Alana stood there, her mouth dropping open. He was naked, completely naked under the blanket. He wiped a hand over his forehead and looked at her. “It is hot in here, even with the blankets off,” he said. “But I can put my tunic back on.”
She shook her head. “Not necessary,” she whispered, turning to perch on the edge, her back to him. The bed was large. Surely, they wouldn’t accidentally touch within it. But what if it wasn’t an accident?
Shoving the wayward thought away, she climbed under the quilt, making sure not to lift it too much. A dip of blankets in the middle would serve as a wall, so she pulled some slack. He’d said that he wouldn’t harm her, and she believed him. Although he had tossed her over his shoulder back at the festival. I hate him. Yes, I hate him. The lie felt hollow inside. For where would little Rose be now without her looking after her? Dead or near dead most likely. Starving, dirty, and jostled until her wee brain was mush.
He lay on his back, hands cupped behind his head, and she was turned toward him, so her hair could tumble out behind her off the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes and lay completely still, her breath shallow as she listened for movement.
“Good night, Alana,” he said, his deep voice making her heart skip into a fast beat.
“Good night, Shaw.”
“Should I kiss ye?” he asked softly, and her eyes flew open.
“What?” she asked under her breath. Kiss her? He wanted to kiss her?
He came up onto his elbows, the blanket slipping down to his rock-hard stomach. Alana held her breath. The firelight played along the muscles of his chest and shoulders. Good lord, she’d never seen, let alone been close, to a man of such beauty and strength. A warrior with a gentle touch, an honorable heart, and…and stark naked under the same quilt as she.
His mouth bent toward her ear. “In case we are being watched.”
“Oh,” she said on an exhale and drew in more air. He’d completely thrown off her normal breathing rhythm, and she was feeling a bit dizzy. It was a good thing she was lying down. “Yes. I…I suppose.”
“Goodnight, dearest wife,” he said, his voice louder in the room, and leaned over her. His face drew near, and she shut her eyes. His lips were soft, almost hovering over her with gentle pressure. She felt him cup her face with his hand, his large body rolling to the middle of the bed as he held her cheek, his thumb stroking it slowly.
She tilted her head, feeling the tantalizing draw of the kiss. Her fingers came up to clutch his shoulder. Warm skin and smooth muscle. Her heart beat wildly. And then…he pulled back.
Her eyes blinked open to see him staring down at her, a slight shine to his lips where she’d just clung. He frowned, swallowing. “I…uh… Good night.”
Her breathing was much too fast, and she rubbed her lips together. “Good night, husband,” she said past the thud of her heart. She swallowed as he turned away from her, facing the wall. Alana pulled her knees in and forced her eyes closed. The bed was comfortable with a full tick, and the fire was warm against her hair and back. She’d had a bath, dinner, and was safe for the night. Still, it took long minutes before slow inhales and exhales of her breath were natural again. Her mind drifted into dreams and deeper still.
The forest was snowy, but Alana was warm. She threaded through the trees after a bird until it landed on a limb above her. She smiled up at it, watching it grow into a hawk, its yellow talons clasping the limb. The bird opened its sharp beak. Waaa. Waaa. It cried like a babe. “Rose?” Alana called up to it as the hawk changed into the little girl, perched dangerously on the branch. “Rose!” she yelled, running toward the tree as the babe cried again.
“I have her.” Shaw’s deep voice penetrated Alana’s panic, and he was suddenly holding the babe there on the branch. “Shhhh, little Rose,” he crooned.
The scene wavered, growing fuzzy as Alana woke. She blinked in the pre-dawn light filtering into the room but didn’t move as her mind latched onto the only thing in her line of view. Shaw’s profile, his features strong, even in sleep. He lay on his back, chest bare except for the baby lying flat against it.
Rose slept on her stomach, her little cheek right over Shaw’s heart. He held her there with one large hand on her back, the dark lines of the horse’s head laying stark on the smooth skin of his upper arm. The design covered the largeness of his bicep in smooth swoops and points. Whoever had marked the pigment into Shaw’s skin had been an artist.
Rose cooed, and Alana’s gaze moved back to the sleeping babe. Shaw had tucked one of Rose’s light blankets all around her over the lace-edged smock that had come in her satchel. The babe made little sucking motions with her lips while she slept, one tiny hand out and curled into a fist to lay against his neck.
She must have woken, and he had calmed her against him. It was the most peaceful and beautiful thing Alana had ever seen. Was this what new parents were afforded every morning when they woke? Clearly not every father spared the mother and tended the baby himself. If they did, she would surely have heard about it. How could a woman not talk about such a perfect vision?
Shaw’s inhale lifted Rose upward, and she lowered back down on his exhale like a baby sleeping upon gentle waves in a warm sea. Alana watched them for several minutes, studying the handsome face of her…captor? Partner? She wasn’t sure what he was anymore. His nose was straight, his cheeks high. Dark lashes lay under his closed eyes. Her gaze traced the white scar along his hairline. Obtained in his youth? But how? His horrible uncle perhaps. Was he the fiend who had flayed Shaw’s back open, the scars still evident?
His lips were slightly parted, surrounded by the neatly cropped facial hair above and below. She remembered the goodnight kiss with clarity, the tickle of his beard, the teasing promise of a wild heat.
“Damn,” she whispered.
“Good morn to ye, too,” Shaw said without moving, making her gasp softly.
He turned his face toward her without moving the babe, his gray eyes open and clearly awake.
“I…I did not mean to wake you,” she whispered. “Was Rose up during the night?”
“Aye,” he said. “But she settled down again.” He pointed at his chest. “She likes heartbeats like ye said.”
Alana, her cheek still on the pillow, smiled at him. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”
He lifted one hand to cup his head, his bare bicep framing that side of his face. “I would have woken ye if this had not worked.” He grinned, his body stretching under the covers slowly so he wouldn’t dislodge the sleeping infant just yet.
“The horse on your arm, does it mean something?”
“Aye,” he said, bringing his arm back down as if to look at it. “A symbol of the might of Clan Sinclair.” His smile faded. The haunted look in his eyes told her that there was more to say within him, but he turned his gaze back to Rose.
Alana pushed up in the bed and glanced toward the window. “Time to get moving.”
“We cannot leave the town for a few hours,” he said, rising into a sitting position, his hands holding Rose securely against him. “The horses are not finished being shoed.”
She slid from the warm bed and crouched to stir the fire, adding more peat. The room was cool, and her toes curled under. “I can feed Rose while you check on the horses.” She kept her back turned toward him, listening as he moved in the bed. She heard him take up his kilt from the end. “You can pretend you are looking at one to buy.”
“Ye can turn around now, lass,” he said.
She straightened, the room feeling incredibly small. The space between the bed and the hearth was so narrow that they stood right before each other. He’d set Rose in the warm blankets of the bed and pulled his tunic over his tan, brawny chest, tying it at the neck. “I will send some food up for ye with some milk for the bairn.”
She smiled, feeling shy, and edged closer to the window. Was it the small room or the sleeping with a naked man or the goodnight kiss that was making all of this extremely awkward? “I will have us re
ady as soon as I can.” She waited until he finally nodded.
“Very well, then,” he said, his words slow. He hesitated but then went out the door.
She exhaled, lowering to sit on the bed that still held their heat. She rested her hand on the sleeping babe and sighed. What would her brother do if he knew that she’d shared a bed with a naked man? And not just any man, but a Sinclair, and not just any Sinclair. The Sinclair. “But nothing happened,” she whispered to the room, her gaze going to Rose where she began to wiggle and would soon wake, demanding milk.
Alana dressed quickly in her blue dress, pulling on the training trousers underneath for warmth. It was now November, and nights were getting cold.
Rose whimpered. “Let us get you changed and fresh,” Alana said. “Then we will hunt for some milk.” Laying out the blanket under the blinking babe, she pulled off her wet breech cloth.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The door swung inward. “Morning to ye,” Fiona called, pushing into the room.
“I brought more nettle tea for ye,” Willa said, following on her sister’s heels.
Alana gasped, spinning around.
“Oh my, little George still has his cord stump,” Fiona said, peering past her. “That has got to come off soon or it will grow infected.”
With such a small space, the sisters were upon them within an exhale, and Alana had no time to grab a clean cloth to cover Rose, and used her hand.
Willa gasped, the cup rattling in the saucer that she held on a tray with some food and a glass bottle of milk. “Little George is not… I mean… He has no jack,” she ended in a whisper.
Fiona’s face had hardened with suspicion as she stared at Alana. She reached out, pushing Alana’s hand away. “That is because the bairn is a wee lass.” She placed hands on her hips, her sharp brows rising.
Alana’s mind raced. Why had Shaw made up that lie? Well, she knew why, but now it was going to make the sisters very suspicious of them. Everyone in town would be talking about a little girl now. Worry tightened her face, pulling at the cut on her head.
“I demand to know what is going on,” Fiona said, her voice higher.
Chapter Eight
“Shhh,” Alana said, stalling while she tried to latch onto a reasonable explanation other than that the infant was the queen’s daughter and being hunted by extremists.
“Why must I hush?” Fiona demanded. “Do ye not want that big husband of yours to know ye have a girl instead of a boy?”
“Uh… Yes.” Alana nodded vigorously, rounding her eyes even more. She lowered her voice. “He wants a son, not a daughter. I was afraid he would kill the babe if he thought it was a girl.” She was painting Shaw in the worst possible light, but it was the first somewhat reasonable explanation that she could use.
Willa gasped, setting the tray down on the hearth and turning in the tight space to shut them all inside the room. “He does not want a sweet little lass?” Willa asked, her question a rushed whisper.
She shook her head and quickly finished tying the new breech cloth into place. “He comes from a warring family and has always said he would only have a son. When my babe was born, I swore the midwife to secrecy and told him that she was a boy. He named him George.”
Fiona frowned. “Well, your man is sure to discover the truth.”
Alana shook her head. “He never changes the babe. Or bathes her. It is all me.”
“But as the bairn grows,” Willa said, still speaking in whispers as if he were listening at the door.
“I have hopes that he will die in battle very soon,” Alana said. “He is quite brutal and wars constantly. He is sure to be killed before the babe is old enough to be breeched.”
Fiona crossed her arms, one hand rising so she could tap her lip in thought. “There are ways to help that along. Then ye will be free of him, and ye can raise your pretty little girl.”
“I…I am most appreciative,” Alana stammered. Was the woman describing poison of some type?
Fiona nodded, her face softening. “I will make something up for ye before ye leave, just in case he discovers your secret. We cannot have him killing the bairn and ye if he finds out.”
Willa shook her head. “He seems like such an honorable and loving husband.”
Fiona snorted. “I spotted something was off from the start.” She tapped her chest. “A sense I have in my heart.”
Alana smiled with what she hoped was something more pleasant than the grimace she hid. Rose began to fuss, and she picked her up, along with the warm bottle. “And thank you for your help with the food and tea.”
Willa reached over and squeezed her arm. “Happy to help, love. We women must stick together.” Good Lord, how many other women had they helped by killing off their husbands? Hadn’t Fiona had three of them before? Willa’s husband, Jasper, better be very careful and obedient.
“When you finish feeding little George,” Willa said, “come on out in the square. There is a morning wedding happening with a small festival taking place. Lots of delicious treats to brighten your day.” She nodded encouragingly. “Gingerbread even.”
Rap. Knuckles dropped onto the door, making Willa jump. Shaw opened it and stared at the packed room. “Just checking to see if ye are ready to come below.”
Fiona and Willa filed out of the room, a look of fierce judgement pinching Fiona’s face. He shut the door behind them. “What was that about?” he asked, frowning.
“They know Rose is a girl,” she whispered. She met his gaze and held it. “And whatever you do, do not eat or drink anything that Fiona gives you.”
…
The bloody morning was wasting away, but the horses weren’t ready. Shaw led Alana and the bairn around the village square while the townspeople celebrated the union of a young couple. An old woman had a stand set up with fresh gingerbread biscuits cut in the shape of hearts. “A love token for yer lady,” she called out as he and Alana walked by with the wrapped babe in the crook of his arm. “Made with fresh ginger root from the boats docking in Edinburgh.”
Alana tugged gently on his sleeve. “Evelyn and Scarlet, the two sisters who started the Highland Roses School, said that jousting knights and their ladies exchanged the spicy biscuits before entering the arena. The spice is exotic and brings heat with it.” She smiled. “At least that is what they said. I have never had any.”
Heat? Bloody hell, he’d had enough heat already. Shaw was surprised that the entire bed last night hadn’t roared into flames with his foolish good-night kiss. What the damnation had he been thinking? That they could be watched? Och. He’d spent an hour trying to cool down, his iron will the only thing keeping him from reaching out to pull the sweet-smelling lass into his arms. Would she have fought him off? The thought made his stomach sour. Of course she would have. He’d abducted her.
He fished two pennies out of his sporran and set it on the lady’s table. “A biscuit please.”
“Ah,” the old woman said. “Young love, and with a healthy bairn already. Ye are fortunate.”
Fortunate, his arse. Shaw nodded and handed the gingerbread to Alana. To outward appearances, aye, he was wed to the bonniest lass he’d ever seen, with a healthy bairn tucked between them. Only Fiona and Willa reserved their smiles, Fiona trading hers for glares. But inside Shaw, war raged the closer he came to Alana. The woman was beautiful, intelligent, and brave. And her kiss had been innocent and more alluring than any he’d ever sampled. And he’d sampled many with lasses panting after him back in the north. Women who liked his dangerous look or felt that in time he would be a chief with a castle, and there’d never been a reason to turn them away.
“It is delicious,” she said, nibbling at the pointed tip. She handed it to him, and he bit into it, the spice pricking his tongue.
“Aye, there is a heat to it,” he said, handing it back. Several men from before the chapel looked their way. Were they discussing the travelers that had come to town?
“Is something wrong?” Alana asked, her voice low.
&
nbsp; He slid his gaze to the milling people near the tables that had been set up for a feast. “We should hide away from here before we become a memorable couple to these witnesses.”
“Let us head back to the inn,” she said. They walked slowly across the square, winding between the tables. A man dressed in bright colors and a pointed hat ran about, reminding Shaw of Mungo’s jester act. The man held a pole with a string off the end, dangling a ball of mistletoe and berries. He leaped toward them, and Shaw picked up the pace, nearly dragging Alana and Rose along.
“You are going to draw attention to us,” she said out of the side of her mouth, a tightness in her smile.
“Kiss the lass,” the jester called, his voice loud. Shaw glanced up and saw him holding the kissing ball over Alana’s head. Mo chreach. “’Tis tradition at weddings. Go ahead.”
Gazes were beginning to turn toward them. If he didn’t kiss her, they would surely cause even more of a spectacle.
“A lush one for yer lush wife,” the jester demanded. “For giving ye a wee bairn.”
“Aye, on the lips,” another man said, lifting his mug of ale in a gesture of good health. “Sláinte!”
He looked at Alana and saw a gentle blush stained her cheeks. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
Och, she was lovely, the sun glinting off her fresh hair and smooth skin as she looked up at him. With the bairn nestled snuggly on his arm, he pulled her close. She pressed her body up against him and tipped her face up to his, her lips slightly parted. Her long lashes lowered to close, her whole countenance open and wanting his kiss, even if it was a complete farce. His hand came up to cup her cool cheek, and he lowered down to meet her lips, kissing her.
A heat roared up within him, making his muscles tighten, his fingers itching to thread through the silky waves of her hair. In those few seconds, oaths melted away under the taste of her, sweetness and gingerbread spice and something more, something completely Alana. Convictions and truths, right and wrong, strategies and intricate plans dissolved away with the feel of her cheek in his palm and the gentle press of her lips on his.
The Highland Outlaw Page 11
