Knight Everlasting

by Jackie Ivie

  There was a companionable silence broken only by the sounds of a large quantity of wood burning in a bonfire amid a muted forest rain. It didn’t last.

  “Kerr tells us you hid well enough, the English should never have spotted you,” Tavish commented to the fire.

  Aidan swallowed. “Kerr has an aversion to truth. ’Tis why he’s gathering the dead with my brother, Stefan, and Heck.”

  “You dinna’ start it?”

  Aidan shook his head. “’Twas Iain. With a whoop and a yell, and a charge, and then they took his head off. Foolish whelp. And damn me for being too far away to change any of it.”

  “What help would that have done?”

  Aidan huffed. “None . . . but I’d have repaid the man in kind, instead of sending a half-dozen others to their maker just for being in the way.”

  “Kerr says you felled more than that. Near twice.”

  “And as I said . . . he has trouble with truth.”

  “Why don’t you stay his tongue, then? You’ve taken men down for less. Many a time.”

  “Because that’s what he wants. Ewan, too.”

  “They want you to hit them?”

  “Nae. They want a full-out beating. I refuse.”

  “Have you been at your whiskey long?” Tavish teased.

  Aidan pulled in a large breath, sighed long and hard, and shook his head. It didn’t help. It was still chill, wet, and dreary. And Tavish was still waiting. “They hid when they should’ve fought. ’Tis why they lived. It was also cowardly. They know it. And they want to be punished for it. To mute some of the guilt.”

  “I’ll hit them for you,” Tavish answered.

  Aidan shook his head. “They want severe punishment. Fit to the deed. From me.”

  “Why don’t you give it to them, then?”

  “I’d tell you it’s due to pure joy that they lived, combined with my newly discovered meekness and compassion. But that would be a lie. Truth is . . . I’m guilty of the same transgress. I canna’ punish them for hiding and then running. I did the same myself.”

  “You had to save them, though! And the lass.”

  “Doona’ color it any other than it is, Tavish. Base cowardice. And we’re all guilty.”

  “You should have sent Ewan as well, then,” Tavish finally replied.

  Aidan grunted. “Nae need. Ewan knows when to keep silent. He has na’ taunted me.”

  Tavish grunted a nonanswer and then started speaking again. “It’ll take most of the night for them to gather our dead and return.”

  “Longer than that. I also want word on the woodcarver. I expect them back tomorrow . . . near nightfall. We’ll wait.” Aidan looked toward the tent and watched it until he saw the shadow pass again. It wouldn’t do if the lass escaped while he was turned careless by the man supposedly guarding.

  “I put Arran to guarding for a short span,” Tavish said, as if reading his mind. “He needed it. He’s off-put by your denial.”

  “He’s more annoyed Alpin got to go. Speak true.”

  Tavish chuckled and then sobered. “It might be dangerous. Sassenach may still be about, killing any that survived.”

  Aidan pulled a dirk from his belt and started twirling it, looking it over for nicks, as if that was all he had to do for the evening. It was easier to talk to a blade. It was also easier to watch his door flap without looking like he was.

  “Well?”

  “They’ve still the castle to take. They’ll put every man on that.”

  “You think MacDonal still has Fyfen?”

  Aidan turned to look at his man. “That clan plays with the devil for sport. You ever hear of a MacDonal giving anything up?”

  “That’s nae proof.”

  Aidan sniffed and looked back to his tent. “I also heard his pipers. As we slunk away . . . leaving them to their fate. MacDonal clan was still defending the castle. They may still possess it. Kerr and Heck will have to be stealthy. Or deal with me.”

  “What of your brother?”

  “They’ve orders to keep him safe.”

  “Nae wonder Arran’s down in the pipes. You made it safe, and let his brother go . . . but na’ him?”

  “He already had a long day. And if he’s true to type, he spent most of last eve awake. Doona’ forget, the lad’s young.”

  “He’s fifteen.”

  Aidan’s twirling of his knife paused. Fifteen? When had the lad grown up? “So . . . he is,” he replied finally.

  “You were wed at fifteen.”

  Aidan smirked. “True.”

  The man shoved a large bite into his mouth and started chewing. Aidan almost stopped to warn him before deciding the man’s silence would be appreciated for a spell. He watched the shadow pass the door again. She was still there, still awake.

  Prowling . . .

  He wondered what she’d look like in the clothing he’d sent her. He hadn’t any intention of dealing with her again until she’d dressed in clothing that wasn’t stuck to her with moisture, skimming curves he was having trouble ignoring, and not unless she had the near-unbelievable color and volume of her hair covered again, and definitely not until he had the whorl of lust banished and controlled.

  There wasn’t any reason for such an issue either. She wasn’t that special. She was beautiful, true. She was solid in the right parts and soft in other perfect places. That was also true. But the lass had also suffered today, and that made any action toward her wrong. Only the basest craven soul would slake his lust on a woman who’d lost everything and was in too much shock to even realize it. Aidan understood that, but his body wasn’t listening. Even now, he felt the heavy pull in his groin and tightening of his lower belly.

  It was hard to fight it out here in the rain with an unpalatable meal and a fire that wasn’t giving much warmth. It would be near impossible if he got near her again. He’d already admitted it and then he’d tried to deal with it.

  And why her?

  Aidan wanted that woman. Physically. Hard. Pounding hard. It was instinctive, and irrepressible, and instantaneous. And massive. And still there, dogging his every breath.

  He nearly groaned aloud, alerting the man at his side. The woman was still working her wiles and he wasn’t even near her. Such a thing was unhealthy and unbelievable. He already knew it happened when he was near her. He’d proved it during the rescue . . . but now? Hours away from her and a good distance of ground apart?

  The urge that had started once he dove atop her wasn’t changing, or muting, or doing anything except increasing. Intensifying. Escalating. Despite his every effort at putting a rein to it. It didn’t make any sense.

  Why her?

  The fire didn’t hold many answers, and he moved his vision back to include the tent door. And her. Juliana. She had a fancy name. Old. Roman. From other lands and other times . . . before Druids walked the land, erecting stones and speaking magic. He knew all that from when his parents had been picking girl names for Arran, since Mum had threatened his father with what would happen if she had another son. They’d been certain that time it would be a lass. Aidan had been ten. And the new child was another son. But Lady MacKetryck hadn’t lived long enough to find that out.

  Aidan grimaced. No wonder he detested thinking.

  He hadn’t much choice tonight. There was only one thing his entire frame wanted action on, and that was being denied. Aidan watched the tent flap unblinkingly until his eyes watered. There hadn’t been any shadowed movement in there for some time. Odd. He decided to wait. A minute. Then, check.

  “Why did you take the lass?”

  Aidan barely controlled the jump as Tavish asked it. The man was gnawing at his joint of meat again, getting ready to risk another choking. Aidan sucked on both cheeks before answering.

  “I dinna’ take her.” But he sure as hell wanted to. And damn Tavish for putting it in words! Aidan gulped. “I rescued her. From certain death. Or worse.”

  “That is na’ what Kerr says.”

  “Kerr. And
his stories.” Aidan started rocking slightly, going to his toes and then back flat-footed. To his toes. Back. Toes . . . It had been half a minute at least. There still wasn’t any sign from his tent. Had she finally given up her pacing, then?

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  “I doona’ ken yet,” he admitted.

  “You already have enough women.”

  “I know.”

  “They serve your every need.”

  “Do you have a point to these words?” Aidan asked. He rocked back onto his feet. To his toes. Back . . .

  “Some of them are na’ going to much like . . . that.” Tavish pointed toward the tent that Aidan was studying.

  “I know that as well.”

  “You can always set her free. Kerr tells me that’s what she wishes.”

  Aidan moved his glance over to his man for a moment and then returned to his tent. The lass’s time was near up. If she didn’t move soon . . .

  “Well?” Tavish asked.

  “Nae. She stays.”

  “Kerr says—”

  “Kerr can say all and it will na’ change things. The lass stays with me!”

  Tavish was studying him. Closely. Aidan fought the urge to return the look. He didn’t know why he’d just responded so vehemently either, but it might have something to do with the fact that time was passing and she still hadn’t moved or given him one sign that she was still in the tent.

  “I’ve na’ heard of you having women troubles afore, Aidan.”

  “I doona’ have them now. I rescued the lass and I’ll keep her safe. Nae matter how much wind is jawed into place by arguments . . . and from whom. Simple.”

  Tavish finally pulled another large portion of meat loose and started chewing, smacking his lips like it was a tasty morsel, silencing the man and giving Aidan more time for pure thinking. The shadow was gone. Still. Had she finally given up her pacing? And if so, had she bedded down on the pallet he’d instructed Alpin to take for her use? Or perhaps she’d decided to use Aidan’s bed, since his bed roll was already strung up, suspended from poles stuck in the ground and piled with blankets. If she’d done that, he’d use the other pallet that wasn’t long enough, nor would it be thick enough to keep his weight from the ground. He might even forgo it and sleep on the ground. Gladly. Because sleeping with chill and damp might help mute everything he suffered.

  Her time was up.

  Aidan rocked forward and rose to his feet in one smooth motion, slipping his skean back into his belt as he did so. He’d taken two steps toward the tent when the commotion started.

  Chapter 5

  Juliana groaned, rolled over, and hit her nose into something hard, sturdy, and cold. She cracked an eye open, discovered it was the little chest he’d had at the base of his bed, and not a male Highlander. A further glance showed the bed in exactly the same condition as when she’d last seen it . . . covered with her cloak. She groaned again and stretched, pretending the emotion was due to soreness at sleeping on the ground and not sheer stupidity.

  She’d known not to close her eyes!

  The delicious aroma of roasting pork floated beneath the tent flap and she sniffed appreciatively. Then she listened. No drip could be heard, and she’d gone to sleep with the sound of running water. That meant no rain. Or if it was raining, it was of mist consistency. That would make it easier to run when she had the chance, but easier to track and catch her as well. Juliana concentrated. She couldn’t hear much except the far-off chirp of a bird or two. And then she smelled the roasting meat again. That got her other eye open, and a bit of salivating to her mouth as well.

  The younger brother, Arran, had brought her a dry, overcooked hunk of meat last eve. It had been served on a trencher platter that at one point might have been a flat fried oat cake. They’d let it get rain-soggy, though, and it sagged between his fingers. He’d ignored her blank look when he’d set it down on this trunk and left. He’d returned moments later with a tankard filled with what turned out to be watereddown ale. Unless she was mistaken at the first sip, they’d splashed some whiskey into it, too. It had smelled unappetizing, looked worse, and if she hadn’t been so hungry, she’d have pitched the whole lot out the door at where their laird sat, watching the fire and looking like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  He hadn’t even the sense to stay out of the elements.

  Juliana had shivered in her double layers of dry plaid, purloined earlier from the dead clansman Rory’s bundle, and still felt the chill. It had to be wet, uncomfortable, and cold sitting out there in the rain, even if it had softened to a continual shower from the pelting earlier. Anyone else would’ve had the sense to sit inside where it was dry. Or under a tent drape. Not MacKetryck. He’d chosen to sit out there by the fire, surveying the clearing like he owned it . . . and that gave him a perfect angle to watch her door.

  She’d noted that the only time she’d peeked, and then stifled the frustration. He wanted to sit in the rain and guard her door? Well and good. She’d been up against more stubborn men. She’d wait him out. He couldn’t watch forever, and Juliana had had all night. All she had to do was get to a horse, get hidden, and wait. She wasn’t going to have any trouble with a horse either. She knew how to ride well enough. It had just been years.

  But that meant she had to be ready to escape the moment he gave her an opportunity. Juliana had sighed heavily, pulled her finger back from the door slit, and smoothed the flap back into place with hands that trembled only slightly. Patience was one of her strong suits. As was stubbornness, headstrong behavior, quick wit, and a wicked tongue. If he knew who she was, he’d probably have heard all that.

  Juliana had turned from the door then, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed her situation. Her shift and underdress were hanging from a hook. Her boots were upside down, near the wall. Her cloak was tossed across his bed, but she’d moved the blankets first. She’d wrung the garment out as best she could, but it was still going to be damp and cold when she donned it. It would warm up quickly though. Highland wool had that reputation. She had her hair combed and plaited again, and felt the satisfactory slap of the braid end on the back of her thigh. It wouldn’t take long to put everything back on. She was only waiting until it was dry enough that it didn’t make her conditions worse. Escape was the plan. Getting ill was not part of it.

  Juliana sighed again. She was going to escape and get back somehow. She didn’t dare do anything else. MacKetryck wasn’t going to stop her.

  And that was that.

  Getting warm, dry, and well fed was an excellent start to her escape plan. And here she was getting gifted with all three every time Arran visited. The grand laird Aidan MacKetryck must not know much about women he was keeping against their will if he was going to supply her with everything she needed to escape him. Stupid man.

  Juliana had moved to sit as elegantly as possible on the rolled-up pallet brought for her and say grace. Then, she’d started munching delicately on her sup. It hadn’t lasted. In her prior life, no one would have recognized the Juliana who’d devoured the meal, chewing venison into a swallowing state with bits of the wet bread, before washing each bite down with ale.

  Juliana moved now to sit on her pallet in the dawn-lit tent and licked her lips in remembrance while she listened to her belly growl. It had actually been the best meal she could remember in a long time. But it had also made her drowsy. That was why she’d started pacing.

  The fresh smell of roasting pork drifted to her again, more pungent this time, and it was accompanied by the faint aroma of frying bread. Or something they were frying . . . Juliana sniffed, smiled, and sniffed again.

  These Highlanders certainly knew the way to satisfy a woman’s hunger . . . if nothing else.

  Juliana stood, untied the outer covering of plaid, and dropped it at her feet. She’d just untied and peeled open the inner red and black plaid layer as a cheerful voice preceded Aidan MacKetryck’s head into the tent flap opening.

  “You ken y
our way about a sickbed?”

  He smiled and ran his gaze to her toes and back after he’d asked it, and then he stepped in. As if he’d been invited. His manners hadn’t improved, but that smile of his sent a lurch through her frame and the heat of a blush right to her cheeks. All of which was unwelcome and horrid. Juliana forced herself to continue meeting his gaze, despite how it started an odd sensation through her breasts, and a weak sagging feeling to her knees. It didn’t seem possible, but he looked even handsomer than she recalled. A night spent in the open must agree with him. He looked freshly shaved, which was ridiculous. Scot men didn’t shave. He also looked like he’d made a further effort at grooming by finger-combing his dark brown hair before tying it back into a queue. He hadn’t taken the same care with his wardrobe, and what he was wearing didn’t cover enough of him. The faile breacan he’d draped about his frame was tied lazily at the hip and drooped from a shoulder. It didn’t help that he’d forgone a shirt either.

  Juliana held the plaid material together in front of her and considered him, and did her best to pretend the emotion was from being caught in such dishabille and not any reaction to him.

  “Well?”

  “You don’t look sick,” she replied finally.

  He grinned wider, her heart thumped oddly, and then he nodded. “’Tis na’ me. For the lad, Arran.”

  Juliana lifted her eyebrows. “Your brother?” she asked.

  He sobered slightly and winked. “Aye. That would be the Arran I refer to.”

  If he teased with her, she was in trouble. Juliana hadn’t any experience with devastatingly handsome men who flirted with her. Nor had she developed any weapon for such an event. It hadn’t been an issue before. None of the males in her past experience had come close to the masculine force that was Aidan MacKetryck.

  “Wh-What . . . happened to him?” She stammered through some of the sentence and then actually colored worse.