Heat of the Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  “Every Scot does. You included.”

  “But—back there, you spoke of barbarism, and inbreeding, and…and filth.” She didn’t have his reserve. She knew it as her voice broke, and broke hard. It sounded like a sob, even to the shell of a woman she was pretending to be.

  “I did,” he agreed easily. “What of it?”

  “Why do you use the brogue…if you detest it so?”

  “You are still not listening to what you hear. We’ll work on it.”

  “I doona’ wish to work on anything with you.”

  “Isn’t that too bad,” he answered, and took a bite of what looked to be a sausage. This time when he chewed, it was absently, as if the taste might be enjoyable, but his mind was elsewhere. There wasn’t a hint of discomfort as he swallowed and took another healthy bite.

  Lisle told herself not to continue watching him, but nothing was working.

  “Do you have an auld pair of shoes you like wearing?” he asked after the fourth or fifth bite. Lisle had stopped counting. The woman she was pretending to be was still watching every movement he made, however.

  “My shoes are auld,” she replied, “and I have but one pair.”

  He smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “Bad example. Better one—do you have a book you liked reading, even when it became threadbare and worn? Perhaps at school they allowed you something?”

  Lisle blinked the instant tears down her cheeks, and licked at them when they reached her mouth, the salty flavor joining the rainwater taste of it. She shook her head and had to wait while he swallowed yet another mouthful of his sausage.

  “How about that MacHugh wrapped bundle of pipes? You treasure that?”

  Lisle’s body decided it did have a heart, and it was huge and full of hurt and pumping it into every portion of her body that she hadn’t been successful at numbing.

  “Are you threatening…I mean, negotiating…over them, too?” she asked evenly, making every effort at her disposal to do it without one sign that her heart was breaking with each and every word.

  He smiled again, and there was nothing warm about this one at all. “If need be, I’ll use anything at my disposal. Anything.”

  “Anything?” she asked in such a careful tone, the word croaked.

  “You. Pipes. Love. Passion…anything. Trust me.”

  Lisle sucked in on his words, afraid she’d heard them wrong, and then knew she hadn’t when she continued watching him watch her.

  “Good. You’re finally listening,” he said.

  “What do you want…for the pipes?” Her being dropped into shards about Blizzom’s hooves, laying bare everything she couldn’t hide. She wasn’t in control of anything in her voice, and the words too clearly showed how much Angus’s bagpipes meant to her. There wasn’t any way to hide the moisture slipping from her eyes in a nonstop torment of blur and clear, blur and clear, and then start again. There wasn’t much reason to hide anything. She wasn’t like him. She didn’t think she ever wanted to be.

  She knew for certain she’d sold her soul to the devil. Lisle didn’t guess that he knew the pipes were hidden beneath her bed. She knew he knew. It was in the eyes that were still watching her. He took another bite of his cheese as he considered it. Then, he swallowed.

  “If I gave you new pipes, would you want them?”

  Lisle shook her head. She didn’t trust her voice.

  “Na’ even if they were the best? The very best?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Na’ even if I gave you enough bagpipes to supply every piper in every glen, and got you permission to play them?”

  Lisle pulled in a shuddering breath at the line of his questioning. He wasn’t threatening her with the pipes. She instinctively knew what he was saying. The relief felt like a cool water wash running over hot coals, and the effect like so much steam dispersing over it, too.

  “I doona’ know,” she finally replied.

  “Would you consider it?”

  She nodded.

  “What more do you need?”

  “To give up Angus’s pipes?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Never to see you again,” she replied.

  A look of such agony crossed his face, Lisle almost felt it. The instant she blinked, it was gone, and all that was left was a shine of obsidian where his eyes were watching her. She sharpened her eyes on him, and the only sign he’d been affected by anything she said was two spots of color high on his cheeks, but that could be an illusion of the light.

  He took another bite of his cheese then, using a tearing motion of his teeth, and even to Lisle’s eyes it looked like it was choking him. He had to turn aside, and she waited patiently until he finished his swallow and turned back to her.

  “I doona’ wish the pipes,” he finally said, softly. “You can keep them.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  “You said that to hurt me?” he asked.

  “Did it?”

  “I’m afraid to answer that, I think,” he replied.

  “Good. Maybe now you can see what you do, too.”

  There were some prices that were too high to pay. Langston had heard this, in one of the dark corners of one of the opium dens he’d frequented, a long time ago, in another lifetime, and when he was playing the part of another soulless addict with open ears. He hadn’t known what the words meant, but had stored it away for future reference. Now he knew what the old, underhand dealing, ex-pirate he’d been keeping company with had been saying. The price for this was high, almost too high.

  He knew it when the pain he’d put in those transparent, sky-blue eyes had ferreted out and sought every bit of him that could feel hurt, and knew it was him who was doing it to her. That price was high. Then she’d said the words that left him feeling like he was cut open and bleeding. He’d rather have taken a deathblow at Culloden than continue doing what he still had to do. She was too volatile. She was too passionate. She was too full of life and emotion and joy and pain. She was too transparent.

  The last was most intriguing, especially to one so used to darkness and hiding and lying. Having passion and abandon and the freedom of showing it was intoxicating to the point he almost forgot time and space and reason in the glory of kissing her and knowing she kissed him back willingly. So much so, that one of his own archers had to remind him of it with a perfectly aimed arrow.

  It would never do. She was too open, too honest…too easily read. She was alive with each and every emotion, and they were so easily seen on her, it was frightening to one who stayed hidden. Why, if the Lady of Monteith was happy, it wouldn’t be possible to keep it hidden. Langston knew it, and cursed himself for the knowledge, and the stamina and strength and all the other words of description he’d just used for her. He had to have all of that. It was the only way. If she was happy, it wouldn’t stay hidden. Everyone would want to know why. It would be questioned. Everything would be looked at closer—including her husband…especially her husband. It would be Captain Barton and his rangers that would do the looking, too, and a Highland laird with what he had in mind was stripped of all his lands and titles, and then his head. There was too much at stake. Too many relying on what he was doing…too much to lose. He couldn’t chance it. Ever.

  There was definitely a price to pay, and it was Langston who had to pay it, and keep paying it. That was the only way he could get the English to trust him enough to sell him back Highland properties. It was the only way he could get good wages back into Highland hands, get food and comfort into the bellies of their bairns. It was the only way he could get the Sassenach to look at, but not see, what he was actually doing, and why.

  It was also the only way he could get Butcher Willie under his control, so he could use him. It was just like he’d told Lisle. He’d do anything. Even if it meant slicing open his heart for the beautiful, passionate, Celtic goddess he’d married, so she could seek her revenge on it. He’d do it. He’d do anything. Still. Again. As many times as it took to get Sc
otland back.

  “So,” he said brightly, after pulling in another dry, tasteless bite of cheese and managing to swallow it by force of will. “Do we have a bargain or na’?”

  “To what?” she asked.

  “You already said you heard me,” he said softly. Then, he took another bite of his cheese using a rough tearing motion of his teeth.

  “You’ve said a lot.”

  He smiled wryly. “True,” he replied.

  “What is it we’ve bargained for this time?”

  “You. Still.”

  She gasped. Her eyes went a darker blue that struck straight to the heart of him, making him flinch inside.

  “Still?” She whispered the word.

  “Oh, aye. I find you very passionate. Very. I want that. I wanted it the first moment I saw you. I want it now. That’s why I bargained for you and would accept only you. That’s why I wed with you. Your passion. I want it. Still. Like in the woods, yonder, only with even more abandon. That is what I am negotiating, Lisle Monteith. Right here and right now.”

  “Now?” she asked, and he had to lean forward to hear it.

  “Aye,” he said.

  She reached for the top button of her dress, but it wasn’t slipping easily from its hole. The rain had made it slick, and it didn’t look like her fingers were working.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Complying,” she replied.

  Langston caught the sound of self-hate before he vocalized it. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lisle’s eyes opened instantly, and she stretched in the big bed that was her own. There wasn’t any man, resembling Langston or not, in it with her. It wasn’t a horn that had awakened her, although something had. She lay, looking up at the long beams above her canopy, and wondered why it was taking so long to decipher what it was. Then, she knew. It was the aftermath of what had to have been the horn, moving like an echo of silence immediately at the end of such a note, through her consciousness, and then her bed chamber.

  She sharpened her ears and concentrated. There wasn’t a hint of marching feet, or horse hooves, or a cadence of drums, or anything other than a large bedchamber with one person in it. There also wasn’t any rain. Morning sunlight was tipping the top of her room light yellow, and from there it reached toward the floor. It was at odds with everything else.

  Lisle felt like she’d been kicked by a horse the size of Blizzom, or worse. Even the motion of moving her arms seemed to take forever, and there was no stopping the torture of memory. He had a wife. Her name was Shera. She’d left him. Lisle was going to find out why, and where she was. Freedom was behind that quest.

  Monteith was a traitor. He was Captain Barton’s confidant. They were close enough to banter words about women. That was horrid to consider. Lisle scrunched her nose. It was almost as horrid as remembering what he’d done when she’d reached the second button.

  He’d grabbed her to him, pulling her so swiftly from Blizzom that her hands had been smashed against her breast. He’d kicked his stallion into a gallop, something she’d have gasped at experiencing if he wasn’t filling her ear with harsh words, said through thin lips, atop a set chin.

  Lisle almost groaned at the remembrance of them. He’d told her she still didn’t listen, and he was not fond of repeating everything. If she had to be a Highland lass, the least she could do was pay attention the first time. He wanted her in his bed…and only in his bed. He didn’t want her anywhere else or any other way. He didn’t want her if he had to force her. He wanted her in his bed, willing and warm, and if she was complying, she’d best wait until they were at the castle. Perhaps she could prepare herself for that.

  The horse Torment showed every bit of the strength, stamina, and speed Langston had already informed her an Arabian was noted for, and nothing could stop it, nothing could prevent it, and nothing could save it.

  The morning silence was unnerving. Lisle lay in the empty bed, watching beams of sunlight crisscross among the beams of wood, and wondered why, if Langston had raced to get back to his home, he’d done nothing more than carry her up the staircase, put her on her bed, and tell her to seek some sleep, she’d need it, and then…he’d stopped at the door and told her only one thing mattered in this whole thing. He’d called it neart aithnich. The Gallic words for power of knowing. Not guessing. Knowing.

  Lisle turned her head and looked toward the entry door, envisioning the entire thing again, despite every attempt not to. Someone had left a torch burning in one of the sconces, and it had flickered on one half of his face, leaving the other in complete shadow. Lisle shivered in her bed, an entire night away from it. He’d looked sinister and enigmatic, and something else…something he’d told her to use all her senses to observe and pay attention to. Beachdaich, he’d said, using the Celt word for that, too…beachdaich; and not just with her ears, her eyes, and what she thought was knowledge. He’d shut the door then, locked her in, and had not done one other thing no matter how long she waited, or how many times she went on her knees, or how many circuits she made of the room.

  She was exhausted. She was insulted. She was hurt. She was shocked. Just about every surprise he’d given made her feel that way, and then Mary MacGreggor was knocking and entering, leading a servant with a breakfast tray, followed by three men, carrying what was either half of a very large barrel for ale, or a large tub. Lisle sat, pulling the covers to her chin. Not that anyone would be able to see anything through the thick cotton of her newest nightdress, but she wasn’t used to having Langston’s large male servants in her bed chamber.

  “His Lordship has ordered you a bath,” Mary called out cheerfully. “I’ve had the water heated. It will just take a moment, and we’ll have you up and about and sitting in such luxury, you’ll cry.”

  She was going to cry all right, but it wasn’t at the luxury. Lisle pulled her knees to her chin, ruffling the almost perfect white span of coverlet into a slope, and watched them. She was totally insulted now. It was obvious to her. He’d called her filthy. He was changing that.

  Steam rose from each bucket they brought in, adding to the heat they’d started with a new fire in the fireplace, and making the air heavy and moist when she breathed it in. Then Mary was sprinkling something into the water that made the chamber fill with the scent of rain and flowers and the same sort of feeling you got when smelling the crumb cakes when they were in the ovens. Lisle sniffed the air.

  “His Lordship has these salts kept under lock for special use. He gets them from that godforsaken land his ships keep visiting. It’s ever so nice-smelling. Isn’t it?”

  “Under lock?” Lisle asked.

  “And I had to access the cabinet by requesting such a thing through that Mabel Beamans. She had to check with His Lordship before she’d grant me access, too. You’d think she had all the power of the household, that woman. I’m telling you. One of these days, there’s going to be—”

  “Why?” Lisle asked, interrupting her.

  “Why what, my lady? Here. Just put your knees down there, allow me to put this jacket atop your shoulders, and we’ll be seeing to your breakfast.”

  Lisle’s face went expressionless as she did the requested move, and waited while another blue wool jacket was draped across her.

  “Why are my bed jackets in blue?” she asked absently.

  “His Lordship wants everything done in blue for you. Everything that doesn’t have clan tradition, that is.”

  “But why?”

  “You’ll have to be asking him that yourself. He’s na’ one for telling me the whys of his actions, you ken? You could check with Mabel Beamans. That woman thinks she knows everything. Why, just ask her.”

  Langston wanted to clothe her in blue. Lisle thought that over and then set it aside. She had other worries, like this bath.

  “It takes a special dye to make them in every shade, too. That was His Lordship’s orders, and they were most specific. Blue. Every sh
ade, every hue. It’s very costly to produce, and takes a flower called a hyacinth. Available only from parts of the world he’s been to. That Persia place…or a place called Africa. Beautiful blue these hyacinth be. We had to hire two more men, skilled in the dye process, in order to follow his orders.”

  Lisle made her expression go completely blank.

  “They’re powerfully proud to be of service, my lady. Why, to be able to please His Lordship, and be able to put food on their tables and clothing on their bairn’s backs is everything they hoped for.”

  “What if I doona’ like the color blue?” Lisle asked, amazed she’d kept the snide tone out of her voice.

  “You…doona’ like it?”

  The thought of saying it to put a large knot in the middle of Langston Monteith’s little plot was almost too delicious to keep silent about. Lisle glanced toward where her personal maid, Mary, stood, and although she’d paused midquestion and her voice sank, she was doing her best to hide it. Lisle put a smile on her blank face, but it felt and had to look as false as everything around her felt and looked.

  “I happen to like blue just fine, Mary. I’m just surprised Monteith guessed it.”

  “Oh! He dinna’ guess it, my lady. That’s what marriage is, you understand? Doing something special, just to show how much you care. Why, I recollect the time my man and I—”

  “I’m actually quite hungry,” Lisle interrupted her before she had to listen to anything more and started screaming something vile that was bound to have both women staring at her.

  “Martha! Step smart. Get Her Ladyship’s breakfast set up.”

  Lisle watched as the servant girl set a tray across her lap, and then put a newly cut sprig of heather in a crystal vase at the corner of it.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Griddle cakes. We thought you’d fancy a change, and since I dinna’ hear from you at all yesterday, you being out with His Lordship and all, I thought you’d like to try them.”