Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

  For a moment, the woman stared at Ian as if he’d sprouted a second nose. Eventually, she shook her head. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take Sir Connor.” She tried to step back, but Ian would have none of it.

  “The devil ye will,” he said, then lowered his mouth to hers.

  Mallory laughed, but stopped short when she turned to look at Connor. Though he could only guess at what she read in his eyes, her smile fell away.

  “Vivianne,” she hissed. “Come lie with me. We are going to sleep. Now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Bridget and Rory made their way back toward the main road to Edinburgh and left the strangely mute people of Oggscastle behind them, she was only vaguely aware of the increase in traffic. Anyone watching them would think both she and Rory had contracted the same mute affliction since they spoke not a word for the entire morning.

  The sun was directly overhead when he led the horses off the road and to the far side of a wide field of purple heather and yellow gorse, then stopped at the edge of a narrow green glen. He let out a shrill whistle that startled her out of her skin. Then they waited.

  Two dark-haired forms appeared. The tallest was Connor McGee with Mallory seated before him on the same horse. Old Hamlet trotted along behind. Ian McDermott and Vivianne, seated similarly, followed Old Hamlet. All four riders grinned as they came up out of the glen.

  All four grins were wiped quickly from their faces when they took a good look at Rory. Then worried glances shot in Bridget’s direction.

  Bridget swallowed, and tried to smile convincingly. She knew she’d failed when Mallory tried to dismount. Connor grabbed her waist and planted her back in the saddle, earning him a healthy glare. Mallory then turned her glare on Rory.

  “If you have touched…”

  “I’ve touched nothing,” Rory growled.

  The other two men looked a bit closer at Bridget, noting the steinkirk around her neck, studying her face. Then the two of them grinned at Rory.

  “Haud yer wheesht. She suffered an accident.”

  “By my own hand,” she added.

  “Oh, Bridget,” Vivianne cried, but a nudge from the man behind her, stopped whatever else she might have said.

  Bridget could barely find her voice. When it came out, it was smooth and cold like the blade of her sword. “We’re going home, ladies. Get on your horses, please.”

  The four looked at Rory as if asking permission to listen to her. He might well have not known she was still there, for all his reaction to her statement. He simply led her horse back the way they’d come, through the field and onto the road. They headed north.

  She was utterly humiliated.

  The other couples fell in behind. Connor and Mallory nearest her. She caught sight of the small knife in the Scot’s belt and snatched it before he noticed.

  Urging her mount up close to Rory, she reached out just as Connor shouted a warning. Rory turned in time to see the blade coming toward him, but by the time he reacted, she had cut the lead rein from his saddle and was reaching to snatch it up.

  Rory was off his horse in a blink. He tore her from her seat and roughly pressed her up against her horse’s withers. They stood there, seething at each other, with nothing to say. Any travelers nearby suddenly disappeared from the road.

  “Keep your hands off me,” Bridget snarled. “I said I’m going home.”

  “The fastest way home is now by ship, from Edinburgh, Lady Kennison.”

  The way he had said “Lady” was like a slap in the face, as if he were denying he’d ever called her by her given name. She swallowed, denying the tears that welled up in her eyes.

  “Then we’ll ride north. We will be better off without an escort of lechers, so be on your way, Lowlander.” She turned her back on him then and reached for her saddle.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back. “Lechers don’t end with kissing,” he growled.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. She had called him a lecher. And worse, she had called him a Lowlander. But words were the only weapons she could wield against him.

  No. Wait. I have another!

  She still had the dagger she had taken from the captain. She looked at the blade, imagined hurting the man with it, and instantly the tears poured out which had been biding their time just behind her eyes.

  He turned her and again pushed her back against her horse. He placed one hand to each side of her head, gripping the edge of her saddle as if to keep from striking her, to keep from touching her. She kept her head down, her hair in her eyes, so he wouldn’t see the tears washing trails down her face.

  “I will take yer cursed trio to the city, put ye on a ship, and finally rid the Graham clan of the stench of an English Boon. Ye will either allow me to lead yer horse with ye sitting upon it or lying across it. Which shall it be?”

  “Sitting,” she whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Sitting,” she said louder.

  “Better.”

  She couldn’t hurt him. After everything--the frustrations, the plans he ruined, the heart he had broken--she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. The acknowledgment that her heart was broken took all the fight out of her. Even with Mallory and Vivianne looking on, she couldn’t come up with even a token resistance.

  With a boost from Rory’s hands at her waist, she flew onto the back of her horse. While he tied the now shorter lead to his saddle, she stretched back and held the knife out to Connor. When the weapon was taken from her hand, she straightened in her seat and looked away toward the hills on the right, no longer seeing heather, or sweet grasses, only swirls of earthy colors in the tears that bathed her eyes.

  When her horse began to move, she nearly lost her seat, she was so unprepared, but she recovered. She would just wait. Soon she would be back home, preparing for her wedding, and everything would go as planned. She didn’t seem to mind any longer that she had not cheated the baron. But of course there was plenty of time to worry about that.

  Beneath her kerchief, her neck began to sting almost as if her salty tears had made their way into her wound. It wasn’t possible, however, with the layers of cloth over the thick coating of salve. She was simply grateful to have something other than her heart to think about. She only hoped the man would forget her again. The painful silence was nothing when compared to the words he used to place more distance between them.

  “Just make it stop,” she prayed.

  They rode for hours, not breaking to rest. Bridget knew that the Scots could not wait to be rid of them. At least one, at any rate. She kept expecting to reach the city, since carts and wagons merging from other roads multiplied the number of people around them, but Edinburgh never appeared.

  Ian did a poor job of entertaining them all with little snippets of Shakespeare. There was a long quote he put to a tune.

  “Love me or hate me, both are in my favor... If ye love me, I'll always be in yer heart... If ye hate me, I'll always be in yer mind.”

  It certainly didn’t sound like Shakespeare. It didn’t even rhyme.

  After the second rendition, with a completely different tune, Rory advised Ian to shut his gob.

  The gloaming brought with it streaks of pink that painted the bottoms of the clouds and left the purple tops dark and menacing. Rory led the party away from the road and found a clearing for their camp. There was a small loch on the other side of the aspen trees and its blue waters turned darker by the minute, staying just a shade deeper than the evening sky.

  Rory glanced impatiently in Bridget’s direction and she slid quickly off her horse so he could lead it toward the water. As soon as he was out of hearing, the other women rushed to her side.

  Mallory searched her face. “Are you hurt, cousin? Where is this injury?”

  “Oh, Bridget. He’s a monster. I can’t believe we ever thought…” Vivianne couldn’t seem to finish.

  She forced a smile. “I am well. Truly. A healer of some sort put some salve on my c
ut and it only hurts a little bit, now and then. It is nothing, believe me.”

  Bridget knew her voice sounded a bit groggy from the tears still in her throat, but that didn’t explain the way the other two were staring at her, as if they didn’t recognize her. Did she really look that bad?

  “What?”

  Mallory frowned like a disappointed tutor. “Bridget, look at me.”

  Bridget looked at her cousin, afraid of what was to come, but having no idea what it might be.

  “You must tell me the truth,” Mal said. “Did he…misuse you?”

  Vivianne worried at her bottom lip.

  Bridget shook her head quickly, hating to see her friends so upset on her account. “Mallory, I swear to you he did not.”

  Vivianne relaxed.

  Mallory hesitated, but finally conceded with a nod. “Let me see that cut.”

  With the sudden lack of men about, they hurried to help Bridget loosen the ties of her cloak which she had repaired in the night. She’d been unable to sleep after Rory had returned to the room and informed her they wouldn’t be leaving until morning, until after her wound had sealed. Sewing had kept her from brooding.

  Vivianne took her cloak and folded it over her arm. Mallory turned Bridget toward the waning light and lifted the tail ends of the kerchief. Vivianne screamed. Bridget realized her friend was staring at her blood-soaked collar and her hands automatically rose to cover it.

  “That bastard,” Mallory shouted. “I’ll kill him myself.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Vivianne calmed a bit. “Here we’ve let the devil lead us about all day. You should have told us—”

  “Mallory, what’s going on?” demanded Connor, from behind them.

  Bridget swung around, clutching her kerchief over her collar. She backed away from all three men, the other two appearing soon after Connor. She tried not to look at Rory.

  Mallory pointed at him. “He cut her, Connor. The top of her gown is soaked. Why on earth would she have done such a thing to herself? The bastard cut her throat and who knows what else.”

  “I did no such thing,” growled the accused. “Bridget, let me see yer neck.”

  Mallory put her arm out to stop him. “Oh, no you don’t. Connor, I want you to take your friend and get far away from here. If you don’t, I’m going to kill him. Just see if I don’t.”

  “Hold there, Mallory.” Connor turned to Rory. “Just what happened to her neck?”

  Rory didn’t speak, and Bridget had a good guess why. He wasn’t going to waste any more breath trying to convince others he hadn’t harmed a woman. It was up to her to defend him, but at the moment, she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable.

  “Let me see it,” Ian urged. “I don’t think ye have a choice, lass.”

  Bridget turned her back. Connor fetched a branch out of the newly made fire to light up Bridget’s exposed skin. Then Mallory gently removed the kerchief completely.

  “You see?” Bridget said, realizing she couldn’t continue to allow the others to think Rory had harmed her. “I was desperate to remove my cloak, but there was a knot in the ties. I used my dagger to cut them, but sliced open my neck in the doing. I was told it is likely there will not be much of a scar.”

  “She slit her own throat?” Connor turned to Rory. “Not quite plausible for a lass who knows her way around a blade, aye? What say ye, Rory? Would ye care to tell us a better tale?” His tone was harsh, and Bridget wondered what she was missing. She’d explained herself clearly enough. It was as if Connor didn’t want to believe her.

  Rory appeared confused as well, but then his face lost all expression and his chin rose an inch. “I’d rather be damned.”

  “Aye, cousin, ye will be.”

  Connor blocked her view and she heard an awful noise, like the smacking of a fist against a tree. Connor stepped aside. He was, indeed, cradling his hand, and the mighty oak that had fallen was Rory. He lay lifeless in a heap of black and white plaid.

  For the first time in a very long day, Bridget laughed.

  The other four could not help but join in, for they too had ridden the long day under Rory’s black cloud of a mood. Only when her laughter began to turn to tears, did the others let up.

  “Here is some irony for you…” she cried. “It truly wasn’t his fault.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rory was roused by raucous laughter. He had been unconscious for only a moment but felt surprisingly refreshed. Still, his friends were a bit heartless if they laughed at an injured man, so he lay still to determine if they were amused by something other than himself.

  “Do you suppose he’ll be alright?” Bridget asked, the worry in her voice not completely disguised by her light tone.

  Ian scoffed. “He’ll be fine. Now tell us what happened.”

  Rory listened while Bridget made him out to be her hero for carrying her bleeding body up the stairs and staunching the flow of blood with his square of wool. She left out her wee rampage though he had hoped to learn what had lit her tail afire. As he remembered it, he’d been prodding her, waiting for her admission that she wanted another kiss, which she had. The way she’d stared at his lips could have meant nothing else. But instead, she’d called him to task for kissing her in the past. It had gone all to hell from there.

  Yes, he’d kissed her. And he’d enjoyed it both times, even though she was English. In his mind, he’d been generous to set aside the circumstances of her birth. In hers, she’d been insulted. Two points of view that would never align. Reason a’ plenty to avoid each other for the rest of the journey.

  She’d imagined his disdain, but he’d realized disdain was the best way to keep his obsession in check. However, in spite of the way he’d treated her since her injury, she still defended him to the others.

  When it sounded like Bridget had gone into the trees to see to her needs, Mallory spoke in hushed tones to the rest. “I took one look at her face and was sure that he had taken liberties with her.”

  “No. Rory would never…”

  If Connor was so quick to defend him, why, then, hadn’t he believed Bridget’s account?

  “Shhh. I think he’s coming around.” Vivianne’s voice sounded very near, like she might have been bending over him, so he forced himself to relax completely.

  “What did Bridget say?” Ian’s voice.

  “She insisted he hadn’t.” The woman had straightened away from him again. He was tempted to peek, but he didn’t.

  “You don’t suppose she told him about the quest,” Mallory hissed.

  “Shhh. Careful, Mal,” said her friend. “These men made a wager on which of them will be the first to learn our secrets. Mind your tongue.”

  “I just wondered if… Perhaps that’s why the man was so foul today. Perhaps he caught her trying to…” Mallory said no more.

  “Oh, fer pity’s sake! Trying to what?”

  Ian’s outburst would have woken the dead. None would believe Rory could have slept through it.

  “Rory?” Connor bent close. “Can ye hear me man?”

  Rory answered Connor with a fist to his face.

  While Mallory fell to her knees to cradle Connor’s head and tell Rory once again what a monster he was, he walked toward the trees without glancing back. There was a spring in his step and a satisfied smile on his face, but he attributed both to a well-placed fist, nothing more.

  While he tried to piss the bark off a tree, he remembered the worry in Bridget’s voice, the way she had praised his gentle care of her. The way her voice squeaked when she had insisted that she had been safe with him all along.

  Ignoring the way his heart raced, he focused on the notion that her voice sometimes squeaked when she lied.

  “That may be useful,” he murmured. “Know thy enemy’s weakness.” Then he frowned at the reminder that she was, indeed, the enemy.

  His foul mood threatened to return. He wanted to hit Connor again. What was wrong with his friend? How could he have believed Rory w
ould ever put a blade to a woman’s throat, English or not?

  Betrayed is what he felt in spite of Connor’s quick defense while he thought Rory wasn’t listening. The image of that dark-haired Mallory came to mind and he realized she was the cause of Connor’s strange behavior. His sober friend had been enjoying that woman’s attentions far too much. Now that he thought about it, Ian and the golden-haired Vivianne were far too amiable as well. It gave him much to consider.

  When Rory returned to camp, the others were seated around the fire, eating but not speaking. Mallory stood and brought Rory a portion of the meal that had been pulled from a sack. He was given a couple of bannocks and a wedge of cheese, and an apology.

  “I apologize for my accusations, sir,” she said. “I do not apologize for wanting to protect my friend.” She stood defiantly before him with crumbs on her face, and Rory had to smile.

  “I understand both, lass.” And with that, he turned and sat in the open space in the circle. Connor was seated across the fire and Rory looked to him for some acknowledgment of a truce. His friend, however, only had eyes for Mallory as she made her way back to him and sat with knees and elbows nonchalantly brushing against his friend. Connor then reached up and brushed the crumbs from her blushing, laughing face. Rory realized he was staring.

  He looked to his right and found that Ian and Vivianne were in a similar proximity, offering their food to each other and staring at each other’s mouths as they ate. Ian had never in his life looked so serious. Connor never so giddy. And neither of them were in their cups! It seemed the two had somehow exchanged skins and Rory shook his head, sure that Connor’s fist had left a lingering effect on him.

  Finally, Rory looked to his left where Bridget was seriously contemplating her bannock. She broke off tiny pieces and forced them into her mouth, chewing infrequently. Her hair had fallen forward and he wished she would look up and shake the wavy stuff back so he could get a good look at her eyes. He had missed her face all day, pulling her behind him as he had.