by Jackie Ivie
He pursed his lips into a kissable shape, creating a sensation almost worse than when he smiled. The shiver went shooting down to her toes and back before centering right at her nipples, making them rigid and sensitive against the wool. Juliana had no choice. She pulled the ends of her plaid covering up as she crossed both arms about her. He shifted his gaze momentarily to her move, as if evaluating it, and then he was right back to gazing at her.
“Well?” she asked.
He took a step farther into the tent, which she already knew was six paces deep and five paces across, and that only if she took small steps. His move made it look even smaller as his head grazed the roof. Juliana didn’t back from him, not because she didn’t want to, but because he’d managed to affect her knees now to the extent her legs were jittering, too. He was also heating up the enclosure, or something else was happening, since the flush covering her entire body was sweat-starting. The sensation of warmth radiating from him had an intriguing aroma, too. She couldn’t avoid it since every indrawn breath was coming in rapid succession.
“Well,” he replied finally, and pulled in a big enough gulp of air that his chest lifted with it.
Juliana’s lips parted, she reached her tongue tip to the upper one, and then her eyes widened as his body seemed to react, pulsing in place. And then he released his pent-up breath, narrowing his eyes and lowering his chin at the same time. The look he gave her made the earlier sensations a rehearsal for the torrent of heat that spiked all the way through her. She had no choice. Juliana tightened her arms, backed up a shaky step, and tripped, dropping with a graceless plop onto his cot. Worse was when she released the material wrapped about her in order to hold to the sides of his bed as it rocked, crazily tipping her before righting again.
None of which went unnoticed by him.
His glance flickered to throat and cleavage flesh she couldn’t cover fast enough. And then he lifted that one eyebrow and smiled. This one didn’t have any mirth to it at all and instead looked predatory and sinful. Wicked. Elicit. Male. Primed . . . His plaid was warping into a haphazard pattern where the material hugged his loins, too, catching her eye on the enlarging mass of material, and making everything on her body warp with it. Juliana had never felt as she did now, and it was an all-over emotion—agitated, excited, anxious, tense. Edgy. Frightened.
“Aidan!”
His head cocked sideways with the shout, releasing her from his attention, and Juliana sagged before she caught the motion. She used the next few moments to grip her covering closed clear to her jaw, and steadfastly waited through his evaluation when he saw it. The man had that devilish ability to raise just one brow, and he was still wielding it, pinning her in place and making it difficult even to think of breathing.
“What does she say?”
The speaker was close, if sound was any indication. Juliana watched Aidan take a couple of deep breaths, and when he’d finished, he lifted his head from the visceral stance he’d been in. It felt like further release as he looked down at the ground and stepped back to his original spot. This time when he looked back at her, there wasn’t one expression on his face. Then he turned his head and yelled an answer.
“Give me time to ask . . . Tavish!”
MacKetryck’s yelling voice was loud in the amount of space he’d had to give it. If she hadn’t been holding on to the material wrapped about her, she’d have her hands to her ears. She settled for scrunching up her shoulders. He’d turned back to her and saw that, too. Then he cleared his throat.
“Well?” he asked finally, in his usual tone.
“You’ve said that . . . already,” she replied. As a flippant remark, it failed. It was too breathless and had a gap in it. She didn’t need his instant eyebrow lift to know of it.
“Aye.”
“And?” she asked, pulling the word out so he’d explain.
“’Tis my brother.”
“Arran?”
“Aye. Arran.”
“He’s . . . ill?” Juliana questioned since all he did was answer in small sentences that told her nothing.
“Hurt.”
“How?” That word put her lips in a pout. She watched him glance there and stop midbreath, before looking over her shoulder. She had to wait for him to finish his exhalation before he spoke again.
“He took a wild boar down. Last eve.”
“Oh.” That explained the delicious aroma. And if she was in time to prevent the overcooking, it would probably taste as good as it smelled.
“His first,” Aidan continued.
“How bad?”
“He did well. But he was na’ prepared.”
“How bad . . . is he hurt?” Juliana clarified.
He touched his glance to her and then moved it to the material of the tent behind her head again. Then he shrugged. “Na’ bad. I’ve seen worse. Had worse. By far.”
“Then why do you need me?”
A half-smile played about his lips, but the moment he looked at her, the flash of amusement died, fading to a blank look. “Arran thinks it bad. Verra bad.”
Juliana nodded. “So . . . what do you need of me?”
This time his grin was wide enough to show teeth, and she wasn’t ready for it. Juliana’s eyes went huge, the hand holding the material at her throat trembled, and she watched as he took in all of it. And then reacted. His grin died as he lowered his chin and narrowed his cheeks, before turning his head sideways to her. Juliana watched as a dark rose shade suffused him, and it looked to be originating from the middle of his chest.
“Aidan! Are you going to take all day? The lad’s groaning away still.” The tent flap moved and a strange man stuck his head in, nodding at her before turning his attention to his laird. “Powerful groans,” he finished.
“Where is he hurt?” Juliana stood, holding her covering with one hand while pulling the cloak out from beneath her with the other one. No one offered to help her toss it over her shoulders, but she wouldn’t have accepted if they had.
“The lad’s a bit . . . bruised,” Aidan supplied.
“There is na’ much you can do for bruising. Have you tried cold water?”
“Aye,” the man at the door replied.
“Does it need to be wrapped then?” Juliana asked.
Both men chuckled, sobered, and then guffawed again. Stopped. And then looked embarrassed. Totally embarrassed. Juliana folded her arms and regarded them.
“Nae. We’ve . . . na’ tried wrapping it,” Aidan finally replied.
“Then what do you expect of me?” she asked.
The man at the door answered her. “Well . . . you see . . . ahem. It’s na’ so much that he needs the bruising attended to, as he needs the fact he’s injured attended to.”
“Where is he injured?” Juliana asked.
Both men cleared their throats. Neither one replied. She noticed that neither of them would meet her eye either. Both seemed to be blushing now. Juliana raised her eyebrows.
“Oh,” she finally said.
The man at the door grunted. “Name’s Tavish,” he supplied. “And we were thinking if Arran had a bit of sympathetic . . . female about . . .”
“He’d stifle the groans?” she finished.
“I think he’ll appreciate the company.” The man at the door was openly grinning. Juliana nearly returned it.
“Well then, cease delaying me. Take me to him.”
The thin man pulled his head out of the door and opened it. MacKetryck preceded her out of the tent, but he was waiting when she exited. He wasn’t the only one. There were another three men standing about, looking like they’d just come to their feet. Juliana watched as they doffed tams and straightened kilt bands, and nodded at her. She turned away quickly.
“Come. We’ll do introductions later. I’ll see you to Arran.”
He didn’t wait to see if anyone agreed, but she already knew he expected complete obedience from his clan. And her. She wouldn’t argue it anyway. She didn’t want introductions either.
She heard Arran before she saw him. He was in the large tent closest to the horses. He lay on a cot facing the side of the tent and he was rocking in place while voicing soft heartrending groans. Either they’d lied about the extent of his injury, it was more severe than they’d known, or Arran was the weak sort. Juliana didn’t know anything about wounds to a man’s groin, but her heart immediately pulsed at the agonized sound as Aidan lifted the door flap.
“Arran, lad! Look!”
The young man rolled his head toward them. His face was lined with pain, but there wasn’t a tear in sight. She’d guessed him as a young lad yesterday. Now, she knew the truth. He wasn’t much younger than her seventeen years. He was as handsome as his older brother, too.
“I’ve brought you a visitor.”
“I-I-I doona’ wish—” His voice stopped when he saw her.
“This is Juliana.”
“Na’ her. Aidan! Why-why-why did you-you-you have to bring a-a girl?” He put such contempt on the last word that Juliana stopped, went to her full height, crossed her arms, and raised her brows.
“Now, Arran. This is na’ just any lass. This is the one I rescued.”
“I-I-I already ken . . . who she is.” She watched Arran ease onto his back and lift into a semisit when he got there, scowling as he punched a roll of blanket into a back support to lean on, and catching his breath as he did it. He sounded slightly less pained, though.
“She wished to thank you firsthand for the fresh meat. How could I tell her nay? She’s my responsibility now. I doona’ take those lightly.”
“Thank you-you-you . . . for visiting,” Arran remarked and turned his head dismissively. He hadn’t put much groan to the words. It was clear he wanted time with his self-pity. And he didn’t want her. Juliana knew she wasn’t wanted. Aidan must be immune.
“I’ll have a joint of meat carved and brought in for you two. Gregor is handling the cooking. ’Twas a nice-sized boar you got, Arran. Nice-sized. Fit for bragging. Especially with the way you took it.”
“I’m ru-ru-ruined, and you wish t-t-to-to brag?” the lad asked.
“What? I’ll be crowing over how you took such an animal with only a skean and little warning. That’s what I’m for bragging.”
The lad smiled a bit with the praise.
“As to the other . . . the ruined part? I believe we’ll just pass on that. Fair?”
The lad nodded after a moment. Juliana silently agreed. She didn’t want to discuss anything of his injury. She didn’t even know what to say over it.
“Then why-why-why did you bring her?”
“Juliana wanted a bit of companionship.”
“What’s wrong with yours?” his brother asked.
“Plenty.”
Juliana and Aidan said it in unison, and that surprise was added with the wide-eyed locked gaze that followed it. His left eyebrow was lifted again, and the man was too handsome for such an expression. She felt burned. Scorched. Sweat beads broke out near her hairline with the force of it. Then Arran coughed and Juliana looked away. There wasn’t anything she could say. Looking at Arran was far safer, and her presence might be doing some good after all. The young man had moved into a full sit, propped against the bed roll, and had only the slightest grimace on his face as he finished.
“She does-does na’ seem to-to-to fancy you much, Aidan,” he remarked.
“True.”
“Why?” He was asking Juliana.
“I’m auld,” Aidan answered.
Arran looked skeptical. It was probably the match to Juliana’s expression. “You’ve ten years on me. That’s na’ auld.”
“To a young lass, it is. Trust me. I’ll leave you two now and see what’s taking Gregor so long.”
“What am I to-to do with her?” the lad asked.
Aidan was hiding a grin. Juliana didn’t find anything amusing.
“Talk. Visit. Eat.”
Watch. Guard. Detain.
Her mind gave her the words as she stood mutely considering the entirety of Aidan MacKetryck’s trick. She couldn’t believe she’d been so witless and walked right into it. Juliana put every bit of ire she felt to the look she gave him. He smiled broader. And then he winked.
“You’ll call out for anything, Arran?” he asked.
“But Aidan! Wh-Wh-What does a lass . . . t-t-talk of?”
Juliana spied a trunk, the match in size to the one she’d bumped her nose into earlier, and walked over to it. She had it pulled into position next to Arran’s cot and was preparing to perch atop it before she spoke again. She ignored Aidan . . . completely and totally.
“I’m certain you’ll find something. Lasses like flattery. You could try that.”
“A-A-Aidan.” The young man was embarrassed. It was in his voice and on his flushed face. Juliana glanced at him and then away. The emotion did nothing to hamper his comeliness. It probably increased it, if she was a young woman with nothing more on her mind than keeping an injured, handsome lad company for the day.
She settled onto the trunk, although it was too short and her knees were near her chest. “Oh. We’re going to have a very nice talk, Arran. For most of the day, while I wait for my clothing to finish drying . . . and you to tire,” Juliana informed him.
“And our dead to arrive. So we can bury them,” Aidan added.
Juliana gasped. His voice held more than just words. It held raw emotion. She did her best to pretend she hadn’t heard it, although the trill of gooseflesh down her spine was impossible to ignore.
“I’ll be-be-be up by then, A-A-Aidan. Swear,” Arran told him.
“I ken as much. In the meantime, enjoy your rest. And your company.”
“So . . . wh-wh-what do you w-w-want to talk of?” Arran’s stutter was even more pronounced when he looked at her through the talking. It took a while to get the sentence out. Juliana calmly waited, with her head cocked and her hands folded atop her knees, giving him her full attention.
“Oh . . . we’re going to talk of your eldest brother,” she replied. “What else?”
Arran was looking over her shoulder at his brother. She didn’t have to check. She knew.
Chapter 6
Juliana attended the burial and consecration, despite every effort at avoiding it. She hadn’t much choice, since her captor seemed to know everywhere she was, and when. Even now he hovered at her side, making certain of her attendance. She wasn’t singled out, since she’d heard him order them all there, but it felt like it.
Usually in the aftermath of battle, the dead were buried where they fell. Or the bodies were burned. Or left to rot. Or displayed as a warning.
Juliana sighed. Nothing was usual about this. Thanks to her talk with Arran, she knew the difference. And she knew why.
Arran MacKetryck had been a font of information without asking for any of it. Once he got some food and three tankards of ale into him anyway. He’d spent the morn and into the afternoon regaling her with stories, and he’d lost most of his stuttering as well.
Juliana now knew MacKetryck land was north of Inverness, well away from any wars and conflicts over the Scot throne. They didn’t worry over who claimed kingship since the Norman line died away. Could be John Balliol for all they cared, although the rebellion had faltered, leaving Dunbar Castle, Edinburgh Castle, Stirling Castle, and Perth Castles in English hands; could be Robert Bruce, although he’d lost the great cause five years earlier in the vote for Balliol. The fact that it was now King Edward taking, and killing in the taking, was just further reason to avoid the Sassenach.
Arran rarely heard of such doings. In the Highlands, land and property were a fluid affair and always fought over. One man claiming total rule meant little. Proving the rule was what mattered. Aside from which, the best challenge and win was over another Highland clan. Always. Anything else was of little value. This included English-held properties, with the effeminate, overpowdered, and frilled lords and sheriffs that owned them. English landowners were detested. As were
any Lowlanders that welcomed them.
So it was with Clan MacKetryck.
They hailed from the farthest reaches north, from a bastion called Castle Ketryck. It was named after some forebearer, who’d killed a Viking king in order to possess it. Arran didn’t remember the Viking king’s name and Juliana had stopped him from yelling for Aidan to get the information. It didn’t matter. All that mattered to her was time passing.
According to Arran, the name “Ketryck” had been changed sometime in the past to the surname “MacKetryck,” since the “Mac” stood for “son of.” Juliana hadn’t known that. She didn’t know much about Highlanders at all. With her upbringing, it wasn’t possible to come into contact with one of them long enough to learn any of this.
As the only daughter of Baron D’Aubenville, and heiress to all his holdings, Juliana had been well above any contact with them. Previously.
So Juliana nodded and frowned and listened or pretended to listen, and all the while she felt the time passing. A weight of time. A solid thickness of time. A whole span of time that no one could gain back. Her father would be awake in his grave if he knew where his daughter was and with whom.
If they’d put him in a grave after displaying him atop Fyfen Castle gatehouse.
Juliana swallowed to kill the bitterness of her thoughts and went back to listening and nodding . . . and waiting.
According to Arran, Castle Ketryck had been started by Norsemen, using gray stone that matched the rock it perched atop. The MacKetrycks had enlarged and fortified it in the centuries since then. Their castle was now the finest ever built, strong. It was impregnable. Insurmountable. Inescapable.
Or Arran was one for faery tales.
Juliana didn’t discount it, since his description made her own holdings small and insignificant . . . or what would again be her holdings if the English had won . . . and if she could get back there before much more time passed. And if her betrothal to Sir Percy Dane still stood. And if the D’Aubenville steward posing as a woodcutter had escaped the carnage. And if a thousand other things could be handled . . . once she escaped Aidan MacKetryck’s captivity and could attend to them.
