by Paula Quinn
Who is he? A mystery, that was certain. He had no ranking, no position in the clan, but he had his men’s respect, and Pearl knew how important that was.
The mystery kept her mind spinning for the rest of the day, making up stories and possible names for the silent man before them. It was a much better way to spend the hours than obsessing over her future or what she’d left behind.
The other men seemed to sense her purpose, and drew her into conversation whenever she was silent for too long. Amiable William and kind-hearted old Fergus quizzed her on types of plants and herbs, and they all discussed the differences in the landscape as they rode southward. The land was still very much the same as her home, but soon the mountains would be distant.
By evening, the rain had stopped and the night turned cloudy, but she was unwilling to remove the plaid, even as she became warm inside her cloak. When the Hound finally called a stop, her legs and backside were aching. She wasn’t used to such long hours in the saddle, but it was necessary.
And when William helped her down from the mare, she was surprised by the flash of irritation she felt, knowing it wasn’t the Hound’s hands on her waist.
Hmm.
He kept his distance while the other men set up camp and cooked dinner. Before she sat down to eat, she carefully removed and folded his plaid. When she held the bundle out to him—noting how closely the blue in the wool matched his eyes—his fingers brushed against hers as he took it. That same strange warmth made her skin tingle, and she tamped down another shiver.
His eyes were gentle as he nodded to her, as if he understood her appreciation, and he turned toward the largest pine tree around their camp. It had kept the ground underneath relatively dry and the pine needles promised softer ground.
While eating the stew Mungo had made, she watched from the corner of her eye as the Hound scraped together some of the pine needles, then placed a wide length of oiled leather on top of them—to keep her dry? The plaid went next, and when he stood, there was a pallet set up under the tree.
Because thinking about him was easier than thinking about what awaited her at the abbey, Pearl kept her attention on the man as he moved silently around the camp. Although he didn’t speak, he made his intentions clear to the men with nods and points, and once, a sardonic raise of his brow which had William chuckling and disappearing into the woods.
The Hound could communicate. Simply. But that didn’t mean he was simple. She could sense there was a sharp mind behind those dark eyes. She’d always considered him stoic, but the longer she spent in his company, the less he seemed. He didn’t speak, true, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t understand him.
When Fergus curled up next to the dying fire and wrapped himself in his quilt, William followed suit. Mungo grunted in acknowledgement and melted into the trees—was he on patrol? Pearl finished her evening routine and crawled into the pallet. It was surprisingly comfortable…or mayhap it was just the exhaustion of the day.
She felt as if she’d been wrung out. A day ago, she was a Sinclair Jewel with a place and a purpose in life. Now, she was on her way to becoming someone else, and she didn’t like it.
This is my choice.
The reminder only helped a little. A choice between a nunnery or a distant, unknown husband? She knew she’d made the right decision, but hated that she’d had to make the decision at all.
And Da didnae even say goodbye to me.
That hurt more than leaving her sisters, leaving her home.
As tears pricked at her eyes, Pearl stared up at the boughs over her head and forced herself to say her prayers. More tears wouldn’t fix the situation, and neither would feeling sorry for herself. It was better to focus on what she could do, and she could lift her thoughts to heaven.
Soon, that’s all I’ll be able to do.
No, she had to believe that wasn’t the case. She had to believe she’d be able to do good at the Abbey, the same way she did at home. It was the only thing keeping her moving forward.
When the Hound stepped toward her, Pearl rolled over on her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek and pulling her knees up for warmth. He stared down at her for a long moment, then bent suddenly and flicked the edge of the plaid up and over her.
The wool didn’t warm her nearly as much as the knowledge he was fussing over her, in his own way.
He settled against the thick trunk of the tree, crossing his booted feet before him and his arms in front of his chest. The back of his head tilted against the tree, and she knew his eyes were closed.
So she closed her own, feeling a strange comfort at his nearness.
A rustling in the scrub caused her eyes to snap open again. She stared at the pine-needle canopy for a long moment, but when she didn’t hear anything else, she allowed herself to relax again.
The same sound, a moment later, made her bolt upright. Surely it was just her tangled nerves? Surely they weren’t in any danger?
In the dim light from the embers, she searched out the Hound, knowing he would set her mind at ease. But he wasn’t relaxed. Already, he was crouched, his back to the tree’s trunk, his hand on his sword handle.
Pearl saw the gleam of metal which meant the sword was already half-drawn, and knew whatever was out there, the Hound considered it a real threat.
Neither of them moved for a long moment, and Pearl realized she was holding her breath. It wasn’t until he stood up, that she remembered to breathe again. When he stalked past her on his way to the darkness outside their camp, he gestured downward with his palm, telling her to lie back down.
To sleep?
She sniffed quietly, but followed his command and laid her head back down. But as her gaze followed him out into the dark, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to sleep.
She was right.
Chapter Four
She certainly liked to talk, didn’t she?
Gregor was a warrior. He’d trained for many years and was used to having to go without sleep. Their first night away from the keep, he’d never been able to discover what had made the noises beyond their camp, but that hadn’t stopped him from sitting watch all night. And if anything, it kept him more watchful on the road south.
And because of that alertness, he was always aware of Pearl and what she was doing.
Or saying.
The second day, Pearl didn’t seem to stop chattering. She talked to William, she talked to Fergus, she talked to dim Mungo, who probably didn’t understand half of what she said. She even talked to herself.
And, God love her, she talked to him.
“Summer is my favorite time of year, but spring is just so lovely. Even here, although ’tisnae home, the colors are beautiful, aye?” She didn’t wait for an answer, which was good, because he did little besides nod. “The sky reminds me of Saffy’s eyes. So blue! The twins were born in the spring, ye ken, and our mother named Saffy for her eye color, the same as the Sinclair jewels.” Her laughter was a little frantic, as if she were purposefully chattering. “No’ us, of course, but the real Sinclair jewels, the ones which’ve been missing for so many years.”
When she turned to him expectantly, he raised a brow in her direction, not sure if he was inviting her to continue or to ask what the hell she was thinking, trying to engage him in conversation.
She took it as an invitation.
“I’m sure ye’ve heard the story. Generations ago, a Sinclair laird had the stones fashioned into a massive brooch, which was worn as a symbol of power. But then it vanished, an’ no one kens what happened to it. Our old nurse told us if the jewels are lost forever, our line is doomed.” She paused, exhaling noisily as she gazed at a distant loch. “Only the bravest Sinclair warrior will be able to find them again and save our clan.”
Gregor knew the story, and he knew he shouldn’t allow her to sully herself, babbling away at someone like him, but he couldn’t force himself to ride ahead, to leave her. Not because he was particularly afraid for her safety, but because he liked being near
her. He liked hearing every little thought which popped into her head, liked her insights and observations.
And aye, he liked the way she kept trying to include him, even while she didn’t push him for more than she thought he could give. Her questions were able to be answered with nods or shakes of his head, and what’s more, she had the uncanny ability to guess what he was thinking.
Like the afternoon of the second day, when she’d been singing softly to her horse—as if the animal cared one way or another—and Gregor had heard a rustling in the brush ahead.
Memories of the night before focused his attention on the possible threat, knowing it could be anything from a small animal to a vicious wild boar to an entire band of cutthroat bandits.
With her still chattering beside him, he held up his fist, a sign to the men.
And she immediately fell silent and moved behind him without him having to tell her to. She’d known exactly what he wanted.
When the noise ceased, Gregor had gestured for William to search for tracks, in the hopes of having fresh meat for dinner.
With the danger past, Pearl began to speak again, but not to her horse. No, instead, she seemed to think it necessary to share her thoughts on what the animal might’ve been.
And for a man who lived in silence, he was surprised how comforting the sound of her voice was.
“I hope it was rabbit. I’m partial to rabbit, which is odd, because Agata doesnae eat it. She once became ill after eating a roast, and since, has avoided the meat. But I like the flavor, especially wi’ onions. Do ye think we’ll be able to find some onions, or mayhap Mungo has some in that pouch of his?” She paused for breath, then hummed. “I’m hungry already!”
She sounded…nervous. The way she was speaking, the way she’d been speaking to young William all morning, that wasn’t normal for her. She was usually full of life and excitement, but this was something else.
He glanced her way, wondering if she was only speaking to occupy her mind.
“What?” She frowned at him. “Are ye no’ looking forward to fresh meat?”
One of his eyebrows twitched in question.
She sighed. “Aye, I ken. Ye’re hoping William’s as good a shot as he claims, so we can have rabbit. Aye?”
His attention half on the brush around them, he inclined his chin slightly in agreement.
“But ’tisnae why ye glared at me so, was it? Ye think I’m being too loud, too chattery. I’m annoying ye.”
His brows dipped in. As if she could possibly annoy him.
She seemed to understand. “Truly? Ye donae find me irritating? Ye donae mind me prattling on beside ye?”
This time he turned in the saddle, enough to give her his full attention. He noted the way she sucked in a breath, but dismissed it as him having startled her. Once he knew she was focused on him, he shook his head.
No, I donae mind ye prattling on beside me.
“Truly?” she whispered, as if not sure. “Ye’re not tired of listening to my voice?”
Never.
He shook his head again.
When her smile bloomed, sudden and full, it felt as if the sun had once again come to the Highlands. Gregor inhaled deeply, thankful for the gift of her smile. He knew he’d remember the sight of her—honey-gold hair in a simple braid down her back, her silver eyes bright as her face lit with joy from within.
One corner of his lips raised as well, an unbidden response to her happiness.
Even more surprising, she burst into laughter. It wasn’t the frantic sort of laughter he’d heard from her since they’d left home, as if she was trying desperately to remind herself what joy sounded like. No, this was genuine.
“I am sorry!” she managed to gasp, still grinning hugely. “I’ve never seen ye smile before! Although to call that lip-twitch a smile seems unfair.” She settled back into her saddle, seeming more at ease than she’d been earlier. “’Tis nice to ken ye’re not made of stone.”
Far from it, lady.
Although a part of him was nearly rock hard because of her nearness.
Yesterday, he’d made the mistake of touching her, of lifting her into her saddle. Although she’d been crying at the time, the feel of her in his arms had shaken him.
He was no monk. He was a thief and a villain, but no monk. He gave as much pleasure as he took when he laid with a woman, and made sure to leave her happier than she’d been before. Sometimes that meant gentle touches and soft sighs. Sometimes that meant a few coins and an extra haunch of meat when the hunters returned.
He was no stranger to women, despite not deserving any kind of joy in his life. And he’d known what his body’s reaction to Lady Pearl’s touch had meant.
It was lust.
No, it was more than lust. It was…need. Yearning. Desperation for something he couldn’t have and never should want.
He knew who he was; the lowest of her father’s servants. He was nothing, and had no right to touch her, much less feel such an intense desire for her.
Still, telling his body that, and actually managing to stay away from her, were two different issues. He told himself he was helping distract her by allowing her to talk to him. And if he abruptly left her with the others, as he should, she’d be hurt and confused.
It was his duty to the Sinclair to make sure his youngest daughter wasn’t mourning the past and fretting the future. It was his duty to ride beside her, listening to her chatter and seeing her smiles.
Yes. Duty.
That must’ve been why he allowed her to help him prepare dinner the second night, when he should’ve insisted she rest on the fallen log beside the stream. No, he was thinking about her well-being, and how she’d probably welcome the chance to stay busy and talk.
Besides, William had downed the rabbit after all.
While Fergus patrolled the area and Mungo hunted for hawthorn berries, Gregor squatted beside the stream to clean their fresh meat. The task reminded him of his childhood, when one of Mam’s customers would leave a hunk of venison or string of fish in payment. Although young Gregor had been skilled in his small skiff, the fishermen who went out farther in the loch could bring back bigger catches, and afford to pay Mam. While she’d taken the man into the back room, Gregor had quickly and skillfully skinned and readied the meat for their evening meal.
Of course, that had been in between his father’s visits.
“Can I help?”
Pearl’s sudden appearance at his side—had he really been so focused on his work he hadn’t heard her?—startled him enough to jerk his head in a nod. When she settled beside him, her feet tucked up under her skirts, he pulled another knife from his boot and handed it to her.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from her—his intent had been to distract her. But he’d forgotten how capable she was. This particular lady wasn’t one to sit by prettily when there was work to be done. He’d been loyal to Sinclair long enough to know she was a favorite in the village and farms because of her willingness to work, to get dirty.
The knife—the blade the same color as her eyes—flashed in the evening light as she chopped the wild onions and brushed them from the rock into the pan. Mungo would fry them up, and she’d get her wished-for meal.
“Ye are verra capable with a knife.”
Her comment was teasing, but Gregor wondered if there was more to it than that. He stared down at his knuckles where they wrapped around the hilt of the larger blade. He’d left his sword beside the fire, but he was never without this knife.
Not since Duncan Sinclair had handed it to him with a slight smile and said, “If ye’d had this on yer belt, ye wouldnae be half-dead.”
It had been the first time a man had trusted him, and Gregor was still trying to repay that trust.
He glanced up at the man’s daughter. Her smile was so much like her father’s, it made Gregor’s gut clench. She was a Sinclair Jewel. Not made for kneeling in the mud chopping onions with the likes of him.
As before, she u
nderstood him without him having to speak. She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue.
“What? Ye expected me to sit and bemoan my poor self, when there was work to be done?”
Apparently forgetting she was still holding a knife, she waved her hand dismissively, and Gregor ducked instinctively.
“I’m no’ a shy lass! I can help, and ye’d be a fool not to accept that help.”
Gently, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and plucked the knife from her fingers with the other. Her breath caught at his touch, and he did his best to control his body’s reaction to her.
Lust, naught more.
A cold dunk in the stream was sounding better and better.
He stabbed the blade into the log beside him, reminding himself to clean it when he cleaned his own, and released her. She was breathing deeply, and he forced himself not to stare at her chest, although it was hard. The dark blue traveling gown she wore was modest, but clung to her in all the right ways.
He sighed and shoved the pan with the onions and chopped meat into her hands.
It wasn’t until he met her gaze and saw her pleasure that he realized he was still in trouble.
“Thank ye for trusting me,” she said softly. Struggling to her feet, keeping the pan steady, she smiled down at him. “I’ll leave ye to yer work.” The entrails and skin needed to be disposed of. “I’ll call ye when Mungo says the food is ready.”
That night, he made sure to sleep on the opposite side of the fire from her, but it didn’t seem to help. His cock still pressed, thick and hard, against his thigh, and his mind couldn’t seem to relax.
He had to admit it to himself then… This wasn’t lust. It wasn’t just Pearl’s body, her innocence, her smile. It was her kind heart and the way she understood what he was thinking, and then answered for him. It was the way she always cared for everyone, and the way she threw herself into each task. The way the fire caught the gold in her hair, and the way his palms itched to touch her again.
This wasn’t lust. This was worse.
Because he wasn’t worthy of her smiles, touch, joy, or caring.
