“M’lady?”
Dear heavens. What had the man just asked? Mercy edged her horse closer. “Beg pardon, Graham. What did you say?”
Graham gave her a wicked grin. and the glint in his eyes said he was well aware of her scrutiny. “I said we’ll make camp here for the night. With any luck, this weather will pass by morning. Have your men set the tents up beside those pines, aye? Or I can tell them. I wasna certain how ye felt about me ordering about your servants.”
“By all means, issue whatever orders you wish to whomever you wish. I assure you, they will be followed to the letter.” There. She’d remembered to tell him. Now he would know she trusted him without question.
Graham flashed her a wide smile.
Her cheeks warmed, and she pulled in a sharp breath. Perhaps, she could have chosen better wording. That hadn’t sounded at all proper. Her statement almost seemed like an invitation for him to give her orders. She retreated and turned her mount toward the pines. “Do what you will,” she said with a lighthearted wave. Perhaps, it would be best to retreat before she said something else she shouldn’t.
She dismounted beneath the pines, very much aware of Graham’s gaze upon her. She waved over Percy March, the senior driver of the wagons, pulling him away from the job of helping his son, Doughal, and the other two lads, Robbie and Wills, from erecting the tent slated to be her personal shelter.
“Yes, m’lady?” Percy squinted one eye shut against the rain. The gentle misting of earlier in the day had ended. Water fell from the sky in a heavy shower that threatened to become a drowning deluge.
Mercy handed him her reins. “The horses’ tent first, please, Percy, and make haste. If we lose any of the horses to this damp, chill weather, it would end our journey before it’s even started. As soon as we have them in the dry, I’ll see to my own horse.” She turned to the beast and whispered, “Please continue to behave, my friend. There’s a treat for you if you’re sweet. I’m proud of how you’ve behaved with everyone so far.”
The great, black horse nickered in response, then nuzzled his wet nose up under the brim of her hat and gave her an affectionate nudge.
“Horse tent?”
The proximity of Graham’s deep voice startled her. “Why…yes. We’ve brought shelter for the horses. Our journey is set to last weeks, and these horses are accustomed to being stabled.” She rubbed a hand along the black, shining nose of her horse. “Ryū is strong and fearless, but I will not have him subjected to such conditions.”
“If that’s no’ the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard.” Graham tossed a hand toward the sky. “’Tis but a bit a rain. They dinna need a tent.” He put two fingers to his mouth and emitted a sharp whistle that split the air. All in the camp froze in place and riveted their attention to him. “Shelter for the women first, then tents for yourselves,” he instructed Percy and Doughal along with Robbie and Wills. He pointed to a line of pines closest to the wagons. “String a rope between those trees and tie the horses there.” He turned back to Mercy. “That’ll be shelter enough for the beasts, I reckon.”
“But the horses—”
“The horses will be fine, and if they canna survive a mild wet night such as this, we’ve no business taking them into the Highlands.” He took a step closer, close enough so she could feel the heat steaming off him. “And ye might consider the same advice for yourself, m’lady. This trip isna for the faint of heart. A traipse about the Highlands is no’ an enjoyable stroll through the sweet shops of London. The Highlands are filled with glorious beauty, but ye’ll find they’re rugged and unrelenting.”
Mercy clenched her gloved hands, fighting against the urge to shake her fist in his face. “Do not judge me as weak or pampered, Master MacCoinnich. You know not of what you speak.” How dare he think her a foolish noble incapable of besting a challenge. Her entire life had been a battle against all who judged her as inferior and waited to see her stumble and fail. “I assure you, I am quite ready for this journey.” The man had no idea how ready. “And my horses will at least be granted blankets from this weather if I have to cover them myself. I shall negotiate no further on the matter.”
Ryū stomped a pace forward toward the Scot, ears flattened and teeth bared as he moved to stand beside Mercy.
“No, Ryū,” Mercy crooned as she took hold of his bridle and hugged the beast to her. “Leave Master MacCoinnich alone. He doesn’t know us yet.”
“So that’s the way of it, then. Master MacCoinnich again, is it?”
He studied her with a jaw-clenched stare that made her want to shout at him that he couldn’t possibly understand all she’d endured, but she held her tongue. Mama had taught her better. One did not give in to emotional outbursts. One proved others wrong with controlled actions. She lifted her chin and gave him a damning look she hoped he would understand.
“Verra well then. So be it, I reckon.” He pointed a finger at her. “The order stands. No tent for the horses but blankets I’ll allow. Get ye in the dry, m’lady, and seek your rest. We break camp at dawn.” He turned and stomped away, his kilt snapping behind him like the whipping of a dragon’s tail.
Mercy felt the intense desire to pelt him with anything she could find to throw.
“M’lady?” Janie’s sharp voice broke through her haze of frustration.
“What now?” She turned so fast, Janie backed up a step and raised her fists as though ready to fight. Janie’s reaction made her feel even worse. She’d never struck Janie, but the poor girl had no doubt received such mistreatment from previous employers. Mercy pulled in a deep breath, exhaled, then swallowed hard, struggling to compose herself. “Forgive my tone, Janie.” She swiped a hand against the heavy drizzle, wondering how she’d ever dry out in such weather. “I had hoped our trip would begin in a more pleasant way.”
Janie gave her a forgiving smile, then pointed toward one of the flatbed wagons that looked as though someone had shoved a spike up underneath the tarp and created a makeshift tent. “Doughal and Wills fixed us a place in the wagon after they pulled the tents out. Said we could sit there in the dry ’til they get the shelters up and ready. Cook’s kept the fire going in her wagon and said she’ll have you a nice cup of broth and toasted bread ready in no time at all.”
A fire and hot broth sounded heavenly. “I think I’d rather sit in Cook’s wagon. It’s much nicer than the flatbed.”
Janie made a face and shrugged. “No place to sit anymore in Cook’s wagon. It got crammed full of last-minute supplies right before we left. Even her bunk’s full of tins and sacks of food. The woman fair plans to sleep on the floor, she does. You ever heard such?”
Right about now, a pallet on a warm, dry floor didn’t sound all that bad, but Mercy refrained from saying so aloud. She might be chilled and soaking wet, but she would not whine about it. This had been her decision. As Mama always said, “Sacrifice makes success all the sweeter.”
“To the wagon it is, then.” She forged ahead through the mud, struggling against the treacherous, sticky mire as Janie headed off in the direction of Cook’s wagon. The ground, boggy and wet, grabbed at Mercy’s boots, pulling at them and threatening to suck them off her feet. Every step was a chore. Halfway to the line of wagons, as she came up even with Graham and Duncan, the lacing on her right boot gave way. Her foot pulled free, leaving it behind in the mud. Unbalanced, Mercy careened first to one side then the other, arms flailing to keep from falling as she held her stockinged foot high above the mire. “Oh dear!”
Graham charged forward with the speed and agility of one accustomed to navigating across such ground. Before she hit the muck, he scooped her up into his arms. “M’lady,” he said with a deep, heart-stopping rumble that sounded entirely too amused for Mercy’s liking. He cradled her against his chest as though she were a treasured child. “Seems ye’ve lost your slipper.”
How in the world could one attempt to remain dignified in this sort of situation? Especially when held in the arms of such a man. Mercy clutched her fisted hands to her
chest and glared at him from under the sagging brim of her wet hat. With an irritated jerk, she shoved it away from her forehead. “My bootlace came undone.”
The ribbon of her hat chose that auspicious moment to pull free of the bow beneath her chin and plopped backward to the ground, exposing her fully to nature’s downpour. Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for divine guidance, especially for deliverance from the traitorous feelings triggered by finding herself in Graham MacCoinnich’s strong arms. This is the first day of many. Give me strength, I beg you!
Graham snorted out a laugh, then clamped his mouth shut. Sheer joy sparkled in the dark blue of his eyes.
“This is not amusing.” Mercy swiped the rain out of her face and clutched at the heavy wet coil of her hair escaping its pins. Her attempts failed. The soaked tresses unwound down over Graham’s arm, reaching almost to the ground in a shimmering river of soggy, black stubbornness. “Not amusing at all,” she repeated through gritted teeth.
“Aye, lass, but it is.” Graham chuckled as he repositioned her higher in his arms, hugging her close as he slogged across the camp. “Verra much so, in fact.”
She thumped his chest. “Put me down this instant, Master MacCoinnich. A true gentleman does not hold a lady in such a fashion. I appreciate the gesture, but it is high time you released me.” Her words sounded harsh and ungrateful even to her.
“Verra well then.” Graham stomped forward a few more steps, then dropped her into the rear of the wagon. He jerked his arms out from around her, then retreated a step, scowling at her. “I already told ye I was no’ a gentleman, m’lady, and I shall tell ye something more. As I see it, whether ye like it or no’, ye need a man like me who’ll snatch your arse up out of the mud instead of a man like that gentleman over there.” He turned and jerked a thumb toward Lieutenant St. Johns tiptoeing and simpering his way around camp, as though the mud and muck were hot coals.
Her bottom still smarting from her hard landing, Mercy scooted deeper beneath the shelter of the tarp. A shiver rippled across her, making her miss the warmth of Graham’s embrace. How could she have spoken to him in such a haughty manner? She swallowed hard and drew her wet coat closer around her, tucking her feet up under her skirts. She dropped her gaze and stared down at Graham’s boots currently ankle deep in mud and puddled water. Her mother’s teachings nudged her. She knew better than to behave like a spoiled, ungrateful child no matter the actions of her champion. After all, he’d done nothing unseemly, merely held her close to keep her high above the mud.
“Forgive me,” she said without looking up. “Please believe me when I say I am grateful to you and all you do. I would never wish you to think I felt otherwise.” She stole a glance up at him, praying he’d accept her apology.
Graham’s dark, irritated scowl melted away, turning almost sheepish. He glanced aside, squinting against the rain as he looked out across the camp. “No harm done, m’lady,” he said without looking back at her.
“Please, Graham. Sit here in the dry with me.” She patted the rough boards of the wagon. “Bateson has promised hot broth and bread.” Perhaps she could bribe him to forgive her tantrum. “Janie’s gone to fetch it, and I’m more than happy to share.”
Graham stared at the spot beside her, then shifted his gaze up to hers. “I should be helping set camp not sitting in the dry drinking broth.”
“I’m sure Percy and his men would be happy to set your tent and your brother’s. Duncan is more than welcome to take refuge in here, too.” Mercy stole a nervous glance around the back of the wagon. There was enough room for both the men, herself, and Janie, but it threatened to be a mite cozier than she would certainly find comfortable. She bit her lip and turned back to Graham. The look on his face said he knew her thoughts as though she’d spoken them aloud. Frustration pricked her. The man’s opinion of her would never improve if she kept behaving in such a manner.
He shook his head and slicked his dripping wet hair away from his face. “Duncan and I dinna have tents. All we need is our kilts to shield us from the weather. We’ve endured much worse than this many a time.”
Mercy couldn’t imagine such. The men needed shelter from what looked to be a long night of heavy rains. “I can’t abide it. You and Duncan must sleep in the men’s tent. I am certain there shall be room for two more pallets.”
Graham didn’t comment, acting as though she hadn’t spoken. She watched the rain stream down the planes of his chiseled profile and drip off the tip of his nose as he surveyed the progress of setting up camp. How did one reason with such a man? Did he truly hate her that much for acting like such a pampered noble? Her heart sank, and she swallowed hard. How could she blame him? He considered her a part of the very same society she hated for the way they treated people. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. She had to prove to him she was different. Better.
“Please, Graham,” she said in a coaxing whisper, patting the boards beside her again. “Please forgive my horrid behavior and allow me to show you I am better than this.”
A gentle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and the dimple in his left cheek deepened. With an endearing growl and a shake of his head, he hoisted himself up into the wagon and scooted to the spot beside her. After a stern glance at the tarp above their heads, he gave an approving nod. “’Tis a sight dryer in here for certain.” He folded his long legs into a loose, cross-legged position and leaned his elbows on his knees. Clasping his large hands in front of him, he stared down at them as he spoke. “Your behavior wasna horrid.” He shrugged. “Ye’re a lady, and me mam taught me how to treat a lady, but I thought to save ye from the mud. Truly, that was my intent.”
“And I am very thankful you did.” Mercy rested a hand atop his arm for the span of a heartbeat, then drew it back. She shouldn’t touch him. It wasn’t proper and he might resent it—especially if he belonged to another. She glanced away and busied herself with twisting the water out of her hair. “You will relent and share the tent with Percy and the other men, won’t you? I can’t bear the thought of you suffering a night out in the rain.”
He blew out what he played to be a long-suffering groan, then gifted her with a grin. “Duncan and I shall make our pallets with the men if that will please ye.”
“It will.” She returned his smile and before she thought about it, reached over and swept his dark, wet hair back from his face.
Graham stared at her, all amusement gone, replaced by something akin to longing in his gaze. “I wish to please ye, m’lady.”
Mercy held her breath, staring at his mouth, mere inches from hers. What would a kiss from such a man be like? She swallowed hard, then raced the tip of her tongue across her lip, already tasting…feeling.
With a slow careful leaning, Graham drew closer, so close she felt the warmth of his breath brush across her mouth. She sensed the raw heat of him reaching out to encompass her.
“Your broth, m’lady,” Janie called out, her announcement shattering the spell.
Graham jerked back and scooted out of the wagon, motioning Janie forward. “Come, lass. Serve your mistress. She’s fair chilled to the bone, ye ken?”
“Yes, sir.” Janie slid the tray up into the wagon, then lumbered up the lowered, rear panel to join Mercy beneath the tarp.
Shaking herself free of the aching disappointment washing across her, Mercy raised a hand to beg Graham to return and share her warm repast, but the man was already gone.
“Hot broth and bread cures all that ails a body,” Janie said as she filled a cup, then handed it to her mistress.
Mercy very much doubted a warmed drink could help with what ailed her.
Chapter Five
A sense of peace fed the fragile tendrils of hope within her. Strengthened her. Lifted her up.
Breathtaking yellows and vivid pinks of the rising sun spilled across the horizon, chasing the last shadows of the night away from the sleepy valley below. A cool morning breeze brushed her loosened hair from her shoulders, ruffling it down her back.
The air smelled crisp and clean. The land stretched green and vibrant before her, washed by the rains and encouraged to blossom by the welcomed warmth of spring.
Her horse nudged her, grumbling for another bit of carrot he knew she had in the pocket of the coat she’d had her seamstress make for the trip. Madame Zhou had thought her mad to design such a garment. Called it ugly and masculine but Mercy didn’t care. It was practical. The ankle-length, lightweight coat not only protected her clothing from the rain and grime of travel but was also perfect to slip on over her dressing gown for early morning walks. Her spoiled beast snorted and snuffled at her pocket again, butting his head against her side with a gentle, affectionate shove.
“Such a pampered boy, my sweet dragon.” Mercy gave him the chunk of carrot, then laughed as he pressed his cheek to hers while he crunched it.
“Dragon suits him far better than Ryū.”
The deep voice startled them both. The skittish mount jerked away, snorting and stomping.
“Ryū, no.” Mercy caught hold of the stallion’s halter, standing between Graham and the angry horse as she shushed and soothed him. “Graham is our friend, Ryū. You must not hurt him.” Poor Ryū. He trusted people less than she did. “Graham is good. Look within him and see.” Mercy believed animals sensed a person’s true heart and spirit. She trusted her stallion’s judgement implicitly.
“Aye, lad,” Graham added in a calm, quiet tone as he held out his hand to the horse, knuckles extended. “I mean ye no harm. To neither yourself nor your lady. I promise, I’m here to protect her.”
The horse calmed but grumbled, ears still flattened to his head.
Graham shook with a silent laugh. “He’s protecting his lady and merely wishes to be appreciated.” He turned and squinted at the dazzling blaze of morning colors painted across the horizon. “And I’m surprised his lady rises this early to feed him treats.”
“I find the gloaming, especially the twilight of early morn, fills me with the inner peace I seek.” She cast a glance over at Graham’s state of dress. “Not a wrinkle in your kilt. Did sleep escape you, sir?”
The Guardian Page 5