she instructed, likewise needing no explanation. Artair and Archie hovered, concern etched on their faces.
Iain took the stairs two at a time, knowing his mother and possibly others followed. He kicked open the door and laid Maggie gently upon the bed. Her face was yet screwed up, her eyes closed with whatever pain gripped her.
The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 22