The Parchment Scroll

by C. A. Szarek

  She frowned. “Fine. At least turn around.”

  “Why?” Hugh smiled.

  Juliette huffed and turned away, grabbing a tunic—not a more feminine leine—Mab must’ve left for her. Instead of skirts, there was a pair of folded trews beneath them.

  Why would his aunt get her lad’s clothing?

  There were skirts and gowns in the stores, surely.

  He stayed close, restraining himself from wrapping his arms around her; Hugh contented himself by brushing her hair from her shoulder. He leaned down, kissing the skin below her ear he’d exposed, and cursing the high neckline of the chemise she wore.

  She shivered. He saw it. Juliette couldn’t hide it from him. She didn’t move away, either.

  “I’m waitin’, lass.”

  Juliette whirled on him. He didn’t miss her white knuckled grip on the saffron tunic. “You’re gonna be waitin’ a long time. I. Don’t. Want. You.”

  Undeterred, Hugh stepped forward and dragged two fingers down her cheek. “Yer no’ bein’ honest, Juliette.”

  She swallowed and he wanted to kiss her throat. “I am.” But her words shook. “Just let me get dressed and I’ll leave. Be out of your hair. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

  “I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep ye.” Hugh reached for her chemise, undoing the top two buttons on the neck.

  “No.” Juliette flashed him a black look and batted his hands away. “You promised.”

  “Ye didna let me finish.” He let her shove him away and straightened, swallowing a smile because it would make her even angrier.

  “What?” She arched a fair eyebrow, her expression shouting distrust.

  “Stay wit’ me one more day.”

  “Why?” Juliette cocked her head to one side.

  “I want ye, lass.”

  “One day isn’t going to make me fall into your bed with my legs open.”

  Hugh chuckled and reached for her. She wasn’t quick enough to evade him, and he plastered her to his chest. He inhaled her sweetness instead of kissing her like he wanted to. Juliette smelled like the floral soap women of his clan always bathed with. Making it was his aunt’s specialty.

  “Let me go, Hugh.” Her voice was whisper, not demand. She trembled against him, the saffron tunic an unfortunate obstacle to feeling her breasts against his chest. The thick fabric, along with Juliette’s hands, were pinned against him.

  “Nay.”

  They stared at each other and silence fell.

  “I willna hurt ye,” he said finally.

  “I know.” Juliette swallowed again, but her voice was steady.

  She believes me.

  Hugh ignored how his stomach flipped. “Stay another day.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Aye.”

  Juliette frowned. “For the record, I won’t sleep with you.”

  “Ye did sleep wit’ me.” Hugh smiled.

  She pursed her lips. “You know what I mean. I won’t have sex with you, Hugh MacDonald. I mean it. We just met, and I don’t do that sorta thing.”

  “Are ye innocent then?”

  “You mean, am I a virgin?”

  Hugh nodded.

  “No, not for a long time.”

  “Are ye wed?” His gut clenched as he awaited her answer, but he banished that foolishness.

  “I was once.” Juliette gazed up at him. He couldn’t read her expression, or the emotions that darted across those eyes.

  “I am sorry fer yer loss, then.”

  She shook her head, her golden locks shifting with the movement. “He didn’t die. He cheated. I caught him in bed with another woman, so I left. We divorced. You know that term?”

  Hugh nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis no’ somethin’ oft done, but I know of it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. I moved on.” She averted her gaze.

  Hugh wanted to tilt her chin up to force her to meet his eyes, but he didn’t. If Juliette was having a moment of pain, she needed to move past it on her own. Wasn’t any of his concern, really. “I was wed once, as well.” He cursed the dose of honesty that fell from his mouth.

  Why did you say that?

  Her eyes were wide when she looked back up at him. “What happened?” Her question was innocent and held no malice, but it was Hugh’s turn to avert his gaze.

  He released her so fast she stumbled, but he couldn’t reach to steady her.

  Juliette frowned—he could see it in his peripheral vision, but the painting in the corner was suddenly glaring.

  It took all his attention, even though he didn’t dare look at it.

  “Hugh?”

  “She died.” He didn’t mean to bark the words, but he did.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He needed to go. Couldn’t bear to see pity in her eyes. He couldn’t spare her a glance to see if she was sincere. Anger roiled over him and he made tight fists at his sides.

  Hugh couldn’t muster a response, nor did he give in to the urge to close his eyes. His chest was tight, breathing painful. He strode from the room and slammed the door as soon as both feet were in the corridor.

  * * * *

  Jules blinked. She stared at the closed door and her head spun. “What the hell just happened?” She looked down at the yellow shirt in her hands and had to take one—then another—breath to clear her head.

  Her barbarian had gone from fire to ice in about two seconds. He’d almost dropped her on her ass, too.

  “Bipolar much?”

  Not that she’d wanted him panting over her, anyway. Or trying to kiss her again. Which he hadn’t—thank God.

  Well except for the ones he’d planted on her neck that’d made her shiver.

  Until he’d gone stiff as a board and cold. Harsh. Yanking away from her as if she’d stung him.

  What gives?

  Hugh had been the one to start the twenty-question interrogation. She tried to shrug, but it bothered her more than she’d like to admit that he had feelings for another woman.

  A dead woman.

  I mean, he wouldn’t have reacted that way if he didn’t love her, right?

  Jules sighed and slipped out of the chemise, shivering in the morning chill. There was no fire lit in the sizable hearth.

  Whaddaya know, castles are drafty.

  She tugged the shirt over her head, cursing at the lack of a bra. Her breasts were large; she needed support. They were going to ache by the end of the day.

  The tunic fell mid-thigh, but big was okay with her. Hugh wouldn’t be able to see her body so much. Maybe he’d stop touching her, too.

  Jules ignored the little voice that protested the idea of her barbarian keeping his hands to himself.

  His aunt had given in when she’d begged for pants instead of a skirt, but they were too big, too. Jules silently thanked her for the belt as she shoved it around her waist.

  Finally dressed, she looked around the room. Morning light drifted in through the windows, and she went over, tugging the thick drapes open. The room brightened even more, looking less foreboding.

  Hugh’s stamp was all over the place. The room smelled like him, too, even though he was gone. Masculine spice that flipped her tummy and made her curse at herself.

  Hmmm, that painting…

  Jules had seen the picture the day before, but she hadn’t taken time to study it. She crossed the room to check it out. Hugh had been so obviously ignoring it before he’d stomped away from her. As if he’d made extra efforts not to look in that corner.

  A girl with long, pale blonde hair sat on a carved high-backed chair with her hands folded on her lap. Her gown was light green and elegant, with an embossed bodice, but it was modest. There was a plaid draped over her shoulder and wrapped around her waist, but it was a different pattern than the MacDonald blanket on Hugh’s bed.

  She looked so damn young, and her brown eyes were solemn—too much so. Sad, maybe.

  Brenna MacInnes was etched on a little plate on the bottom pict
ure frame.

  “That’s Brenna. She was Hugh’s lass.” Mab’s voice made Jules jump and curse. “Sorry, lass. Didna mean ta startle ye.”

  She hadn’t heard Hugh’s aunt enter the room. “It’s okay.” Jules forced a smile. “Good morning.”

  “Mornin’ to ye, as well.” Mab smiled and hobbled over with a heavy grip on her cane. It was worse than Jules had seen the night before. Maybe she was stiffer in the mornings. “Here ta check on ye. My lad came stormin’ inta the hall. Are ye well?”

  Jules smirked and nodded. “Yeah. He was…energetic this morning. Didn’t much like that I wasn’t.”

  Mab grinned, but then her wrinkled face sobered. “He didna hurt ye?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’d have his hide.”

  Jules gave a small laugh. “Glad you have my back.”

  The old lady reached out and patted her hand. Silence fell as they both gazed up at the young girl in the painting.

  A shiver shot down her spine. Was Brenna’s stare accusing? As if she was demanding to know why Jules had spent the night in her husband’s bed.

  Jules straightened her shoulders and stood taller.

  It’s a painting.

  Not. Real.

  Stop being silly.

  There was no change. Staring at Hugh’s wife now as was same as five minutes before. “She looks so sad.” She managed a whisper, ignoring her paranoia.

  “Aye, I expect she was upset when she sat for tha’ painting. It proceeded her arrival ta Armadale. As a part of her dowry. Her father and Hugh’s were lads together. Clan MacInnes doesna live too far off.”

  “Arranged marriage?”

  Mab nodded. “As is tha way of most marriages ‘round here.”

  “What happened?” Jules stomach fluttered when she met the woman’s dark eyes.

  Her expression was saturated in sadness. “She died barin’ his child. The Good Lord took the bairn, too.” Mab made the sign of the cross and whispered something that wasn’t English.

  Jules frowned and swallowed against the emotion closing her throat.

  Poor Hugh.

  It explained a lot about who he was as a person.

  Damaged. Just like me.

  “’Twas a long time ago, lass. Doona’ look so sad.” Mab grabbed her forearm and squeezed. “C’mon, let us go down ta the hall. Break yer fast, then I’ll get one of the lads ta take ye to Dunvegan.”

  Jules heart skipped a beat. “What? Hugh said he wanted me to stay another day.”

  Seriously?

  Are you arguing?

  Don’t you want to go?

  Mab cocked her head to one side. “My lad is gone on clan business. He asked me ta see ye safely to yer sister.”

  Her stomach dropped. “He…left?”

  If Hugh’s aunt could sense her reaction, she hid it well, only offering a nod. “Aye, said he wouldna likely be back ‘til tha morrow.”

  Jules nodded, but anger churned her gut.

  Coward.

  Her barbarian was a coward.

  Something she’d never thought she’d be able to accuse him of.

  Just wish I could say it to his face.

  Chapter Nine

  Jules couldn’t help but look over her shoulder as she rode away from Armadale, Colin MacDonald’s arms loosely around her.

  So much for Hugh ordering me to stay another day.

  Colin’s hold was nothing like the laird’s.

  Was she crazy to miss Hugh’s touch?

  God. I’ve lost it for sure.

  Hugh had run from her.

  He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye first. What a change from the guy who couldn’t stop touching her. Kissing her.

  Jules had grown used to him—well as much as a person could in so short a time—taking what he wanted no matter what she’d said.

  She’d liked his kisses, as much as she hated that idea floating around in her head.

  He must still love Brenna. So much he couldn’t bear to look at me after talking about her.

  Jules swallowed and tried not to fidget on the back of the big brown horse.

  According to Mab, the girl had been dead almost eleven years.

  He feels guilty for wanting me.

  She harrumphed and squared her shoulders.

  So what?

  Jules didn’t want him to want her. Certainly didn’t want him.

  So why does it bother you now?

  Because knowing he lost his wife and child made him just a little bit less of a bastard, a voice whispered.

  Who could be normal after that?

  “Never mind,” Jules muttered.

  It didn’t matter. Not really.

  Not being able to deal with loss didn’t justify kidnapping. Or stolen kisses.

  “My lady?” Colin’s deep voice made her jump and her eyes darted to his. “Are ye well?” Blue eyes, so different from his cousin’s, regarded her with concern.

  Jules cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

  He smiled and inclined his head. Colin was handsome, but the curve of his lips didn’t make her stomach flutter or her heart patter like Hugh’s.

  And she loved dark eyes. Always had.

  Dammit.

  Seriously. Stop. It.

  She wasn’t lusting after a barbarian, no matter how hot he looked.

  Or how good his kisses were.

  Jules cringed. “H-h-how long until we get there?”

  Stuttering? Really?

  If Colin noticed, his voice and expression didn’t give it away. “No’ much longer, my lady. Over tha’ hill.” He pointed up ahead.

  She could already see the castle looming, so it was a wonder he didn’t think her question was stupid, or snap at her for asking.

  Hugh would’ve.

  Jules rolled her eyes at herself for knowing her barbarian would’ve been a smartass about her nerves.

  Knock it off, for reals, Juliette Ann McGowan.

  Could one disown themselves?

  She busied herself with memorizing the terrain, then screamed at herself for it. Like she needed to remember how to get back to Armadale. She’d come for Claire. Colin was taking her to Claire. Then they could go home.

  The rest of the ride was silent, though not unpleasant. The closer they got to the MacLeod stronghold, the more Jules’ nerves danced in her stomach.

  Claire. She was about to see her sister again.

  “Halt!” The yell made her freeze in Colin’s arms.

  Shaking started when the guard jumped in front of the horse, a big sword drawn. He was blond and huge.

  “MacDonald,” he spat.

  “Aye. Colin MacDonald. Cousin to the laird.”

  The big guy on the ground didn’t look impressed. Two more MacLeods—both wearing kilts and brandishing swords—flanked him.

  “What do ye wan’?” The dark-haired one on the right hollered.

  Jules straightened and met the brown eyes of the fair-haired guard. “Claire is my sister. I’m here…to see her.”

  Silence fell and the three guards stared.

  The blond man slid forward, his face scrunched as he scrutinized. “Dismount,” he barked.

  She shot a look over her shoulder at Colin.

  When Hugh’s cousin nodded, Jules slid off the horse, accepting the helping hand of the blond guard to her biceps. He gripped, but didn’t hurt her.

  “Ye’ve the look of her.”

  Jules nodded. She’d been told that her whole life. “We’re only a few years apart.” Four to be exact, but he wouldn’t care even if she’d explained. “Can I see her, please?”

  The blond man looked at Colin without answering. “Get off MacLeod lands, MacDonald.”

  She shivered at his harsh voice.

  “Doona’ harm the lass,” Colin barked.

  “We doona’ harm lasses.” Another of the guards answered, eyes narrowed.

  Colin snarled.

  Harsh words were exchanged on both side
s. As well as some posturing with swords and puffed chests.

  Jesus. These guys are worse than a buncha cops.

  It only took her a few moments to catch on to what the fuss was about. It was more than a dick-measuring contest. They were all referring to the debacle of Margaret MacLeod being sent home in disgrace—as well as burned—after a botched marriage to the MacDonald laird.

  God, it was almost a hundred years ago—this time, anyway. Mab wasn’t kidding about anything being a war threat.

  Jules shot forward when Colin drew his sword.

  She waved her arms. “Boys! I just wanna see my sister. Colin, I’m fine with these guys. Go back to Armadale. Tell Hugh…” she cleared her throat. “Tell Hugh thank you and that I’m okay here. Thank you for bringing me.”

  Silence fell and all four men outside the gates stared at her.

  Finally—finally—Colin sheathed his sword and nodded. “I’ll tell the laird yer in safe hands.”

  “Thank you,” Jules whispered.

  The three MacLeod guards didn’t relax, nor did they open the gates, until after Colin was a speck on the horizon.

  When Jules met the big blond guy’s eyes, he laughed.

  She arched a brow. “What’s funny?”

  “Yer strong, like yer sister. Like a MacLeod lass. Ye’ll fit ‘round here just fine.”

  Jules smirked. “Good.”

  Won’t be here long enough to matter.

  “I’m Cormac, head of tha guards, and cousin ta the laird. These two are Braedon and Jamie, my brothers.”

  She nodded, muttered polite greetings, and met the dark-haired guards, even though she was antsy. Jules shifted from foot to foot in the boots Mab had gotten her. The only part of her wardrobe that fit.

  I want to see Claire. Now.

  “Come, lass, I’ll take ye ta yer sister,” Cormac said, gesturing as the other two started to open the wide gates.

  “You read my mind, dude.”

  Keeping up with his long legs was a chore that kept Jules at a jog, but soon she was walking into a great hall bigger than the one at Armadale. A familiar blonde was near the largest hearth—one of three—with her back to them, rocking something in her arms. Even with her back facing Jules, she knew her sister. Claire was before her.

  “My lady.” Cormac’s deep voice echoed.

  Slowly Claire turned, a smile in place that faded when her eyes rested on Jules. “Jules?” The incredulity in her sister’s voice made Jules’ heart skip.