by Suz deMello
“Come noo,” Dugald said to her. “These fools are becoming too rowdy for the likes of ye. They doonae deserve yer company.”
Amid more laughter, he escorted Alice upstairs to the private room he’d bespoken for her to ensure her safety, then went back downstairs. He sent a message to milaird that he’d accomplished his mission, adding a few details about the educated Sassenach governess he’d hired. Later, after he’d finished his ale, he wondered if he should check on her welfare.
But when he stood outside her door, he hesitated. Would he compromise her honor if he spoke with her alone in her room? If she were a clanswoman, he wouldnae worry for a moment, but she was a Sassenach lady and they had different standards.
He chided himself for acting like a shy boy. She was the bairns’ new governess, nothing more. Would he hesitate to knock at her door if she were Grizel or Fenella? Of course not.
He lifted his clenched fist and rapped. After a few moments, the metal latch scraped aside and the door opened.
Her hair was free of the tight bun that had confined it earlier in the day, and now flowed around her face in soft, abundant waves. He hadn’t noticed before how it shone, satiny and smooth. With her hair free, her fragrance surrounded him, emanating from the locks the way the sun radiated its life-giving glow. She wore a gray, robe-like garment as effective at covering her as a Papist nun’s habit. He told himself to focus on her face, not to try to discern the lines of her body beneath the swaths of drab fabric.
Her mysterious visage intrigued him, its stillness concealing whatever she thought. Still waters run deep, he thought, and this lady has a stillness aboot her that conceals her true self. What does she hide, he wondered, and why?
And why did he want her? A scrawny lass, she was, with no flesh on her to pillow himself on. A little brown mouse of a woman with no tits or hips.
He jerked his gaze back to her face again. Her steady eyes regarded him, revealing nothing. P’raps that was the reason she distempered him. Every other woman he’d known was an open book. This lassie was like a cabinet of curiosities, in which all manner of remarkable trinkets and charms might be found.
He’d cover his discomfort with brusqueness. Yes, he decided, that would work. No one could know of his inexplicable attraction to drab Alice Derwent, the bairns’ governess. “Are ye all right?”
“Of course,” she answered, her voice and demeanor composed.
But Dugald sensed that something was amiss with the lady. He could hear her pulse flutter, scent her femininity. See the slight flush coloring her pale cheeks.
Did he arouse her? Or p’raps she was, beneath her drab exterior, one of those females who was in a constant state of heat. She was the right age.
“Do ye…do ye need a maid to help ye?”
Her tinkling laugh was a little crazed, and he hoped he had not hired a madwoman to tutor milaird’s bairns. She had appeared sane, back at the mop fair, though her companions had seemed a little…off. He’d attributed their peculiarities to the strangeness of Lowlanders. They were from the university, so they’d be even odder than most. Mayhap the lassie had merely appeared normal by comparison.
“Nay, no maid. I’ve always done for myself.”
Her mirth had subsided and he relaxed a fraction. But he hoped she wouldn’t burst into crazed laughter again. Best to let her be. “Verra well, then, mistress—”
“Oh, I’m no man’s mistress.” Her eyes rounded and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
He couldn’t help chuckling at her mortification. “Not for want of suitors, I trow.”
“What?”
“Have ye not eyes? And ye’re an educated lady, besides.”
“Few men want a spouse with more book-learning than they.” She’d become quite sober.
“That’s foolish. Mayhap it’s the thrifty Scot in me, but the man who woos and wins ye gets a wife and a governess both.”
Was he flirting? P’raps. Improper words, but he didnae care. The lassie needed a friend and, though he wanted more, for the now friendship would do. And then there was that aroma, that elusive fragrance she exuded that called him like a siren’s appeal.
“Most men do not think as you do, sir.”
She swayed and he caught her around the waist. “Careful, mistress, ye’ll fall.” He led her into her room, toward the only chair, a three-legged wooden stool set in front of the dresser.
“How aboot a wee dram? ‘Twill settle your nerves, and ye’ll sleep like a newborn bairn.” He reached into his sporran and took out his silver flask, offering it to her.
She unscrewed the cap and sniffed delicately, wrinkling her nose. “I’ve never taken strong spirits.”
“Ye will in the Highlands. ’Tis getting on to winter. ’Twill be cold. Ye’ll find Kilburn Castle to be cozy and warm, though.” He smiled at her. “We’ll take good care of ye, ye can be sure of that.”
“I don’t have many warm clothes. We…my father and I…didn’t anticipate staying in Scotland beyond the summer.” Her voice was forlorn.
He remembered her dark garb. “And he passed on.”
“Yes.”
That one word held a world of grief. He knew that from experience, and gentled his voice. “I ken, and I’m sorry for your loss. But doonae worry. Milaird and milady gave me siller to get you properly kitted out for the winter.” He couldn’t resist taking her small, cold hands to chafe, even though he knew that his bigger palms held little warmth.
He didnae ken for certain, but suspected that he took after his da and grandda. He would live long, if nourished by the blood. His skin would always remain cloud-white and ice-cold, his hair midnight-black with few aging strands until he was quite old.
And he would go mad when he marked a century of life, destined to watch those he loved waste away and die.
Alice sniffed at the flask’s open neck. “It smells like a marsh.”
“It’s made with water from the lochs and bogs. ‘Tis quite peaty.”
“You’re giving me a drink made from…from bog water?” Her voice rose to a squeak.
He chuckled. “Try it.”
“Oh, all right.” She didn’t want to insult his offer—he truly was kind—so she gulped down some of the foul-smelling fluid.
And immediately choked and coughed, spewing some of the whisky out onto Dugald Kilburn’s formerly immaculate white shirt front.
“Rach air muin!”
She controlled her coughing. “I’m so sorry! P’raps I can tidy this up.” Standing, she reached for the pitcher on the dresser, remembering that some warm water had remained after she’d washed. She spilled some over a clean, folded cloth and dabbed the wet fabric over the spray of golden droplets that soaked Dugald’s shirt.
As the yellowish whisky dissipated, moisture spread over the linen, sticking it to his body.
She could see the shape of a muscle in his chest, like a rounded-off square. As she ran the cloth over the area, she became aware of the solidity of the flesh beneath her fingers. Stifling a gasp, she jerked her hand away. The wet linen revealed a circular disk in the middle of the rounded square of muscle. No doubt another reposed on the other side of Dugald Kilburn’s chest.
An unsteady pulse throbbed between her legs amidst a peculiar, hot tingle.
To take her mind off that strange feeling—a feeling that had been haunting her for a long, long time—she looked again at his chest and dabbed at it some more with the wet cloth.
Bad idea, that. For along with the dampening and clinging of the linen came more details. First there’d been his…his nipple, and now she could see…well, she was almost certain that she could discern hair.
Dark, curling hair that stretched in an irregular mat from nipple to nipple.
“Mother of mercy,” she breathed.
He frowned. “Be ye a Papist, then? The nearest chapel is a long ride away from the castle, and we’re none too friendly with the Gwynns.”
“The…the Gwynns?”
“The clan to
our north. A few years ago their chieftain took it into his head to attack Kilburn Castle.” A scornful smile curled his lips. They were very nice lips, despite the scornful smile.
She cleared her throat. The dregs of whisky burned. “I take it that the Gwynns were repulsed?”
“Aye, and had to pay much tribute for the life of their foolish laird.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m no Papist. My father was a man of science and so am I. A woman of science, I mean. ’Twas just, um…something to say. When surprised.”
“And what surprised ye, mistress?”
“Uh, I, er…” She couldn’t tell him that his chest had surprised her. What else would he keep beneath his linen? That she’d been staring at his torso like a ninny would not raise his esteem of her. And she discovered that his esteem was important to her.
Dugald Kilburn mattered, though she didn’t know why.
“I’m sorry that I, er, got whisky on you. Do you think the spots are rinsed out?” She used the question to evade his and to stare some more. Her cleverness pleased her. She wasn’t staring like a ninny. With an entirely plausible reason, she was merely looking.
Or p’raps she was staring, or even scrutinizing, but it didn’t matter. She still had a good reason to explain her interest.
She’d never seen a man’s naked chest, so every iota she could discern, even through Dugald Kilburn’s wet linen shirt, fascinated her. Marble statues and oil paintings didn’t match his raw manliness.
She dabbed a little more at that fascinating chest, and he caught her hands in his. “Mistress, ye need not do more.” His voice was as raw and manly as his chest.
She managed to raise her gaze to his face. If his chest has fascinated her, his face stole her breath and wreaked havoc on the remains of her composure.
His eyes…oh, his eyes. They’d drawn her attention earlier that day, at the mop fair, but now they compelled her like nothing she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen all that much—she was more familiar with the insides of musty libraries than with the eyes of attractive males. Most of the men she’d met had been familiars of her father, older college tutors with eyes beady from squinting against chemical clouds, men who bore awful burns on their faces and hands from poorly performed experiments.
Dugald Kilburn’s eyes were large and dark, so dark that they rivaled the midnight sky. So dark that she couldn’t discern the pupil from the iris. But far from seeming impenetrably black, they gleamed with intelligence and…was that interest?
He was still holding her hands, so…so yes, that gleam in his dark eyes could very well be interest, the kind of interest that a man takes in a woman.
Despite the whisky, Alice’s mouth went dry from sheer nervousness. She wrenched her gaze away from those enthralling eyes to focus on…oh, mother of mercy, Dugald’s lips.
They curved in a gentle smile that was somewhat at odds with the rest of his rough visage. Though his skin was as white as a highborn lady’s, his strong nose and firm jaw could never belong to a woman.
Dark brows, their curve a frame for his magical eyes. Long black hair, now brushed shiny and tied neatly at his nape. She remembered that as they’d walked through the cold, windy streets, Dugald Kilburn’s hair had whipped around his face as though it possessed independent life, as wild as he surely was.
She’d given herself to the protection of a wild Highlander. The equivalent of a Viking eorl.
Had she taken leave of her senses?
Apparently not, since her senses had never seemed more alive.
Dugald’s grip on her hands tightened, and he raised them to his lips.
Dizzy, she drew in a breath, smelling whisky and wind, as though a midnight breeze had blown through the room. She remained lightheaded.
He touched his mouth to the back of her left hand, then he kissed the right. His lips were strangely cool on her skin. She tingled all over, the center of that wondrous feeling not in her hands but between her legs.
“Mistress, I’ll leave ye noo.” His voice was gentle. Had he any idea of his effect on her?
She dared to look into his eyes again. They smiled.
He squeezed her hands and let them go before stepping toward her door. He opened it. Turning, he said, “Best get some rest. Tomorrow’s your first riding lesson. Bar the door, lassie—the men be drinkin’ a fair bit.”
He closed the door behind him, and Alice collapsed.
Chapter Three
Dugald ran one big hand over the chestnut mare’s flank, and its muscle quivered in response. Alice could guess how the horse felt at his touch—the same way Alice felt whenever he was near. No doubt all females reacted alike to him. Nevertheless, she kept her distance from the terrifying creature.
“Murdo here is our best judge of horseflesh,” Dugald told Alice.
Murdo, a Kilburn she hadn’t previously met, examined the mount, checking the horse’s stance, teeth, legs…even looking into the mare’s eyes. “Och, aye, she’ll do.”
“She’ll do?” Dugald gave Murdo a hard stare.
“She’s bonnie and healthy.” Murdo was a grubby fellow of cadaverous mien, dressed in rougher garb than the other Kilburns she had met. She wondered where he’d been during their group supper and breakfast. Out wenching, if the others’ gossip was to be believed. But who would bed such a man? He was skinny and smelled.
She told herself to cease being so particular. If Murdo was the best judge of horseflesh then he spent time around horses. That was the reason he smelled. ’Twasn’t his fault.
“She seems to have a good temper and will be a fine mount for any woman.” Murdo released the mare’s bridle, and she shoved between the men toward the manger at the front of her stall.
“Where did she come from?” Dugald asked the ostler.
“I doonae ken. She’s been here for a month, sir, unclaimed.” The middle-aged ostler smelled even more strongly than Murdo did. “Sometimes travelers encounter…difficulties on the road or in the back alleys. If ye ken my meaning.” His gaze shifted to Alice, who sensed that he was withholding information he thought too strong for a female’s ears.
“Aye, I ken.” Dugald turned to Alice. “What do ye think, mistress?”
She left the corner in which she’d been huddled and cautiously advanced toward the mare, avoiding the back hooves, which appeared well-shod and sharp. Meanwhile, the chestnut stood placidly munching hay. The horse wasn’t tall, so Alice could reach the stiff black mane to stroke it, look at the mare eye to eye. “She seems small.”
“Aye, a lady’s mount,” the ostler said.
Murdo scrutinized the horse anew. “She’s probably got a bit of Highland pony in her.”
“That’s…good.” Alice was heartened by the mare’s lack of intimidating height. She caressed its withers. The mare swung her giant head around and Alice jumped back with a squeak.
She eyed the mare. The mare eyed Alice. The horse had big, liquid orbs like huge marbles. What horsy thoughts was she thinking? Was she plotting to dump Alice into the dirt, providing an ignominious and painful end to her employment with the Kilburns?
The mare returned her attention to her manger, searching its corners for any overlooked bit of hay or trace of oats.
“Here.” Dugald reached into his sporran and withdrew a lumpy, crumbling bannock. He handed it to Alice. “This one’s heart is found through her belly, ye ken. Feed her.”
Recalling childhood lessons, Alice approached the horse’s head with her palm spread flat, bannock set in the middle, fingers squeezed tightly together. Her mother had told her, “Food, not fingers. Fingers together, so your horse eats the food, not your fingers. Remember, food, not fingers!”
The mare sniffed, snuffled, swung her head around and lipped the treat with a mouth that was surprisingly soft, though trimmed with stiff bristles. Her jaw worked while she regarded Alice with…approval?
It could have been her imagination.
“All right, then?” Dugald asked Alice.
�
�Ye’d be doing me a favor,” the ostler said. “I’ve been feedin’ her off me own siller. Eats her head off, she does.”
Alice wondered what the cost of supporting a horse could be in a humble stable like this one, free of fancy tack. A double row of stalls housed common-looking mounts and hacks. Her mother might have known, though after she’d died none of her remaining funds had gone to maintaining her horse.
“The mare.” Dugald touched Alice’s shoulder gently.
She shunted her thoughts away from the past and nodded, even though her belly was clenching. “All right.” She had to do it. Had to ride a horse. This horse, if doing so meant keeping this position.
She eyed the mare. Again. The mare eyed her. Again. Then returned to investigating her manger. Again.
Alice could grant that the animal was consistent. She hoped that the horse wouldn’t be one of those irritating mounts that constantly tried to snatch bites of grass while one was riding. Her first pony, a placid barrel-shaped dun, had been such a creature.
“What’s her name?” Dugald asked the ostler.
He shrugged. “I’ve been calling her lassie.”
Dugald frowned. “’Twon’t do. We’ll have to think of something else.”
“Mary,” Alice said. “Her name is Mary.”
Questions filled Dugald’s black eyes, but he didn’t say anything to Alice. Instead he glanced at the ostler. “How much?”
While the men negotiated, Alice continued to stroke Mary’s mane. After silver had exchanged hands, Dugald turned to Alice. “Shall ye ride her to our lodging?”
She almost fainted. “No…uh, I am not wearing the proper boots or a riding habit.”
“Have ye a habit, mistress?”
She dropped her gaze, ashamed. “No,” she whispered.
“’Tis of no matter. We’ll get ye kitted oot, and when your new clothes arrive, we’ll get on the road.”
* * * * *
Three days later, Alice came in from a walk to find her bed covered with clothing. New clothing. Her clothing.
Her new clothes. Unlike everything she owned, these were new. Hers. Only hers. Not castoffs. Not hand-me-downs from her mother, like her worn but beloved red cloak. Hers.
