Highlanders

by Tarah Scott

  “Are ye hungry, St. Claire?” she asked.

  “Nay. It just smelled too good to resist.” He shifted his gaze onto her. “Like you, my lady.”

  To his surprise—and satisfaction—a pretty blush crept up her cheeks.

  “Ye may go to your bedchambers, if you like,” she said. “I will join you there later. We have many guests still celebrating. I must see to them.”

  Talbot poured a cup of wine from a pitcher. “You must see to them?”

  “Of course. It is my duty.”

  He emptied the glass and sat it on the counter. Then he pulled her close. Her head snapped up and Talbot bent and brushed his lips across hers in a gentle kiss. When he pulled back her eyes smoldered with fury.

  “Come along, Lady Rhoslyn. Mistress Muira is capable of handling kitchen tasks.” He looked at the older woman.

  “Aye, laird. I have things in hand.”

  “Please send up wine to my chambers, Mistress.” Arm still around Rhoslyn, he led her across the room to the servants’ stairs.

  He caught the furtive glance she cast at the women who, though bustling about their business, kept one eye on her. They reached the stairs and he urged her ahead of him. She marched up the stairs. Aye, he would never have to guess what this woman was thinking. There was some comfort in that knowledge.

  Minutes later, they reached his chambers and she whirled on him. “What sort of barbarian are ye to maul me like that in front of the servants?”

  He closed the door with a soft click. “Forgive me if I embarrassed you, my lady. I thought it best we assure everyone our marriage is not affected by your kidnapping.”

  She frowned. “Ye could have said something.”

  “Servants, maids in particular, can hear through stone walls,” he said. “I could not chance any of them overhearing.”

  “There was no need for us to retire so early.”

  “Early?” He lifted a brow. “Dawn is but three hours away.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  She stood as if rooted to the spot, and he had the suspicion she would stand there all night if it meant they didn’t have to share a bed.

  A rap sounded on the door. Talbot put a finger to his lips and hurried across the room to the bed. He sat down and called “Enter,” as he began tugging off a boot.

  A maid entered with a pitcher and two mugs. She set them on the small table near the hearth, then hurried out.

  “Would you pour us some wine, Lady Rhoslyn?” he asked as the door clicked shut.

  She remained frozen for a moment, then jerked into motion and crossed to the table. A moment later, she appeared beside him and extended a goblet. He dropped his second boot on the floor and took the wine. Rhoslyn took a quick step back and then crossed to the window. She opened the shutter and gazed outside.

  “It is a beautiful night,” he said.

  “Aye,” she replied, her voice wistful.

  Talbot wondered how receptive she would be tonight if not for Dayton. He finished the last of his wine, set the goblet on the table beside the bed, then stood and unfastened his belt. He tossed it onto the bed, then pulled off his surcoat. Rhoslyn glanced his way, but said nothing. His shirt and undershirt followed, and she finally faced him.

  Her gaze shifted to the markings on his right arm.

  “How old was your sister when she died?”

  “Fourteen,” he replied.

  “I am sorry. How did she die?”

  “A fever.” He crossed to the table with the wine and refilled his goblet.

  She joined him and he froze when she lifted a hand and traced a finger over the picture of his sister on his arm. Her light touch sent a skitter of gooseflesh along his skin.

  “It is so smooth,” she said. “The skin isna’ marred at all.” She looked up at him. “It is as if the picture is a part of you.”

  “It is,” he replied.

  She stared for a moment before tearing her gaze from his and taking two steps back. “I have no sisters or brothers,” she said. “It canna’ be easy to lose a loved one.”

  “You lost two loved ones.”

  She nodded and took a sip of wine. “How long ago did your sister die?”

  “Ten years,” he replied.

  Her eyes lifted to his face over the rim of her goblet “Do ye ever forget?”

  “Nay. But the pain does ease.”

  “The shock has subsided,” she said as if speaking to herself.

  “That is a start,” Talbot said.

  “Do you still miss her?”

  “Aye.” More often than he liked to admit. Talbot finished his wine in two big gulps and set the goblet on the table. He went to the door that adjoined the solar. “I will see you in the morning, Lady Rhoslyn.”

  She frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “To sleep in your bed.”

  “But I thought...” She glanced at the bed, then frowned. “Are you going to leave your clothes strewn about your room?”

  He shrugged. “What better way to make your maids think we were occupied with consummating the marriage?”

  “But they will see my mussed bed.” Her mouth twitched in amusement. “St. Claire, you willna’ get a wink of sleep in my bed.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because ye are very large—too large to sleep comfortably in my bed.” Her amusement vanished and he was startled when pain flared in her eyes. That emotion, too, disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she said, “Mayhap I should sleep in my own bed.”

  Talbot recalled the cradle that had occupied a corner of the room when he’d arrived and remembered thinking the room had seemed oddly unused. Suddenly he understood. The babe had died in this room. In all likelihood, her husband had taken his last breath in that bed. How in God’s name was he to bed a wife in the very room where she had lost husband and son? How did a man bed his wife after his brother had raped her?

  “As you wish,” he said. “Sleep in your own bed.”

  She crossed to the door connecting to their private solar, then stopped and looked at him.

  He nodded in the direction of the door. “Go, Lady. Rest well.”

  Her brows drew down in uncertainty.

  Talbot met her gaze steadily. “I may be English, but I am no barbarian.”

  * * *

  Rhoslyn awoke to a tap on her door. She burrowed deeper into the bedding. The door opened and she discerned the light pad of feet on the stone floor, then the carpet. The scrape of metal across stone followed, and she yawned at realizing one of the maids was tending the fire, which meant it was morning. She didn’t want to rise, but cracked open an eye anyway. Today was the hunt, which meant she couldn’t dally in bed. She looked through the open curtain at the foot of the bed, surprised the curtain was open. Hadn’t she pulled it closed last night?

  Alana tossed two logs on the embers, then rose and faced the bed. She smiled, her gaze moving to Rhoslyn’s right. Rhoslyn followed her eyes and started at seeing St. Claire beneath the covers, his exposed back to her. For an instant she could only stare at the broad expanse of muscled flesh, beautiful, despite the scars, then Alana giggled and Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto the girl. She grinned, then scampered from the room. When the door closed, Rhoslyn braced her feet against St. Claire’s back and shoved.

  “You will have to push harder than that to shove me out of bed.”

  His deep voice, gravelly from sleep, startled her, and she froze, her feet still flat against his back.

  “What are ye doing in my bed?” she demanded. “You gave me the scare of my life.”

  “A bigger scare than the night I grabbed you from your horse as you fled your convent?”

  Ire flared. Rhoslyn shoved at his back with all her might, but it was as if she pushed a stone wall. She grunted with the effort.

  “A little lower, Lady Rhoslyn. You were right. This bed is too small. I have a kink here.” He shifted his hips.

  Rhoslyn gave a frustrated growl and shoved harder—to no avail�
��then shoved the curtain aside on her side of the bed and leapt to her feet. “Are ye insane?”

  He rolled onto his back and shoved his hands behind his head. Her breath caught at sight of his chest. Feather light hair trailed from his belly button to disappear beneath the blanket at his hips. Even in the shadows of the curtained bed, she could discern the ripple of muscle across his stomach. Alec hadn’t looked like that.

  She yanked her gaze onto his face. “I thought ye were going to sleep in your own bed.”

  “I did. But early this morning I crawled into bed with you. It will not do for the servants to talk about how we spent our wedding night apart.”

  Her mind whirled with the thought of a true wedding night with this man. The long, hard length of him beneath her bottom when he’d held her on his lap at the inn was just a hint of what she could expect. He would be nothing like Alec. Her husband had been kind, gentle, and...and what? Not young, like St. Claire, that much was certain. Guilt and shock dropped in the pit of her stomach like lead.

  “Ye didna’ say anything last night about getting into my bed,” she said.

  He shrugged and Rhoslyn was torn between wanting to box his ears and wanting to stroke the markings on his arm again. She hadn’t forgotten how the muscled arm felt beneath her fingers. Her gaze shifted of its own volition to his right arm where his sister’s face was visible above the blanket.

  Then her mind came to a screeching halt at the realization that his sister’s face reminded her of someone.

  They rode out of Castle Glenbarr two hours later, a company of forty-five people and two hounds. A company befitting a king. Twenty of St. Claire’s guardsmen surrounded them. Six spearmen, five archers, one kennel master, her grandfather, eight guests, Andreana, St. Claire, and Rhoslyn. The dogs barked excitedly and the guests called to one another above the tramp of horses’ hooves.

  She had never been on so fine a hunt, and wished she wasn’t on one today.

  She, St. Claire, and her grandfather led the hunt, along with Lord Kinnon, riding at St. Claire’s right. She cast a furtive glance at St. Claire, who talked in low tones with the earl. He sat straight in the saddle as if born to it, which he probably had been. The chevaler strapped to his side and the bow slung over his back seemed almost a natural part of him. She could easily envision him pulling an arrow from the quiver tied to his saddle and felling a large buck before her grandfather could let fly his own arrow.

  Years of training had refined his lean frame into a wall of muscle so that his shoulders looked impossibly broad in his red and gold jerkin. His shirt sleeves couldn’t hide the play of muscle in his arms. Rhoslyn unexpectedly recalled the strength of those arms around her when she rode with him on the way home from Stonehaven. Heat rippled through her at the memory of her bare bottom across his thighs—and his hard length flush against her thigh. He hadn’t acted upon his lust, as too many men would have.

  A mental picture of Dayton St. Claire poised over her intruded upon the recollection. Her stomach knotted. Lust hadn’t driven him, at least not lust for her. Greed was what hardened his cock. A wave of revulsion pitched her stomach.

  Rhoslyn gazed left, at trees that blanketed the hills ahead. St. Mary’s lay east, beyond the trees. How she longed to return. Frustration surfaced. The herb garden at the convent was Abbess Beatrice’s pride. There, Rhoslyn could find pennyroyal in abundance. Shame caused her to lower her head. God would surely punish her for thinking of using anything at the convent to end her child’s life. And if Abbess Beatrice could read her thoughts...

  “Is something amiss, Lady Rhoslyn?”

  Rhoslyn started at the sound of St. Claire’s voice. The baying of the dogs and murmur of conversation brought her back to the present and she looked at him. He stared, brows drawn in concern.

  “Nay,” she said. “Should something be wrong?”

  “You appeared deep in thought.”

  She shrugged. His gaze sharpened and she felt certain he thought she was mimicking his annoying habit of shrugging when asked a question. Her mouth twitched with an unbidden smile, but she managed to restrain the impulse. He lifted a brow. Rhoslyn shrugged again, then returned her attention straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw him study her for a moment before returning his attention to Lord Kinnon.

  “I hear the rebellions in Wales are spreading, Lord Kinnon said. “Does Edward plan another campaign there?”

  “Edward does not confide in me, but I doubt it,” St. Claire said. “The uprisings are not serious.”

  Lord Kinnon grunted. “I suppose he is busy enough as arbiter and Sovereign of Scotland.”

  “I imagine so,” St. Claire replied. “He has no easy task in that regard.”

  “Edward knows what he is doing. He will choose wisely.”

  Her grandfather snorted, but said nothing. Rhoslyn easily read his thoughts. By ‘choose wisely’ Lord Kinnon meant ‘John Balliol.’ Lord Kinnon was a supporter of Balliol, and she suspected he hoped to become one of St. Claire’s newest and closest friends in order to ingratiating himself into Edward—and Balliol’s—good graces.

  “What think you of Edward as Sovereign of Scotland, Lady Rhoslyn?” St. Claire asked.

  She jerked her head in his direction. He stared, eyes intense—as always—but she detected something in his expression. Rhoslyn blinked. Was that mischief? It was. What trouble did he intend to make? Then the truth dawned. He, too, suspected Lord Kinnon was a Balliol supporter, and he knew she wasn’t.

  “I think Edward would be wise to stay in England and leave Scotland to sort out her own problems,” she said.

  “A dream, Lady Rhoslyn,” Lord Kinnon interjected. “Our leaders quarrel amongst themselves to the point that we canna’ decide who will lead in a single battle.”

  “I imagine Wallace or Bruce would decide that without hesitation,” she said. “And our squabbling doesna’ mean an English king should be dictating to us.”

  “Have ye a better idea?” he asked.

  “Anything would be better than English interference.” She thought of Duncan and was glad he wasn’t here to hear her echo his words.

  “Anything?” St. Claire interjected.

  She met his gaze squarely. “Aye.”

  “I suppose, then, I should be thankful my mother was Scottish.”

  Rhoslyn couldn’t believe her ears... Everyone knew he never spoke of his mother, and considered himself every inch an Englishman, not a Scot.

  “No’ Scottish,” her grandfather corrected, “a Scot. Ye didna’ say anything about being a Scot when Edward gave ye Dunfrey Castle. You flew the English banner—even at the Highland Games.”

  “Where I believe I won every match I competed in,” St. Claire replied mildly.

  Rhoslyn hadn’t attended the games that year, for Andreana had been ill and Rhoslyn refused to leave her side. But for months afterward, stories were told of St. Claire’s prowess as a soldier and his loyalty to his king...and, she recalled, the fact that he didn’t dally with the Highland women.

  Luck eluded them that morning, and St. Claire called a halt in a small clearing three hours later when they hadn’t sighted a single deer. He was at Rhoslyn’s side as she brought her horse to a stop. He startled her by grasping her waist and lifting her from the saddle. She braced her hands on his shoulders and his eyes locked with hers as he lowered her. Her knees felt as weak as apple pudding when her feet touched the ground.

  His fingers flexed on her waist and she suddenly realized her waist wasn’t as trim as it had been when she’d been Andreana’s age. Birth and the passage of time had rounded her curves. St. Claire couldn’t miss the difference between Andreana’s youthful beauty and Rhoslyn’s fuller curves—especially given how dazzling Andreana looked today in her dark green linen dress.

  Rhoslyn couldn’t halt the flush of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. St. Claire’s gaze sharpened. He hadn’t released her, and her embarrassment grew more acute when she glimpsed Lady Isobel glancing their way. T
he kennel master knelt, tying the hounds to a tree near a large boulder to their left and the rest of the party had moved a discreet distance away.

  “Seward insists there is game aplenty here in Buchan,” St. Claire said.

  Rhoslyn nodded. “My grandfather always returns home with game.” Why didn’t he step away?

  “Did you lay a wager that he would beat me?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then you wagered that I would beat him.”

  She shook her head. “Nay.”

  “If you wager on me I will work doubly hard to win,” he said.

  “I think you had better work doubly hard not to lose your horse.”

  “I do love that horse,” he mused. “If you will not lay a wager on me, would you give me a favor?”

  She frowned. “We are no’ at court in London.”

  “True, but I am an English knight and you are my wife. It would please me to carry something of yours.”

  “I have nothing.”

  “The scarf in your hair is perfect.”

  She had forgotten that scarf. Was Lady Isobel still staring? How could she not be? How could all of them not be staring? St. Claire stood so close she almost tasted his breath. If she gave him her scarf everyone would talk. Wasn’t that what he wanted? He released her and before she could step away he began unfastening the scarf from her hair.

  “St. Claire,” she protested. “My head will be bare if you take the scarf.”

  “This is the first time I have seen you cover your hair,” he said, his attention on the scarf. “You have beautiful hair. Why hide it now?”

  He freed the scarf and she froze when he brought the fabric to his nose and breathed deep, eyes closed. Her heart began to pound. There was no way their guests could have missed a single thing that passed between them, and this...

  He opened his eyes. “I will treasure this small gift, my lady.”

  Rhoslyn tamped down on the urge to yank free. Gossip would follow if she were seen fleeing her husband. St. Claire grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. His mouth, warm and soft against her flesh, sent a prickle of awareness up her arm. He released her, then slipped the scarf between his mail shirt and shirt.