Nay, she would not deny Angus another kiss.
She got up and fetched his cloak, easing it over his legs so that he would not be chilled. It had been gallant of him to offer it to her, but after fifteen years in more exotic climes, he would be the one unaccustomed to such cool mornings.
From this closer vantage point, she saw the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of exhaustion drawn to the corners of his mouth. When he was awake, she never noticed these signs of strain. Perhaps she had called it aright when she declared that banditry did not suit him.
He muttered again, and she slipped away, not wanting to be caught so close at hand. She decided to pretend that she had not noticed that his patch was removed and thus grant him the chance to hide himself once more.
Jacqueline looked around the clearing. She would position herself so that she was on his “good” side, so that ’twas possible that she had not observed his eye. Thus he could not so readily see through her claim to the contrary.
After all, he had unbound her and surrendered his cloak to her. He had kept his pledge. And she had given him her word that she would not betray his trust if he released her. Jacqueline did not intend to break her vow.
She would not flee, though she had the chance. She would show him that those at Ceinn-beithe knew how to hold their pledges. Perhaps that would dissuade him from seeking vengeance from those who owed him naught.
Angus had cooked for her the night before, so she would cook something to break their fast. She would prove that she was more than a pretty face and a shapely figure—that she, like him, had the wits to survive.
Jacqueline had a sense that this man, unlike other men, might see past the surface to the woman she was in truth.
Jacqueline rummaged through Angus’s saddlebags and found that there was precious little to eat. A small piece of some ancient cheese was wrapped carefully there, though it was of so ripe an odor that she doubted anyone possessed of their senses could have forgotten its presence. There were several of the apples for which Rodney had bargained and an empty flask of ornate design that smelled strongly of eau-de-vie.
There was some small quantity of what might have been flour, though she could not guess from what grain it had been ground. ’Twas coarse and heavy and would have need of leavening to make anything of merit. There was one large spoon carved of wood and there was the pot Angus had used the night before, though well cleaned.
Other than that, two plain linen chemises were carefully folded within one bag, though they had become jumbled with a spare horseshoe, as yet unused, and several brushes that she had seen him use on Lucifer. She supposed as choices went, ’twas better to have his clean chemises with the steed’s effects than with that cheese. Indeed, his belongings were quite orderly and clean, a fact of which she heartily approved.
There were also a few tools in the bottom of that bag and miscellany that would be useful for pitching a tent, though no tent was to be found. Angus would seem to be a man of few possessions.
Jacqueline surveyed her potential ingredients and decided that a bannock was the best that she might hope to concoct, though the flour was almost certainly not wrought of oats. On impulse, she ducked into the woods, hoping it was early enough in the spring that she might find an egg or two.
After considerable hunting, she found a pheasant nest. If the parent bird had not panicked and dashed away, Jacqueline might have stepped directly past it, for ’twas well camouflaged.
There were six eggs, very tiny, each the size of the last half of her thumb. She could not bear to take them all and leave the bird without offspring. After wrapping her hand in leaves from the forest floor so as not to leave her scent, she took three.
There was no fat for the pot, so she took Angus’s knife from his belt—stealthily so as not to wake him—and diced one of the apples, keeping a keen eye for small green intruders. ’Twould add some moisture to the pan and perhaps keep her creation from sticking. She mixed the flour with the broken eggs as best she was able and dumped it all into the pot, stirring mightily with the spoon, then she placed it over the fire where the flames were lower and hoped for some success.
To be certain, she was hungry enough that she did not care what it tasted like. Angus stirred when the concoction began to burn. Jacqueline was aware that he moved, but she was desperately trying to loosen their meal from the bottom of the pot before it burned to cinders.
“Can you cook in truth?”
“I can, when there is aught to cook.” She scraped a stubborn apple from the bottom and moved the pot to a cooler part of the fire.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her brow, irritable that he had awakened just when matters looked their worst. Now it sizzled calmly, curse the mixture! “Had you saved some of the fat from the rabbit last eve, ’twould have been easier.”
“I did not want to attract guests to our camp.” ’Twas most reasonable, though Jacqueline would have given her left hand for a morsel of butter in this moment. Angus rose and stretched and crossed to the fire, holding out his hands to warm them. She watched her bannock like a hawk.
“Do you need aid?”
“Nay, but the giblets would have also been welcome. Was that flour?”
“Aye. ’Tis coarse but better than naught. What have you mixed with it?” He sniffed with an appreciation that soothed her pride.
“Eggs.”
“Eggs? Where did you find eggs?”
“Beneath a pheasant who is undoubtedly quite irked with me. I left her the other three.”
She glanced up in time to see his surprise, then was startled herself to note that he had not replaced his patch. Indeed, Angus stared directly at her, as if he would dare her to be shocked.
Jacqueline deliberately spoke as if naught was amiss. “Did you sleep well?”
His good eye narrowed and she looked back at her bannock, unable to hold that piercing gaze. The last thing she wanted to do was flinch, for he would interpret it badly, but ’twas nigh impossible to hold his glare.
“As well as ever.” He moved closer, as if to compel her to move by his very presence. Jacqueline held her ground, though gooseflesh rose on her neck when he leaned close to whisper. “And you?”
She would not grant him the satisfaction of a visible response. Jacqueline dug the spoon beneath the browning bannock and carefully gave it a nudge so that it flipped over neatly. She threw him a triumphant grin before remembering what she would see.
He smiled back at her, challenge bright in his expression. “Well done. And it smells good.”
“It does not smell that good,” Jacqueline corrected. “But beggars cannot be choosers.”
“Perhaps I should show proper appreciation for your skills.”
Jacqueline took his dagger and cut her creation in two parts, one much larger for Angus and a smaller one for herself. She handed him back the blade and offered the pan to him. “Later, if you will. If you are as famished as I, then we will undoubtedly finish it, regardless of whether ’tis good or ill.”
“Is this some ploy to be rid of me, by making me sample the fare first?” he said solemnly, though she knew he teased her again.
“I was being polite, as you were last evening.” She wrinkled her nose and surveyed the sorry contents of the pot. “Though truly, I make no guarantees.”
“It cannot be so bad as that, so long as you remembered to remove the worms from the apples.” Angus neatly cut a piece with his knife and lifted it to his mouth.
“Oh, nay!” Jacqueline cried, as if she had indeed forgotten the worms. He bit down on the bannock then froze at her words, his expression of such dismay that she laughed.
“I remembered,” she chided, and nudged his arm. “How could I forget such a thing? Give me a piece before I faint of hunger. How bad is it?”
“’Tis not fare for a king, but ’tis good.” He waited until she had taken a bite, watching her so carefully that she should have expected his jest. “Perhaps the worms add a certain spice.”
Jacqueline began to laugh again, and had to clamp one hand over her mouth lest she lose her precious mouthful of bannock. He smiled slightly as he watched her, though with an affection that was lacking in his usual chilly smile.
“You are wicked,” she informed him archly.
“You knew that from the first moment you saw me,” he retorted. He gave her a sharp look. “And who would not know the same, with just one glance?”
Jacqueline supposed ’twas inevitable that they discuss his wound this morn. “Nay, you are wrong in this.” She took another bite and decided she had not done so very badly. “A man’s visage and his character have naught to do with each other.” She gave Angus a steady look, unflinching even as he turned his face slightly so that she could not miss his scar. “You are trying to frighten me.”
His lips quirked. “Is that why you refuse to appear frightened? Merely to spite my intent?”
“Nay, I am not afraid of you. ’Tis as simple as that.”
He frowned. “You should be.”
“Why? Because you have sustained a horrible wound? Because you have treated me with care?” Jacqueline scoffed. “Why should I fear you?”
“Because I have taken you hostage and am thus a violent and unpredictable man.” He regarded her steadily. “Because you know that I might have to kill you should this plan go awry.”
Jacqueline was not quite as certain of her words as she would like him to believe. “Another attempt to frighten me, no doubt.”
“It worked before.”
“Then perhaps. Now it does not.” She poked him in the chest with one fingertip. “If ever there was a woman unconvinced that appearance dictates character, you should know that you stand in her company this morn.”
“That does not mean she is right,” he said softly. “She is a woman who has seen little of banditry, by her own confession.”
Jacqueline rolled her eyes in exasperation. “But enough to know you are an honorable man, Angus, regardless of what you would like to have me believe. I know this in my heart.”
Angus glared at her, a surprising response. “At least one of us has confidence in my character, however undeserved it might be,” he finally said, his tone harsh.
Before she could reply, he offered her the last of the bannock; their portions had disappeared with remarkable speed.
“I thank you for this,” he said stiffly. “’Twas most satisfying.” With evident impatience, he gathered all the implements she had used and strode toward the small stream to wash them.
Jacqueline had to believe ’twas the first time she had ever seen a man insulted when his noble intent was named and praised. But then, she knew already that Angus was not like other men.
She trailed behind him, not prepared to let him believe ill of himself so readily as that. He did not look up when she paused beside him, though he scrubbed the pot with greater vigor so she knew he was not unaware of her presence.
She knew she would have to begin any conversation. “I thank you for your praise, but ’twould have been better with a bit of butter, and perhaps a finer pot. One wrought thicker and with copper, as they oft have in the south.”
Angus shook his head as he crouched beside the running water. “What do you know of such pots?”
“The cooks at Ceinn-beithe have two and profess them to be the finest. They are always suggesting that someone should go south, if only to fetch them another.” She wagged a finger at Angus. “They would be most dismayed to know that you passed twice through those lands and did not fetch so much as a single saucepot.”
He snorted. “And what use would I have for a fine pot?”
“’Twould make an excellent gift. For your mother, for example, on your return.”
“My mother is dead, if you recall.”
“But you did not know that when you rode for home.”
“All the better that I did not carry a pot several thousand miles,” he said grimly, “for there would have been none to want it once I arrived.”
“Nonsense! You might have granted it as a betrothal gift, for the woman you would take to wife. Many a bride would be delighted to have a fine pot from afar, especially one brought to her by her spouse-to-be. No doubt ’twould be set in a place of honor, as a marvel from distant lands—”
Angus stood then with alarming speed, spun and caught her shoulders in his hands. He leaned toward her and her gaze flicked between his good eye and the one that was no more. “What bride would have a man like me, Jacqueline?” he demanded. She jumped at his ready use of her name. “Even if I had a denier to my name?”
Jacqueline squared her shoulders. “An eye or lack of one does not make a man all he is, Angus. Any woman who believed as much would be a fool.”
“Any woman who believed otherwise is a fool,” he corrected sharply. Jacqueline knew her confusion showed. His expression turned harsh. “If my father were yet alive, he would refuse to grant Airdfinnan to me though my sole brother is dead. Do you know why?”
“Nay.”
“Because my father would believe that I am not worthy to rule. Under the old laws, a man is not fit to lead unless he has two hands, two feet, two eyes, and his wits about him.”
She was outraged on his behalf. “What foolery! You have enough wit to compensate for that eye!”
“Nay, Jacqueline, I am not whole. My father lived by the laws of the Celts, and no Celt king was ever made of a man half blind.”
Jacqueline propped her hands upon her hips in indignation. “Then the laws are wrong. You would make a fine chieftain—”
“You must concede that there is sense here. I cannot do battle alone, for ’tis overly easy to surprise me. And there would be no heir, for any woman would fear to couple with a demon and thus pass this disfigurement on to her child.”
Jacqueline shook her head with impatience. “That is ridiculous. A scar from battle cannot be passed to a child. Any woman so witless as to believe as much should not be worthy of your attention.”
“Look at me, Jacqueline.” Angus caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look upon him fully. He was deadly serious. “Look at this and tell me—what woman would welcome me to her bed?”
Jacqueline lifted her chin and stared deliberately at his wound. She studied it slowly, as if memorizing every whorl and mark, seeing the man behind the scar more clearly than the scar itself. “I would.”
“You lie again.” He released her and turned away in disgust. “’Twould be crowded in your bed, since you have already made your intention clear to become a bride of Christ.”
“You know what I mean!”
Angus spun angrily. “I know that you lie. Perhaps ’tis done out of kindness or worse, out of pity, but neither can change the fact that ’tis a lie.”
She stared into his dark gaze, willing him to believe her. “Nay, Angus, ’tis no lie. I find you most alluring.”
His laughter was short and cold. “Liar, liar. Jacqueline, you must be rid of your bad habits before you join the nuns.”
He argued no further, for Jacqueline knew there was but one way to persuade him of the truth. She framed his face in her hands, stretched to her toes, and kissed him as if her life depended upon it. She felt him jump, felt his lips soften as if he would return her kiss.
Then Angus abruptly broke away and his mouth drew to a taut line. “’Tis pity then that compels you to offer your wares. I have never understood its merit.”
Jacqueline could not believe that she had summoned the audacity to kiss him of her own volition and, worse, that he had spurned her touch.
“You must not agree with your father’s conclusion,” she charged. “You are intent, after all, upon regaining your family’s holding.”
“You know naught of my intent.”
“I know that you love Airdfinnan enough to see it restored to you. And I know that you will not grant it to another once its seal is in your hand again.”
Angus sighed with exasperation. “Aye, ’tis true, I have hopes
of proving my father wrong, at least in my ability to rule the holding,” he admitted tightly before his tone turned bitter. “But it has oft been said that I am overly familiar with the bottom of an infidel’s boot.”
“When did that happen?” Jacqueline demanded. “And where?”
Angus gathered the pot and utensils, clanging them together in his annoyance, and stepped past her to his saddlebags. “You have a choice to make this morn,” he said, casting the words over his shoulder. “I will return you either to Ceinn-beithe or escort you to Inveresbeinn.”
She trotted after him, certain she had heard him incorrectly. “What is this?”
Angus shoved his belongings into his saddlebag, then stared at her hard. “I am releasing you as my hostage and ’tis to you to decide your destination. I will escort you there today. Choose.”
Jacqueline folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, in no mood to be cast aside. “I choose Airdfinnan.”
“What nonsense is this? I gave you no such choice!”
“You gave me choice and I have made it. I would see this place that so haunts you. I would know the rest of the tale.” Angus kicked at the fire, spreading the logs then stamping on the embers. “You will not go to Airdfinnan. I will not take you there.”
“What do you intend to do after you release me? Where do you intend to ride then? Back to Outremer?”
“You know I will not.”
“Nay, you will go to Airdfinnan.”
The set of his features confirmed what Jacqueline had guessed though Angus would not say so in words. “’Tis not your affair.”
“I say ’tis. I am part of this matter, by your choice, and I will not be cloistered before I have seen Airdfinnan. I will not be so much baggage that can be captured, then abandoned to suit your will alone.”
He looked up then. “Is that what you believe I do?”
“Clearly.” ’Twas Jacqueline’s turn to challenge him. “It seems you are not so different from Reynaud after all.”
He strode back to her, the sparks nigh flying from him. “You know that is not true!” Angus flung out his hand. “I grant you a choice, as other men have not granted you choice, as you insist is your sole desire.”
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 110