“Hmm . . . perhaps.” Her eyes sparkled and he was pleased to be able to provide her with some amusement, even if it was at his expense.
“What would ye say if I asked fer a wee kiss?” he ventured, putting forth his most charming smile.
Joan tilted her head and considered him for a brief moment. “Honestly, I’d rather kiss my horse.”
Inwardly, Malcolm winced, though he kept his smile in place. “Aye, I believe that ye’d both enjoy it more than kissing me.”
Joan’s eyes came alive as she broke into a giggle, but her laugh ended abruptly. “Bloody hell, here comes Archibald.”
Malcolm whipped his head around and saw the Fraser laird stomping into the bailey, nearly spewing fire from his mouth. Archibald glanced at the faces of the men gathered in the courtyard, then snarled when his eyes lit upon Malcolm.
“Defend yerself, McKenna,” Archibald shouted, pulling the claymore strapped to his back and raising it over his head.
Malcolm barely had time to shove Joan out of the way, pull his sword, and position himself to deflect the blow. The clang of steel rang loudly in his ears. ’Twas only due to his wide stance and strong legs that he was able to maintain his balance.
“Is there a particular reason ye want to fight or are ye just in the mood?” Malcolm asked, as the two of them crossed swords again.
“I dinnae like any man interfering with my wife,” Archibald declared, swinging his sword with a loud grunt. “I willnae allow such an insult to go unpunished.”
“She’s not yer wife anymore,” Malcolm replied, leaping back. Archibald swung again in a wide arc, coming so close to Malcolm’s head that he felt the wind of the blade near his cheek. “Ye need to stay away from her.”
Archibald beat his chest with his sword and roared. “No man orders me! I’ll do exactly as I wish!”
Enraged, Archibald attacked with a flurry of sword strikes. Malcolm blocked them all, hardly believing his opponent’s strength. Each time the blades struck, he could feel the vibrations run through his entire body.
Malcolm caught Archibald’s blade high, then low, pressing forward too quickly across the uneven ground and losing his footing. From a distance he heard a female scream as he fell—Joan?
Blood pounding, Malcolm hit the dirt, rolled, and regained his feet just in time to block Archibald’s next swing. The clang of metal exploded in his ear.
Christ, the man is out to kill me!
Their swords met again. Malcolm matched Archibald strike for strike, then suddenly spun around. Grasping his sword with both hands, he hit Archibald in his lower back with the flat of the sword, knocking him down.
Triumphant, Malcolm stepped forward to place his foot on Archibald’s chest and end the fight, but Archibald moved too quickly, scrambling in the dirt, twisting, and sitting upright.
He reached for Malcolm’s ankle. Malcolm sidestepped the hand, but stumbled, giving Archibald time to regain his footing. Breathing hard, both men faced each other. They circled slowly, methodically, each searching for a weakness.
Archibald suddenly lunged, and Malcolm spun to his right. Fortunately, Archibald’s sharp blade glanced off his upper arm instead of piercing his chest. Emboldened by drawing first blood, Archibald’s eyes flashed with confidence and he swung harder.
’Twas in that moment that Malcolm realized if he made his swings with less force, yet more precise, he could conserve his own strength and drain Archibald’s. Swinging their swords in rhythmic arcs, the two men continued trading blows, each straining as they struggled for the advantage.
Swords crossed, they leaned into each other, their faces mere inches apart. Malcolm could see the sweat on his opponent’s face, hear the bellows of his breathing. Archibald was tiring, thank the saints. All Malcolm need do was parry a few more thrusts and he should be able to toss him in the dirt.
’Twas difficult for Malcolm to be cautious in this fight, when every instinct bade him to deliver the appropriate justice to a man who abused and frightened women. Yet he held back. His patience was rewarded when he saw Archibald’s confidence growing with each sword strike.
He allowed Archibald one final hard blow, but as he stepped forward, Malcolm stumbled over a rock. Flaying his arms to keep his balance, he lost his grip on the sword. The weapon clattered to the dirt with an ominous sound.
Menacingly, Archibald approached. Knowing he was fighting for his life, Malcolm clenched his fist and swung upward, landing a hard punch to Archibald’s jaw. The sound was brutal, and while the blow stunned him, Archibald somehow remained on his feet.
Malcolm spun around again, this time aiming his foot at the back of Archibald’s knee. Archibald screamed when Malcolm connected with the target. Cursing and yelping in pain, Archibald crumbled, a shower of dust filling the air when he landed.
There was a brief cheer when Archibald hit the ground. Malcolm looked up and realized a crowd had formed to watch the melee. Being Highlanders, the onlookers had naturally been wagering on the outcome, as he saw several men exchanging coins. Picking up his sword, he nodded at one of the McKenna soldiers, pleased he had been able to help the man gain a profit.
“Ye dinnae fight like an honorable knight,” Archibald accused, clutching at his knee.
“Ye had no cause to attack me,” Malcolm retorted.
“I had every cause,” Archibald insisted, as he slowly stood.
“Malcolm!” a deep voice called, and he readied his sword, then slowly lowered it when he saw his father and brother approaching.
“Christ’s wounds, what in the name of all that is holy are ye doing?” the McKenna bellowed.
“Laird Fraser and I had a difference of opinion,” Malcolm answered. “We decided it was a matter best settled with swordplay.”
“Swords and trickery,” Archibald muttered bitterly, rubbing his jaw.
“’Tis how the knights on Crusade defend themselves,” Malcolm said pleasantly. “My brother James taught me.”
Archibald replied by spitting in the dirt.
James caught Malcolm’s eye and smiled. “I could have beaten him in half the time,” James proclaimed, never missing the opportunity to fan the flames of competition between himself and his older brother.
“Not bloody likely,” Malcolm protested, gratefully accepting the shoulder James offered to lean upon.
The McKenna examined Malcolm with a critical eye, his expression softening when he realized Malcolm was not seriously injured.
“Out of respect fer Laird Armstrong and his generous hospitality, the two of ye will confine yer swordplay to the practice yard,” the McKenna commanded.
“I shall abide by yer wisdom, Laird McKenna,” Archibald said. Then waving his hand wildly toward Malcolm, he added, “Make certain that yer son does the same or I’ll not be held accountable fer the outcome of a second match.”
Though he made a great show of cooperation, Malcolm knew inside Fraser must be seething. ’Twas galling to be defeated in front of a crowd that included men who served you. Strength and power were essential elements for survival in the Highlands. A laird could ill afford to lose either.
Archibald turned and stalked away, but Malcolm caught the flash of contempt lurking deep in his eyes. James must have seen it also—his body tensed and his hand inched toward the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side.
“Fraser is a treacherous man, lacking in honor and possessing a blood thirst that borders on madness,” James declared. “Beware of him, brother.”
Malcolm nodded grimly, agreeing completely with James’s assessment.
“Ye’re bleeding.”
The voice was feminine; the tone decidedly displeased. Joan.
Malcolm glanced down at his arm and saw a nasty wound. “I hadn’t realized the blade cut so deep,” he said, surprised at how much it stung.
“It needs tending or else it will fester,” Joan decided. “Come with me.”
He hesitated. She huffed in annoyance, placing her hands on her hips. “’Tis best to
do it right away. My offer to aid ye does not extend to cleaning a rotting, putrid wound.”
“Och, ye’ve a rare talent fer painting a pretty picture, Joan,” James said sarcastically.
“I merely speak the plain truth,” she countered. “Are ye coming, Malcolm?”
Deciding he had had more than enough fighting for one day, Malcolm meekly followed Joan into the castle, through the great hall, and up a narrow, twisting stairway. They entered a large chamber with colorful pillows on the chairs, an intricately patterned rug on the floor, and fresh spring flowers in an urn on the table—the women’s solar.
“Remove yer shirt,” she commanded. Joan poured water into the bowl, wet a cloth, then paused and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Wine, ale, or whiskey?”
“Whiskey,” he replied without hesitation.
“Aye. I’ll send fer it.”
She left the chamber and stood on the landing, her voice bellowing an impatient command for a servant to attend her.
In due course a line of servants entered the solar. They brought more water, whiskey, bread, cheese, and a basket filled with instruments and medicine. Joan instructed them to set everything on the table, then dismissed them with a distracted wave of her hand.
Using a fresh wet cloth, she cleaned away the dried blood and bits of materials that clung to the wound. Malcolm flinched at her ministrations; the pain was sharp and deep.
“It will need to be stitched,” she decided.
She poured him a whiskey, washed her hands, then began sorting through the contents of the basket. She selected a needle and thread, dumped the water from the wash bowl, filled it with whiskey, and dropped the thread and needle inside.
Malcolm groaned at the waste of such fine liquor. “Why are ye doing that?” he asked.
Joan shrugged. “I’m not sure. ’Tis what the healer always does before she stitches a man’s wounds and those rarely fester.”
Swiping the whiskey bottle, Malcolm set it next to him, just in case Joan had any other foolish notions. Whiskey this fine belonged in a man’s gut, not on his skin. He watched curiously as she tore strips of linen, set them in a neat row, then ran her fingers over them carefully. Frowning, she repositioned two of them, took a deep breath, then hastily made the sign of the cross.
Malcolm shot her an uneasy glance. “Have ye much experience as a healer?” he asked.
“Enough.” Joan replied briskly, in her usual challenging manner.
She picked up the needle and thread and glared at him. Cursing beneath his breath, he drained his glass, refilled it, then nodded that he was ready.
As she brought the needle close to his flesh, Malcolm tensed. Joan placed her hand comfortingly on his shoulder and his heart lurched at the unexpected contact. Puzzled, he reached up and touched her cheek. She startled and their gazes met.
“Are ye in pain? Do ye need more whiskey before I start sewing?” she asked breathlessly.
“Nay, I . . .” Feeling foolish, he allowed his voice to trail off. Didn’t she feel it, too? This maddening urge to embrace, this fierce need to brush their lips together. “Go on. Do yer worst.”
She leaned closer and Malcolm’s senses filled with the intoxicating fragrance of lemon mixed with spicy lavender. His gaze fixed on the perfection of her delicate, face—her soft, creamy complexion, her startling blue eyes, pert nose, and wide, sensual mouth.
She favored him with one of her sullen glances and astonishingly the need to kiss her intensified. Had the whiskey gone completely to his head—and then his cock? Malcolm took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.
“Yer squirming is making me nervous,” Joan warned. “Would ye rather I call someone else to tend to ye?”
The sound of her voice reverberated somewhere low in his gut. It had a sensual quality that he had never noticed, a husky, almost breathless edge. Mesmerized, he imagined the throaty moans of pleasure she would make if he kissed and caressed her sweet, lovely flesh.
“’Tis ye I want, Joan.”
Her swift intake of breath told him she was startled by his response. Yet she chose not to acknowledge the innuendo. Lifting her brow imperiously, she inquired in her most regal tone, “Shall I begin?”
“Aye.” Malcolm’s voice was husky with a desire he couldn’t completely contain.
Slowly, carefully, Joan pierced his flesh with the needle. He had half expected her to jab him savagely in an effort to cool his ardor, but she was gentle and deliberate. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she stitched, leaving him with the ridiculous urge to caress the lines on her forehead.
Malcolm tightened his lips, hoping the pain would distract him. It did for a few minutes, but then his traitorous gaze landed once again on her exquisite mouth. He couldn’t think straight staring at those plump lips. But where else was he to look—at her breasts?
The tightly fitted bodice of her gown emphasized their full, round, perfect shape. He imagined they would sport the same milky white flesh as her complexion, with the added enticement of dusky, pink nipples.
Bloody hell, that was even worse than staring at her mouth!
After what felt like an eternity, Joan finally tied off the last stitch. She lifted his hand and placed it on the linen strip that covered his wound. “Keep that in place while I mix a paste.”
“Will it smell as nasty as it looks?”
“Worse,” she said cheerfully. “Be grateful that I was able to stitch the wound closed or else my father’s healer would have insisted on using a hot blade to seal the jagged edges.”
That graphic image should have doused his ardor like a cold bucket of water. It didn’t. Malcolm shifted slightly, hoping she wouldn’t glance down and see how his stiff cock was straining against his braies.
“I prefer the needle to the blade,” he finally managed to utter, wondering if he sounded as half-witted as he felt.
Joan nodded. “The loss of blood will make ye feel light headed. Ye need to put something in yer belly besides whiskey.”
She broke off a piece of bread, spread it with honey, then handed it to him. He stared at the offering, watching a drop of the golden nectar run onto her thumb. Unable to resist, Malcolm grabbed her wrist and licked the honey with the tip of his tongue.
Joan squealed and snatched her hand away. “Whatever are ye doing?”
“’Tis a sin to waste such fine food,” he muttered innocently.
She narrowed her brows and stared at him in disbelief. Malcolm schooled his expression into angelic innocence, doubting he could fool her, but needing to try.
“If I dinnae know any better, I would swear that ye were trying to seduce me, Malcolm McKenna,” she said, her expression taut.
“And if I were?”
She stiffened. Only slightly, but he was watching her so closely, he caught it. “Ye’d be sadly disappointed.”
His fingers skimmed the length of her bare hand. “I beg to differ.”
For an instant Joan gazed at him in sheer wonder, then she blinked, as though regaining her senses, and abruptly stood. “Ye’ve had too much whiskey,” she declared.
Fingers trembling, Joan wound the unused strips of linen and placed them in the basket, along with the jars of herbs and salves. She refused to glance in his direction.
But he hadn’t missed how her face had turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and her breath quickened. Though she might protest with her usual indignation, Joan was not unaffected by his touch.
The thought pleased Malcolm far more than he had a right to admit.
Chapter Eight
Joan hated how her hands trembled, how vulnerable she felt, but she ignored those emotions and continued packing the medical supplies. Malcolm’s words made her shake with the usual distaste she carried of men and their lust . . . and yet there was something else brewing inside her that she couldn’t identify.
Everything seemed exaggerated—the stillness of the air, the sound of Malcolm’s voice, the sensitivity of her flesh where he had touched her. The into
xicating scent of his skin surrounded her, scattering her wits; the blood roared in her ears, quickening through her veins.
She had the oddest sense of being swept away in something that was too powerful to resist. Desire? Passion? Nay, ’twas impossible!
Joan could feel his eyes continue to bore into her, searching for—what? Her acquiescence? She nearly burst into gales of nervous laughter. Och, he’d be sadly disappointed.
Clenching her jaw, she avoided his gaze. Her nerves were near to shattering and she could barely tolerate another moment of his scrutiny, yet she owed him a debt for protecting her from Iain and saving her from Archibald.
A debt she intended to repay.
’Twas hardly in her nature to put others above herself, but in this instance Joan never hesitated. She had given it a fair amount of thought and believed she had come upon a reasonable solution that would resolve the MacPhearson matter without bloodshed and enable both sides to walk away with their male pride intact.
No small feat, indeed.
“Have ye decided what ye are going to do about Brienne MacPhearson?” Joan asked.
Malcolm’s brows drew together. “There is naught fer me to do. The child isn’t mine.”
“Dinnae delude yerself,” Joan warned. “The meeting this morning resolved nothing in Laird MacPhearson’s mind. He’ll not allow the matter to be dropped until he is satisfied with the outcome.”
Malcolm rotated his wounded arm cautiously. “I’ll not marry the lass and I’m not about to let him pluck out my eyes or run me through with his sword just because he believes I am responsible.”
“Aye, I agree that either of those punishments would please him greatly,” Joan admitted, dismayed to see a small stain of red on Malcolm’s bandage. “Brienne is an honest, God-fearing lass who loves her babe. I dinnae believe that she is lying.”
Malcolm recoiled, his expression strained. “Ye think that I’m the one who is playing false?”
“Nay.” Joan reached over and adjusted the linen strip on his arm. “I dinnae think that either of ye are lying.”
No Other Highlander Page 10
