by Jackie Ivie
“You need a rest?” he asked.
The surprise of hearing it stopped everything. She watched the ground and gray sky mesh into a wash of color as her stupid eyes watered up again. She shook her head.
“You look to need one.”
Juliana stiffened and put her shoulders back. If she didn’t blink, the tears might stay where they were. And if she didn’t speak, perhaps he’d get her reply without having to voice it. She shook her head again.
“Turn about and face me.”
If his voice was any indication, he didn’t like the way she answered. She wondered what the punishment for that would be. She shook her head again.
“I said, turn about and—”
He put both hands on her shoulders and physically swiveled her as he spoke. And then his voice halted. Since he’d taken away her choice again, Juliana did the only thing she could. She tipped her head back and faced him and hoped he’d read her reply in her face. She didn’t need a rest. She didn’t need his concern. She didn’t need anything. Nor would she accept it.
She couldn’t tell what expression might be on his face, since he was a blur. She could alter it by blinking, but that would send tears down her cheeks. And then she’d have to admit to them. She refused. Juliana D’Aubenville wouldn’t cry over any man. Or what he might do. Ever. She swallowed constantly and shook in place and silently ordered everything on her body to harden.
He sucked in a breath and then he huffed it back out, sending air all over her. She didn’t have to see it. She felt it.
“You make this powerful hard, lass.” His voice had lowered to a near whisper and he’d stepped closer as well.
Dear God! She was in trouble, and if he didn’t cease, she was going to turn into a blubbering fool. Her knees were already trembling, and each breath was a ragged effort. Why did the saints have to punish her with a storm of weeping now? She’d stood dry-eyed and hard when faced with her father’s murdered corpse. She hadn’t cried when forced to huddle in near freezing conditions in that ancient croft, listening as winds howled through every crack. She hadn’t even reacted when they’d buried her steward. She hadn’t even cried when she’d been unable to find the ring. No. She had to cry now. In front of Aidan Niall MacKetryck.
She only hoped he wouldn’t think it due to him.
“You leave me little choice. You ken?”
He had little choice? That was almost laughable. If she dared let the hold on her emotions crack enough to let them out. Juliana shrugged very slowly and carefully, and felt the difference in him. Good. She’d rather deal with his anger.
“Verra well. We ride on . . . and I tie you to the horse.”
Juliana’s eyes widened, the tears slid out, and he was watching all of it. That made his image perfectly clear, but there was something wrong. The concern in his eyes didn’t match the words he’d just said. And that confused everything. Juliana watched him smile slightly and that was so horrid her heart lurched, alarming her with the power of it and suffusing her with an all-over tingling at the same time. She had to look away. And quickly. She did it too quickly, since the world spun for a moment before righting, and there wasn’t anything to hold on to when she stumbled.
Except him.
“My other choice is putting you on my horse. With me.”
He ignored where she clutched at his folded arm as he informed her of his intention.
Juliana watched the ground steady, and then she eased her hand from him. As if it hadn’t happened. The trouble she suffered was severe, and constant, and increasing. It had Aidan MacKetryck at the core of it. Something was wrong with her to react so to him. It didn’t take a seer to see that. As for riding on a horse with him? In his arms? She’d rather die.
“Where is the rope?” Juliana asked.
Aidan tossed back his head and laughed. Heartily. Juliana wiped quickly at her cheeks with the heels of both hands and had them wiped on her skirt before he’d finished. She almost thanked him. His amusement had done what she’d been unable to. She no longer felt any desire to cry.
He must have sensed the difference in her when he’d finished his amusement. She hoped he planned on tying her quickly, and that it wouldn’t be too humiliating. She could sense the volume of horses and men behind her, and if they were true to form, they had to be getting restless, watching Aidan delay their departure.
As if she spoke aloud, Aidan stepped to one side of her and shoved up a hand. Juliana turned to watch some of the men dismount and start pulling things from their packs, and then settling on the ground beside their horses. Five of them stood poised to one side, waiting. The reason was apparent as she watched. An unrecognizable clansman at the far end of the line of horses started tossing bundles to a closer man, who opened the bundle, took something out, and then tossed it farther. The same thing happened with the next one and the next. When they reached Arran, who’d been the closest clansman behind her, she watched as he loaded contents from the bundles into a small basket. It wasn’t until he brought it to Aidan, who motioned with his head at her, that she saw what it was.
Food. They’d opened and served strips of fire-dried venison, flat oat cakes, and clumps of blackberries. Arran waited while she selected a meat stick and one of the cakes. Then, he gave the basket to his brother. He was at a jog only to return with a tankard of ale to wash it down. It was also given to her. Aidan didn’t partake. A glance showed he drank from his whiskey flagon instead. Juliana looked about at the men sitting and eating. She could hear the slight sounds of movement as they ate, but nothing else. Aidan hadn’t had to say a word. Such discipline was impressive. And frightening.
“I ordered a rest,” Aidan informed her.
Juliana was gnawing on a meat stick by then. She nodded.
“Instead.”
She frowned at that one word, but he didn’t elaborate. He was shoving one of the oat cakes into his mouth and washing it down with a large gulp from his flagon. Then she knew what he meant. He’d ordered a rest . . . instead of either option he’d given her. That was considerate of him. If he showed much more chivalrous behavior, she just might be forgiving him for a bit of his behavior last night and today. But not all of it.
Juliana put her ale atop the saddle, keeping it from tipping with one hand while she finished the meat and started on her cake. It was dry and had hard bits baked into it that tasted bitter. It needed the ale. She gulped half of her tankard down and resettled it, looking through the golden color at the ominous gray cloud cover. And frowning. She was revamping her opinion of Highlanders a bit. They were warmongers . . . barbaric and crude. Coarse. Vulgar. Uncouth. Capable of taking a castle, murdering the lord inside while his family fled, and then displaying his dead body . . .
Juliana took another long draught of her ale, nearly draining the tankard. Replaced it atop the saddle. Looked at the sky through it. Sighed.
She’d repeated that litany through her head too many times and for too long. She was tired of it. And she’d been only half-right. Highlanders were rough, arrogant, uncouth, lusty, and crude. But they were also strong, efficient, well disciplined, and they knew exactly what to feed a female they’d decided to rescue. This was the third wonderful meal she’d had.
She should revamp her anger over Aidan’s rescue as well. She had that decided once she’d drained the tankard, washing down the last of her cake. Then she checked for the berries. She didn’t have to look far, since Aidan was still standing beside her and held the basket out.
And if he hadn’t decided to look at her with one eyebrow raised while she plucked a small stem of them, she’d have thanked him before turning away. He really shouldn’t do that. It stilled a woman’s tongue. And other ridiculous things.
She should probably thank him for rescuing her, rather than berate him in her head over it. The English soldiers who’d retaken her castle hadn’t been asking names when they’d been chasing and slaughtering. Why . . . if Aidan hadn’t grabbed her as he had, she probably would have died. Or wi
shed she had. She popped a berry into her mouth.
“You ever sit a horse all night?” Aidan asked at her shoulder. Juliana jumped and then choked. Then she was sucking for air and coughing. He could have done more than laugh at her, too.
“Why?” she asked, after the wheezing had stopped and she could breathe again.
“I have nae wish to tie you.”
Juliana picked up her empty tankard, turned to face him, and put the uneaten berries back into the basket. She would have put the tankard in there as well, except Arran materialized at her side and took it. She waited until he’d gone back to his own horse before speaking.
“Set your camp up here.”
He pulled back slightly, raising his shoulders as he lowered his chin to regard her from a span of an arm away, looking too raw and male to avoid. He probably assumed such a stance when looking for a fight. At least, that was what it looked like. Juliana shivered. Bit at her tongue. She probably shouldn’t have gulped the entire tankard of undiluted ale but that was hindsight.
“Is that a nae?” he asked.
“Aye,” she replied.
“You’ve sat a horse all night?” He didn’t have to pretend the incredulity. It was in his voice and on his face.
“Nay,” she replied.
“Well, which is it?”
Juliana giggled and that brought his chin up slightly, taking him out of the threatening pose. She found that even more amusing and covered her lips before she sounded inebriated and silly. And then the first hiccough hit, shaking her with it and widening her eyes.
“You’ve na’ drank ale much either, have you?”
“Aye,” she replied from behind her hand. And hiccoughed again. If there was a purgatory before death, feeling this dizzy and happy when facing Aidan MacKetryck had to be it.
“You have?”
“Nay,” she told him.
“Well . . . which is it?”
Juliana giggled again as he repeated the exact same question. Then, she hiccoughed a third time. He swore and she didn’t even recognize some of the words.
He did that too often, and without any reason. She hoped he didn’t do it around proper company . . . and in a proper setting, like his castle.
“Do what?” he asked.
Juliana put her other hand atop the first one on her mouth, slapping herself with the move. She couldn’t believe she’d said it aloud. And if she was capable of doing that, there was no telling what she might let slip. And what he might find out. And what he’d do about it.
“You ride with me,” he informed her when all she did was look at him between hiccoughs. “And doona’ dare touch me.”
Now . . . how was she supposed to do that? His horse wasn’t that large. Juliana looked at where Aidan’s stallion was standing, placidly munching on foliage at its hooves.
“All women ken how. It’s inbred.”
That time she hadn’t said a word. Not a peep. Maybe another hiccough, but not a word. Juliana’s eyes went to his, and the wretch winked. She had to look away before her legs dropped her, but that was a misused wish. She realized it as the gray sky and green grass spun and there was nothing she could do about it.
He had her up and over his shoulder and was walking with her before she reached the ground. Hoots and calls reached her ears over it, proving Highlanders weren’t perfectly silent and disciplined after all, given enough provocation. She just wished it hadn’t been her.
Chapter 8
The woman felt good in his arms. Solid. Lush. Her lips were parted slightly, sending little purrs of sound with each of her breaths. She was a comfortable weight where her shoulder rested beneath his arm, her head below his chin, and even where she’d brought her knees up to prop them against his other arm. She had her right hand open and held against his upper belly as if caressing the flesh. Some of her hair had escaped the braid, letting spirals of red peek from beneath her cloak. He wouldn’t change a thing. She was comfortable and warm, and making his heart experience strange antics within his chest while his breathing wasn’t far behind.
He’d been a fool.
Only a dim fellow tried the love act with a woman who’d just buried her husband. Or brother. Or whatever the woodcutter was to her. Aidan decided it didn’t much matter what the woodcutter had been. He was dead and she was Aidan’s now. And that was that.
Keeping Juliana safe when he thought she detested him had been a severe test of will. Aidan didn’t know how he’d managed it. And it had been for nothing! She’d been crying, making his heart hurt when he saw it. He wanted her safe from hurt . . . and then he caused it? He’d felt like a bull elk. In rut. Without sense or sensibilities. All of it due to a falsehood his mind had conceived. Jesu’! He hated thinking. He should have just asked, or approached her earlier. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She hadn’t rejected him last night. She’d rejected his timing.
He got further proof as the lass accepted this arrangement. She’d gasped when he’d jumped atop his horse with her still on his shoulder, but she hadn’t demurred or argued when he’d brought her from over his shoulder, sliding her into the front of his saddle. She hadn’t fought him when he’d wrapped an arm about her and pulled her back into his chest. She’d gone readily and fully, and even wriggled herself into this curled-up position with a little sigh of contentment that had him openly grinning.
Aidan yawned now, lifted his head, and gave three sharp whistles. Juliana moved, rubbing her cheek against him with her disturbed sleep. Aidan held his breath until she’d finished, and settled back into him.
He slowed and moved left, making it easier for Heck to pass him, taking over the lead. As the eldest of Aidan’s honor guard, he had first right. After that would be Kerr, followed by Stefan, and then Tavish, if needed. Until Aidan had enough sleep and led again. They’d done it often.
It showed.
Aidan knew the change was made and accepted by the increased gait of his horse. Once that happened, he moved his chin forward, settling it atop her head. He thought about bringing his sett farther atop his head, but dismissed it in the event the movement or fresh chill jostled her. The night was filled with moisture, but she still wore her cloak, and how she’d bundled into his arms was very secure and very warm. Aside from which, the rain wasn’t doing more than filling the air with moisture, making a fine mist to coat everything until there was enough of it to turn into a drop and drizzle away. It would most likely end come daylight, if the sun came out and burned the clouds off. He’d slept through worse.
And the girl felt so right in his arms!
Perfect. The word filtered through his head again. She was perfect, and she felt perfect, and what he felt right here and right now as he held her was perfect.
Aidan made the decision to change horses come morn in order to ride straight through to Castle Ketryck. Four days’ worth of riding could be shortened to two and a half if they didn’t stop or set up camp. They had enough food. They had normal late spring weather. They had a change of horses now. And he had a warm, dry, luxurious, private chamber . . . with a large bed . . .
Aidan tightened his arms subconsciously on the sleeping goddess, took a long whiff of her smell, and decided he’d delay stopping and changing anything for as long as possible. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Oh no!
Definitely no. And again no. And another no.
Juliana blinked again and got an eyeful of near-naked chest, since the shirt was stuck to him with moisture, making it transparent and useless as a covering. That was exacerbated by the absence of the hank of plaid that was supposed to be across him but was instead gripped in her hand when she must have used it to balance herself. And all of that was added to by heavy breath hitting her nose from above her.
She had not slept this way. Not in his arms. Oh no.
Juliana jerked upright, the horse shied, and Aidan reacted as if he’d been fully awake the entire time, tightening his hold and pulling her tight against him whil
e the horse beneath them rocked and swayed, and worse. She had no choice but to feel every bit of where he was hard and thick and pushing against her buttocks with his man-rod. Again. The man was an animal.
“Jesu’, lass! Do you always wake so . . . rough?” His voice was a growl of sound, and he immediately added to it by lifting his head and whistling.
“Put me down,” Juliana replied and started wriggling in the event he didn’t understand.
“Give me a—Christ!”
The last was due to her elbow contact where he should have been protecting, rather than using his arms to imprison her. Aidan went concave, trying to scrunch into a bowl shape, gripping her to him in the meantime, and that was just stupid. There wasn’t space on his horse for it. Juliana hadn’t even time to cry out before they tumbled from the horse in a jumble of entwined limbs.
He was probably lucky it was soft, wet, and marshy where they landed, since he was on the bottom, and that just got her more cursing and groaning. But when she tried to rise from him, he just tightened his limbs more.
“Let . . . me . . . up!” Juliana spaced out the words with her struggles, gaining just enough gap for an arm or a leg, before he had her wrapped up again. Her cloak was against her, too, since it had slipped from her head and gotten hooked beneath him, and that pulled and held her shoulders. As well as releasing lengthy curls that had escaped her braid.
“Na’ . . . until you . . . explain.” He had gaps in the words, showing that it wasn’t as easy holding her as he made it look.
“Explain what?” Juliana stopped moving, turned her head to where she thought his face was, and gaped. Closed her mouth to swallow, and gaped again. Her breath caught, restarted, caught again; her heart fell to the pit of her belly, where it pounded with a crescendo of deafening thumps; then an ocean wave went roaring through her ears, blotting that out. She was going to faint. Rage. Scream. Explode. Dissolve.
