by Amy Jarecki
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Meg wasn’t about to allow that comment to pass without an explanation. “No, tell me.”
His hand slipped from his reins and pressed against her abdomen while he shifted his hips again. “Eyes that can claim a man’s soul and hair of fire.”
Heaven help her thundering heart. Thankfully, he resumed his grasp on the reins. Meg emitted a nervous chuckle. Bah. He couldn’t possibly mean a single word. She swiped her hand over her tresses. “I cannot abide my hair. ’Tis as unmanageable as a gnarled stack of straw.”
“I wouldn’t say that—your curls are a bit profuse, but I like a wild mane of locks on a woman.”
He had the most vexing way of making her feel self-conscious. How was she supposed to respond? No man had ever thus complimented her, especially after a glimpse at the claw.
“What happened to your hand, if you don’t mind my asking?” His voice took on that deep burr again.
But Meg considered this a more suitable conversation. “Has always been this way—born with it.” She tapped her pointer finger to her thumb. “The pincers work fine.”
“Is it a family trait?”
“Nay, just a feature of Meg, thank heavens. However, I did inherit a number of Douglas vices, like impatience and an awful temper.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He ran the reins through his fingers. “But if being quick to anger is a vice, then I think all of Scotland is afflicted.”
Meg hummed. “You do have a sense of humor, aye, Sir Duncan?” She craned her neck and looked at him. A flutter stirred deep inside. She could study the dark angles of his handsome face all day.
Dipping his chin, his gaze met her eyes. Alluring, deep mahogany rimmed by black. Everything about his eyes screamed danger. Meg’s heart skipped a beat. Her stare trailed to his lips. The bottom one was fuller—pouted a bit. Her tongue shot out and moistened hers. Duncan’s mouth was so close, all she had to do was rise up a few inches and their lips would touch.
His eyelashes lowered with his gaze. She hadn’t noticed before, but his black lashes were inordinately long. Something inside her breasts swelled. It was unholy for a man to be so indescribably beautiful, yet rugged as the Highlands.
Without thinking, she ran a finger along the angular line of his stubbled jaw. He’d appeared clean shaven in the chapel, but now, a beard shadowed his face. When it prickled her finger, she gasped, not expecting the stubble to be so coarse.
“You keep looking at me like that and we’ll not make it to Peebles,” he said with the growl of a devil.
Meg shook her shoulders and adjusted her bottom in the saddle—right against his crotch. Lord have mercy. She needed her own mount. Being this close to a barbarian toyed with her sensibilities. “Your beard has grown in since we met. I simply found so much unruly growth strange.” There. That should prove I’m not to be trifled with.
“As I recall, your brother had an impressive beard. Surely a man’s facial hair isn’t foreign to you.”
Generally speaking, men’s facial hair had never fascinated her in the least. But something about Duncan’s black beard had wee fairies flitting about her stomach. She mustn’t tempt him. He’d already alluded to his improper thoughts before. “I apologize.” She shifted her hips before she could stop herself. I must stop moving. “Sharing a saddle with you is rather disconcerting. I do hope we can acquire another horse in the next town.”
He tugged her closer. “As do I, lass. As do I.”
Isaac stood at the top of the crag and turned full circle. Hoof prints scattered in every direction except south. Miserable heathens; they’d made his task near impossible. He’d never be able to return to Alnwick. His wife and newborn daughter would starve. Not that it concerned Lord Percy in any way. Isaac clenched his jaw. He bore the earl’s harsh treatment only to support his family. If it weren’t for his girls, he’d have walked away from Northumberland a long time ago.
Lusting for revenge, the earl walked a thin line between madness and sanity. He had his title reinstated, his riches—what more did he need? Northumberland should leave well enough alone and move on with his wretched life.
Isaac stared at the long faces of his remaining men. After they’d crossed into Scotland, he’d sent groups of five all along the eastern lowlands. If they’d caught the marauders on the border, he would have been able to cut them down without creating too much of a stir. But now they were a few miles outside Melrose. He’d missed his opportunity to end this swiftly.
He’d nearly had them in his grasp at the old stable. He could have killed the men in his company. Not a single soldier could fire a straight arrow. He kicked a rock and watched it tumble down the crag. If they’d injured even one of the bastards, he could have returned to Alnwick with his pride intact.
Now the only thing he could do to protect his wages was travel into bloody Scotland in the dead of winter, trailing a phantom. He walked to the western slope and stopped. Only one horse descended there. Meg had doubled with a big Scot when they’d fled the burning barn. Hmm. Perhaps all isn’t lost.
He glanced at his second in command. “Split up. Follow each pair of tracks and report back to Alnwick. We’re too far past the border to fight them now. Find out who the bastards are and head for home.”
“You mean we’re just going to let them go, sir?”
“No. We’ll be smart about it—hit them when the time is right, and in a way to avoid breaking the truce.”
The soldier scratched his head. “All right. We’ll see you back at Alnwick, then.”
Isaac mounted his horse and followed the lone set of prints, praying his gut was right.
The sun had set by the time they crossed the River Tweed and rode into Peebles. Duncan tried to keep Lady Meg warm between his arms, yet her delicate frame still shivered. “We’ll find an inn and you can warm yourself by the hearth.”
“I’m so cold, I cannot imagine ever being warm again.”
He dipped his head until his nose skimmed her tresses and inhaled. Meg’s scent was as intoxicating as a cup of fine whisky. “I ken, lass, but we couldn’t ride into town with you wearing monks vestments. We’d be spotted for certain.” He’d made her remove the woolen robe in the forest, and then he’d doused it in the river. After it was soaked through, they stood on the shore and watched the habit disappear under the icy torrent.
“It would have been nice if we’d had something to replace it with first. I swear, men think nothing of freezing a lass to the bone. Lord Percy locked me in a chilly chamber, and now you expect me to ride through the snow without so much as a cloak. ’Tis as if you both would like to see me meet my end.”
Duncan clenched his teeth and fought back his ire. He didn’t appreciate being compared to a murdering English bastard. The horse clambered over the bridge, crossing the River Tweed. “Enough. You’ll be toasty warm in no time.”
Peebles was a typical Lowland village, with whitewashed stone cottages and buildings. Duncan stopped the horse on the edge of town and looked to his right. A short distance from the main road stood a two-story building with a shingle out front that read, Biggiesknowe Inn.
He pointed. “Looks like we’re in luck, lassie.”
Meg followed his finger. “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”
He led the gelding to the stable around back. After he hopped down, he held up his hands and grasped her waist. “M’lady.”
He didn’t miss the disquiet reflected in her gaze, but she said nothing and placed her fine-boned hands on his shoulders. “You have a firm grip.”
“Am I hurting you?” With the momentum of the lift, he held her against his body and tried to ease his fingers.
Her breath caught.
Level with his face, he stared directly into her eyes. He parted his lips and his tongue grew dry. Then he focused on her ruby-red mouth. He’d never seen lips draw into a taut cupid’s bow as hers did—so perfectly shaped, they begged to be kissed. He tilted h
is head to the side. She closed her eyes and pursed those delightful lips, her breasts still flush against his chest. Duncan’s tongue shot to the corner of his mouth. If he kissed Lady Meg now, he might not be able to restrain himself once they found a room. With a muffled groan, he slowly lowered her to the ground.
She looked up at him and blinked rapidly, then fanned her face. “Perhaps in the future I should dismount on my own.”
Duncan turned toward the horse and loosened its girth, needing a distraction to allay his inappropriate urges. “Perhaps I shall find you a mount on the morrow.”
After paying the groom to care for his horse, Duncan pressed his hand in the small of Lady Meg’s back. “Pull your veil over your tresses and let me do the talking.”
She gaped at him. “You do not believe me capable of speaking for myself?”
“’Tisn’t that at all—but we’ve a mob of angry Englishmen scouring the countryside looking for a maiden with a mane of fiery red hair. We cannot let on who we are. For tonight, you shall be Mrs. Armstrong.”
She tugged the blue silk tight over her spiral curls. “Mrs.? Isn’t that a sacrilege?”
Duncan hurried her along. “Not when you’re running from the devil.”
“I knew you didn’t like my hair.”
Ignoring her ludicrous remark, he opened the door to a rush of warm air accompanied by noisy barroom banter. “Remember what I said. I’ll do the talking.”
Meg rolled her eyes and stepped inside with a huff.
A buxom woman strode toward them holding a pint of ale in one hand, a pitcher in the other. “Look what blew in with the north wind.” At least she didn’t say south.
“Mr. Armstrong, here.” Duncan wrapped an arm around Meg’s shivering shoulder. “My wife and I need a room for the night.”
“What are you doing taking this lovely little creature out in weather like this?” The matron studied Meg, a concerned pinch to her brows. “With not even a cloak—the poor lassie is blue.”
Meg pursed her lips and gave him a sideways glare.
The woman set the ale on a nearby table. “Come with me. We’ll set you to rights.” She tugged Meg from Duncan’s grasp and marched up the stairs.
“Och, where’s me pint?” hollered a voice from the pub.
“You’ll have it soon enough,” the matron yelled over her shoulder. “Bloody tinker’s already in his cups.”
Duncan followed, none too appreciative of the matron’s vulgar language in Lady Meg’s presence. He’d been consciously trying to curb his tongue, and especially did not appreciate hearing “bloody” coming from an innkeeper’s wife.
At the top of the stairs, the woman led them down the hall and slid a key into a door at the end. “Fortunately, we have just the room.” She beamed and pushed open the door. “If this meets with your approval, I’ll have the lad come up and light the fire.”
Duncan stepped inside and gave the modest chamber a cursory glance. “This will be fine.”
“Two shillings for the night, plus a shilling if you want your meals.”
Duncan fished in the leather purse that hung from his belt. “You drive a hard bargain.”
She held out her hand. “An innkeeper’s got to live.”
The three coins clinked as he dropped them into her palm. “There’ll be an added three pennies if you bring our meals up.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched. “Newlyweds, aye?”
Meg clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed.
“Aye.” Duncan grasped the innkeeper’s elbow. “We’d be much obliged if you’d send up the lad with an armful of wood and his flint forthwith.”
Her fingers closed around the coins. “Straight away, Mr. Armstrong. And I’ve got a nice lamb pottage to warm your insides as well.”
“Ever so kind, matron.” Duncan held the door. “A hot meal is exactly what we need.”
He grinned at Meg. Her cheeks flushed red, and she looked as if she could blow steam from the top of her head. If only he could pull the feisty woman into his arms and smother her with kisses—give her a sampling of what it would be like to be newlyweds.
As soon as the door closed, Meg folded her arms. “Only one room?” She gestured toward the narrow bed shoved against the wall. “Exactly where do you intend to sleep?”
Duncan tapped the threadbare rug with his toe. “I can make do with the floor.”
“In this chamber? Pray tell, where I will be sleeping?”
“You slept beside me last eve and didn’t complain overmuch.”
Meg wrapped her arms around her middle. Share a room with Duncan when there were other people around—when she’d all but swooned in his arms when she’d dismounted this eve? “But that was in a stable,” she objected. “With no other alternative.”
“I do not see much choice here, either. Would you prefer to be in a stable?”
“You, sir, are exasperating.” She shook her finger at the door. “You could have at least asked the woman if she had two rooms.”
“How would that look?” He spread his palms to his sides, his eyes growing dark as a stormy sky. “We are supposed to be married.”
Meg cradled her head in her hands. “Och, what will my brother think to know I’m staying in an inn with a man? Moreover, I’ll never be admitted as a novice.”
“I’ll not tell anyone.” He shrugged like a big oaf. “Your virtue’s safe with me, m’lady.”
Meg wrung her hands. She’d been “safe” with him for two days now. No, he hadn’t done anything to compromise her virtue, but he’d alluded to it enough. “This isn’t right.”
“Dammit, woman.” Duncan plodded to the door and grasped the latch. “I’ve tried to hold my tongue, but you have the most annoying way of pulling out the ogre in me.”
Meg clutched her fists to her chest and took a step back. His brows angled down over his eyes, like he was about to hit something…or her. “I merely wanted to point out the impropriety of”—she gestured with her arms, encompassing the miniscule room—“this.”
“Do you not think I ken? If it were not for the English spies fanning out across the borderlands, I’d have delivered you back to your brother by now and you’d never have the displeasure of laying eyes on me again.”
“I don’t—”
Duncan sliced a hand though the air to silence her, then opened the door. “Stay here. I’m off to find another horse and something to keep us from freezing to death before we reach Kilchurn.” He held up his palm. “I repeat, do not leave this chamber. Keep the door locked. Only open it for me.” He started out.
“What about the lad with the flint?”
Duncan stopped. “Aye, you can open it for the lad if his voice hasn’t yet changed.”
Meg stepped toward him, shoving her fists upon her hips. “And the matron with our supper?”
“Och, I’ll be back afore she brings the food.” He slammed the door before Meg could utter another word.
She stomped her foot. Curses to him. If Duncan weren’t so overbearing, she might care for the enormous knight. But no, he continually chose to act like a brute. Presently, she could not wait to return to Tantallon Castle and resume her life as quickly as possible.
When Duncan finally returned, Meg sat wrapped in a plaid, warmed by the fire—and thank heavens she hadn’t heeded his commands. She’d opened the door wide and allowed the matron to bring in a trencher of food, else she would have starved.
He limped into the chamber with a bundle under his arm, frowning like a lout. “I thought I said to not allow anyone in.”
A dozen quick-tongued responses came to mind, but she simply gave him a look—the same one she used when her brother said something entirely exasperating. Then he stumbled. Meg jumped up. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He pushed past her and set his bundle on the table. “Not to worry, ’tis coming good.”
“Someone should have a look at it.”
“Whom do you suggest when we’re trying to keep our identi
ties hidden?” He opened the parcel. “Besides, I purchased a few things from a kindly Gypsy.” He held up a stoppered stoneware pot and a jar filled with dirty water. “A salve and a handful of leeches.”
Meg walked to the table and peered into the jar. “A Gypsy? I’m surprised he didn’t rob you blind.”
Duncan chuckled. “Me? He wouldn’t have survived the night.”
She tapped her top lip with her tongue. “I suppose a knight as large as you can move within many unsavory circles without fear.”
He grinned and picked up the vessel containing four ugly bloodsuckers. “I could put these on myself…if I had a twist-around spine.”
Meg couldn’t look him in the eye. “You want me to do it?” She clapped her good hand to her chest. “I-I don’t know much about healing.”
“Aye? Well, ’tis time you learned—I’ve no intension of being waylaid with a fever.”
Meg eyed the jar, then glanced at Duncan’s backside. A tempest of butterflies swarmed in her stomach. She’d never seen a man’s flesh—never even seen Arthur without him being fully clothed. “Do you think I can place the leeches through the wee hole in your chausses?”
Duncan unclasped his belt. “If only the hole was directly over my wound.” He chuckled. “Do not worry yourself. I’ll keep my back turned.” He pointed at the jar. “Put two leeches either side then swipe the salve right down the middle.”
Before Meg could blink, he dropped his chausses and lowered his braies. Her mouth went completely dry. His chiseled, naked bottom peeked from under his linen shirt. She gaped at the hard lines and smooth, rounded buttocks. The backs of his thighs were long, yet they bulged with sinew and muscle, peppered with black curls.
He twisted around. “Lady Meg?”
Blinking, she jolted and met his gaze.
He pointed to his right buttock. “My wound’s over here.”
Her eyes popped wide. Yes, indeed. It was a huge mass of purple, black and yellow, with an angry, jagged red cut down the center of the mess. She hissed. “That looks awful.”