But in her heart of hearts Kara knew she was only fooling herself. She could not bed Harry.
"If there's nothing else you wish, my lady, the babe and I will be abed."
Kara heard Isla speak, but she didn't hear her words. She couldn't tear her gaze from Ian's.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kara saw Harry staring at her. At Ian.
Kara blinked.
Ian looked away.
Kara's gaze met Harry's. His face was awash in some emotion she couldn't quite identify. Hurt? Jealousy?
She felt like a thief, caught with the loaf in her hand. "H-Harry. I think I'm tired, too. Are you ready for bed?" She rose, taking his shirt with her.
Harry turned away, gazing into the fire's blaze. "Nae," he said, his tone echoing what could only be interpreted as loneliness. "I think I'll stay here awhile with my brother."
Kara didn't dare look at Ian. She didn't dare hope he would come to her. Not tonight.
"All right then," she said softly. On impulse, she went to the hearth and kissed Harry on his cheek. "Night."
He brushed the small of her back as she walked away. Not as a man touches his lover, but as a man touches one he loves. "Pleasant dreams."
Kara left the hall and took the tower stairs in the darkness. Her calm, peaceful manner was beginning to crumble. Pregnant with another man's child. What was she going to do?
* * *
Dungald laughed heartily and tossed the dice onto the scarred wooden table again. Someone walked behind him and spilled ale down his back. He glanced over his shoulder, but in the smoky, dim light of the low-ceilinged alehouse, he could not distinguish one drink from another.
The Bull's Horn was a drinking house for the common man, settled on the edge of the village of Dunnane. Though it had been established to satisfy the thirst of working men, there were others in the area who frequented it: tradesmen, herders, landholders, even thieves and swindlers. Dungald liked the ale house; he liked its stench and the red-haired whore who, for coin, would take a man into the loft above and ride him like a bucking mare. Dungald knew she only pretended to enjoy the futtering. He knew that she wasn't really the mistress of the manor, that she wasn't Kara. But sometimes if he was drunk enough, if he kept his eyes closed and her body odor wasn't too strong, he could almost convince himself for a few fleeting moments.
A man intentionally bumped into Dungald's shoulder. "Ye lookin' for me?"
Dungald glanced up from the dice on the table. "Maybe."
The man glanced at the table. "Looks like you're losing your pants, anyway. 'Tis now or never."
Dungald frowned. He didn't like being treated like a stripling boy, like Harry. "I'm out!" Dungald threw up his hands and stepped away from the crowd of gamblers. He had to nudge his way through the crowd. Faces were fuzzy, his step unstable on the dirt floor. He had had too much to drink... again. He slipped into a chair across the table from the man.
"What is it?" the man asked. He drank ale from a battered pewter cup.
Dungald licked his lips. His mouth was dry, and the man's ale looked cool and wet, but Dungald had no more coin and his credit was at its limit. Even the proprietress, Bessie, would not give him more ale without coin.
"Our deal. I have thought to make it more... rewarding, for both of us."
"That right?"
"'Twould take more men than you have." He belched from deep in the pit of his stomach.
"I can get more men, if the price is right."
"Excellent. I thought so. Excellent."
The man stared at Dungald, plucking his beard. "I take it this involves the same party we are presently involved with?"
He nodded.
The man thought. "Some say he is not as weak as what was first thought. Some say there are those who should be more careful."
"Some say, some say," Dungald muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue was thick and tasted stale. He wanted to go back to Dunnane to sleep on a clean tick, but he wasn't sure he could make it there on his own. "Some say Christ is coming this morning, but do you think we'll actually see his blessed face?"
The man looked away as if disgusted. "You're drunk. I do not make deals with drunk men."
Dungald met his eyes. "I am not that drunk, sir."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me what you wish and I will think on the matter."
Dungald nodded. "Well enough." He pointed to the man's cup. "But first I'll have your ale."
Chapter 19
"Take care. Be careful. Listen to Ian."
Ian sat astride his restless mount, struggling to avoid watching Kara say her good-byes to Harry.
Harry had decided it was time to respond to the refusals to pay the levies due to him as the Earl of Dunnane. This morning they would ride out to the property of one of the men who refused to pay and demand Harry's due. Chances were, no weapons would have to be drawn, but to be on the safe side, they were traveling with two dozen armed men, eager to defend their lordship should it become a necessity. Truthfully, Ian didn't know if they were eager to defend their master, or just bored and eager to get into a skirmish. Either way, it didn't matter so long as they were there.
Kara continued to speak to Harry in a hushed, wifely tone. Ian couldn't tear his gaze from her hands as she fiddled with Harry's stirrup, or from her face as she peered up at him with genuine concern.
Ian knew that jealousy was an evil monster that ripped men apart, that crumbled empires, that broke women's hearts. But he couldn't help himself.
Kara should have been standing beside him, whispering her farewells to him. It was only fair. She loved him, not Harry. Ian wanted her to smooth his kilt, to gaze up at him with those eyes filled with a mixture of fear and pride.
What right did Harry have to be her husband? He was only fourteen years old, for sweet God's sake. He knew nothing of a wife, of love. He was too young to understand just how much he should cherish a woman. But how could he know?
Ian gazed downward at the reins in his gloved hands. His horse backed up a step, shied to the right, as restless as his master.
How could Harry know how precious love was when he had not yet really lived? The boy had fought no battles, never watched a man's lifeblood pour onto the moors. He had not held his best friend in his arms as he sucked in one last wet breath. He had not buried any loved ones but his father, and him he had not known well. Harry had not lived long enough to realize what a brief time he would be upon this earth. He had not the years, not the wisdom, to know what was important in this life and what was not. So innocent.
Ian was jealous of his innocence as well.
"Do we leave today, my lord?" Ian asked irritably.
Harry had leaned over in his saddle to speak privately to Kara.
What did he have to say that he could not say aloud?
Kara touched Harry's cheek and Ian closed his eyes for an instant, imagining it was his own cheek she stroked. He wished she would come to him and say good-bye. Even a chaste, sisterly kiss would be nice.
But of course she wouldn't dare.
Of course, he had no right to feel her lips upon his cheek.
Logically, Ian knew he held Kara's love, but as time went on he became more and more resentful that their love had to be kept a secret. He wanted others to know he loved her, that she loved him. He wanted her to bear his children. He wanted to grow old beside her, to hold her in his arms in their bed when they were both gray-haired, their joints creaking with age.
Harry and Kara were still talking, whispering. She was smiling.
Ian spoke sharply. "Harry! 'Tis not the Crusades we are set upon. Ye'll be home by the evening meal. Let us go."
Kara kissed Harry's cheek and the boy pulled up on his reins and urged his mount forward to the head of the line of men.
Ian brought up the rear.
"Take care of him," Kara said to Ian, folding her arms before her.
He glanced down. She looked so small standing against the castle
's stone wall. So vulnerable.
In that moment Ian thought he might sell his soul to the devil himself to be able to lean over and kiss her hard on the mouth.
He was thankful the devil did not appear.
"He'll be fine," he said.
Her gaze searched his and he immediately felt guilty for being so short with her, with Harry as well. But he was in such turmoil these days, his gut so twisted, his head pounding with the weight of their secret, of the impossibility of their love.
Kara lifted a hand in farewell and stepped back.
"Let's ride!" Ian commanded, and the horses bearing the Gordon men sprang forward, headed for Matty MacFae's.
* * *
"To success," Ian said with a crooked grin. Harry pushed his pet monkey onto his shoulder and raised his horned drinking cup high. "To success."
Ian knocked his goblet against Harry's and took another swallow of the fine Dunnane scotch. Ordinarily Ian didn't imbibe. He didn't like the idea that he might not be entirely in control of his faculties. He didn't like the thought that he might do or say something he would regret later. But tonight was an exception to his rule.
They had ridden over to Matty's, and though he had appeared to be surprised to see them, he had welcomed them into his keep. He had apologized for being remiss and paid his levy without further ado. No blood had been shed and there seemed to be no hard feelings.
"And now to... to Matty," Harry toasted. He was only drinking ale, but had already had a wee bit too much.
The monkey climbed onto Harry's head and the boy laughed, trying not to move and send the little creature flying.
Kara had gone to bed an hour ago, but before she retired she had commented that when it came to ale, Harry shouldn't be trying to keep up with his men. She said she didn't want to see him ill in the morning.
The woman was no fun. She probably didn't want a monkey on Harry's head either.
Ian had assured her it was yet another rite of manhood. If a man didn't make an ass of himself in front of his men on occasion, then he just wasn't a true Scotsman.
Kara had frowned at him with obvious skepticism, but that saucy look on her face had only made her more appealing. It was all he had been able to do to let her part their company without placing a big fat kiss on her rosy lips.
Ian slapped his goblet against Harry's again, enjoying the clinking sound they made. Ale from Harry's sloshed onto Ian's hand and he waved it, sending droplets flying.
"I know! I know." Harry raised his cup. "To... to the dozen head of cattle, and... and..." He leaned across the table, his forehead creasing. "What else did Matty give me in payment?"
Ian laughed. "Two sheep and a silver spoon."
"A silver spoon." Harry cackled, slapping his thigh. "What the hell am I supposed to do with a silver spoon?"
Ian laughed, feeling as silly as the boy looked, wearing a white-faced monkey for a hat. "I don't know. Give it to James there."
Harry snorted with laughter, tried to look up, and the monkey slipped off his head and down his neck to the back of the chair. He scooped up the monkey and brought it to his face. "What do you think of that, Your Grace? Would you like to eat your breakfast food with a silver spoon?"
"Just take care, James," Ian warned the monkey, "that Cousin Dungald does not steal it from you as you sleep."
Harry roared. "As you eat, you mean."
Ian took another swallow of the smooth scotch as the monkey came to sit directly in front of him. It stared at him with great concentration, looking eerily like a little man. Catching the animal's scent, Ian waved one hand and turned his face away. "God's teeth, that creature stinks."
Harry dropped his goblet to the table and reached for the pitcher of ale, cradled in the arms of a sleeping man. "Give it up, Harold," he mumbled.
Harold snored in response, turned his head, and rested it on the table once again.
"My monkey does not stink." Harry poured himself another healthy portion of the ale. "He just doesn't smell like you or me." He straightened and lifted a haughty chin. "I rather like the way he smells."
The monkey wandered away from Ian and stopped to observe something in Harold's tangled hair.
Ian made a face. "I'm telling ye, brother. The beastie stinks." He pointed a finger. He felt a little dizzy, but the dizziness was a relief. Light-headed like this, he couldn't think; it felt good not to think. "He needs a bath."
Harry looked at Ian, creases appearing on his youthful forehead. "A bath? Ye don't give monkeys baths." He stared hard at Ian, no doubt attempting to focus. "Do ye?"
"Didn't the monkey man give ye care instructions?" Ian questioned in as serious a manner as he could muster, considering the subject.
Harry leaned back in his chair and propped one boot on the table, thinking. "Not about bathing." He glanced at the monkey, now picking through the sleeping man's hair with great interest. "I'm supposed to be bathing James?"
On impulse, Ian jumped out of his chair. "Fear not! Do not despair! Big brother will come to the rescue."
"Ye will?" Harry's mouth slid into a grin. "How?"
"Well, I'll help ye bathe the beastie, of course." Ian pulled Harry out of the chair by his armpits, grabbed the monkey and pushed it into his arms. "Come on. 'Twill be a worthy cause."
"I don't know about this." Harry stumbled along beside Ian, the pet tucked under his arm.
Most of the men had gone to bed. A few still sat at tables in the great hall, tossing dice or having one last draught before they turned in. Several slept where they sat, snoring contentedly.
"Where... where are we going to bathe James?"
Ian stopped in the passageway and rested one hand on the wall. Now on his feet, he realized he'd had more scotch than he thought. "Where's that great copper tub?"
Harry's eyes grew wide. "Kara's bathing tub? I think not."
"Come, come, we could get some of those sweet soaps of hers. Yours will be the most fragrant monkey in all of Christendom."
"The tub is in my room, but empty." Harry wrinkled his nose. "I'm not certain I should wake a servant to fill a monkey's tub."
Ian thought a minute. The boy had a point. Bright boy. "All right. I've another idea, but we must have soap. The lavender bars. I know she has them; I can smell it on her."
The two brothers stood face-to-face in the dark corridor.
Harry lowered his voice. "Do we really need the soap? I don't want to wake her." He grabbed his codpiece. "And I've a great need to piss just now. Why don't you get the soap whilst I do my business?"
Ian ran a hand through his unbound hair. "Oh, no, not me. I'm not going in the mistress's bedchamber whilst she sleeps."
"Please?" Harry punctuated his request with a hiccup. "Just slip into my room, then into hers. There's soap in that little chest near the end of her bed."
"Harry, I really don't think—"
"I'm the earl; you're the brother." The monkey again climbed up on his master's head. "And I say you get the soap for my monkey." He hiccupped again. "Now!"
Ian exhaled loudly through his lips. "Fine." He threw up his hands and turned away. "Give me all the servants' duties. Treat me like a slave."
Holding his codpiece, Harry hurried past Ian and down the corridor, the monkey balanced on his head. "You get the soap; James and I will meet you."
"Right."
The boy turned. "Meet you where?"
"In the courtyard."
"The courtyard? Of course!" He thought again. "Wait. Don't ye think it's cold to be—"
"Harry, Harry, have I ever given ye poor advice?"
Harry thought a moment, grimaced and shook his head. "Nae."
"Nae," Ian echoed. "Now go."
Harry took off at a gallop down the unlit hallway as Ian headed for the tower.
He knew it was unwise to enter the tower without Harry even if he did have the perfect excuse. His master had sent him. Actually it was too bad Harry would be waiting for him down in the courtyard; otherwise he'd be tempted to
dally.
Ian took the tower steps two at a time, grasping the rope for balance. He slipped into Harry's room, then halted in the doorway to Kara's chamber. Kara lay on her side, her head on a pillow, her hair a glorious mass that poured over the pillow, over her shoulder and onto the counterpane.
Ian ached to touch her. He could kiss her just once and be gone; she'd never know he had been there. He watched her another moment, thinking how beautiful she was.
But no, one kiss would not be enough. Trying to tiptoe in his heavy boots, Ian moved to the chest at the end of the bed. He opened it and the scent of lavender soap wafted up to his nostrils. The box smelled of Kara, of her strength and her joy in life. He felt inside. Silky fabrics, a hairbrush, a handheld looking glass. Aha! A square of soap. Soap in hand, he closed the chest and took one last lingering look at Kara. "Sleep well, my sweet," he whispered as he slipped out of the room.
Ian hurried down the tower stairs, through the castle and out into the open courtyard. He found Harry by the bare arched arbor at the entrance to the garden.
"It's cold," Harry said, hugging his monkey. "I should have brought my cloak."
Ian grabbed a handful of his brother's shirt. "Bring the beastie."
"I still don't understand where—" Harry halted in a patch of moonlight. "The fountain? Mother's Italian fountain?"
Ian pushed up his sleeves. He had thought the night air might clear his head; he had thought wrong. "Better this than the wife's bathing tub, eh?"
Harry sniggered, covering his mouth. "What Mother doesn't know will nary harm her."
Ian thrust both hands into the stone fountain. In the warm months the water flowed freely, but now it was still. The water was cold, but energizing. He rubbed the bar of soap between his palms, liking the smell of it. "Come, come, bring him."
Harry gingerly placed his pet on the edge of the stone bath. The monkey gave a little shriek. Harry glanced up. "Do ye think he likes bathing?"
"Of course." Ian held up his soapy hands. "You hold him; I'll scrub."
Highland Bride Page 19
