by Amy Jarecki
She retrieved the satchel with the salve and bandages. Fortunately, the inn supplied a bowl and ewer of water. After arranging these items on the bedside table, Meg stood back and observed Duncan. She clasped her hands together and rubbed them. He lay on his side with his back to her. From the slow cadence of his breathing, Meg thought he might have fallen asleep. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.
She eyed his belt. A pious sister wouldn’t pay a mind to his physique. Duncan needed her help and that was the end of it. She gently placed her hand on his hip and leaned over so she could see his face. “Duncan?”
“Mm.”
“Are you awake?”
“Aye,” he said without moving, keeping his eyes closed.
“I need to lower your chausses.” Her hands trembled.
One eye opened. “’Tis music to a knight’s ears.”
“I cannot believe you’re jesting—fevered and all.” She drew in a steadying breath, reached in and unclasped his belt. The moan that escaped his throat made her insides erupt with uncontrollable butterflies. She pressed a hand against her chest to calm her heartbeat. Bring yourself under control, Meg. It isn’t as if you have not seen him before.
She loosened the ties on his waistband and tugged. Duncan had the wherewithal to raise his hips slightly. Not wanting this process to take an eternity, Meg clenched her teeth and bore down with all her strength. In one motion, she had him completely bare all the way to his knees. Scooting back, she clapped her hands over her mouth. Heaven help me, his braies must have been untied. “Forgive me.”
Duncan peered over his shoulder. “Do not worry, lass,” he said in a slow, lilting burr. “Apply the salve and I’ll be fit as a wee bairn come morn.”
She couldn’t help her cursory glance over the masculine flesh presented to her. He had a long, puckered white scar on his hip, as if he’d been cut open. Curious, she examined the old wound closer, gently stroking her finger along the length of it. “Were you in a battle?”
“Mm. More than one.”
By the dreamy tenor of his voice, he must be close to sleep. Meg leaned over to look at his face. Yes, his eyes were still closed. She sighed while her bosom filled with yearning.
He moved his hips. Glancing down, she gasped. Oh heaven help her, she shouldn’t have looked. Extending from a patch of tight black curls, his manhood was far more sizeable than Meg imagined a man’s member would be. Her tongue snuck out and tapped her top lip. Her palms perspired. What if she had touched him there?
Her knees buckled. She almost reached out and ran her fingers along his length before her sensibilities reminded that she was to become a nun, and in no way should she ever allow her gaze to so much as flicker to any man’s . . .
Forcing her mouth closed, Meg stood upright and clapped her hands over her eyes. Had she honestly just ogled Duncan’s unmentionables? Who knew how many sins she’d committed in that single moment? Fanning her face, she vowed not to bend over him again and turned toward the bowl. She doused a cloth and wrung it. “I’ll cleanse the wound first.”
“Mm.”
Perhaps the whisky did him some good. Meg examined the gash in his backside and hissed. White pus congealed in the center, with angry red flesh surrounding it. It had definitely turned putrid. She sniffed. The smell wasn’t sour yet. She grimaced, ever so mindful of causing more pain. Carefully, she touched the cloth to it.
Duncan jolted with a grunt. Meg pulled her hands away. She’d tried so hard not to hurt him. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” He must have lied, because the word was clipped and strained.
“I’ll try to hold the compress to it rather than rub.”
He nodded slightly, but she dared not lean over him again to see if his eyes were open. No, she wouldn’t make that mistake again. What did it matter if they were opened or closed, anyway? She doused the cloth again and gingerly held it against his backside. A shiver coursed through him, and while she held her hands in place, the compress warmed. Three times Meg rinsed the cloth and reapplied it.
“I shall rub in the salve now.”
“Aye.” The word now rolled across his tongue like honey.
Meg would have preferred it if Duncan had uttered more than one word at a time, but then, he was fevered.
She picked up the pot and froze. What if he lost consciousness altogether? What would she do if discovered sharing a chamber with a man in Glasgow? In no way could she send word to Arthur.
Oh, heaven help. I had enough difficulty helping Duncan to the bed. If his fever doesn’t improve, we will not make it to the pier on the morrow.
What more can I do?
She pulled the cork stopper and dipped her fingers into the goo. “You must have plenty of rest this night. I’ll pray your strength returns by dawn.”
“Strength. Must.” He jerked and grunted when the ointment touched his wound. “Return,” he growled.
Meg continued to dab, trying to smooth in the liniment. “Pray the Gypsies know a thing or two about healing, else this salve will be for naught.”
“Mm.”
With a deep sigh, Duncan appeared to relax. Evidently, the ointment soothed after its initial application. Meg pushed in the cork and studied Duncan’s bare-bottomed form. Heaven strike her dead, this view ignited a spark deep inside she’d never before experienced. She yearned to cup his buttocks and dig her fingers into the chiseled flesh. She clapped a palm to her head as if she were daft. From where on earth had her entirely disgraceful thoughts come? Meg was a well-bred, pious woman who wanted nothing to do with men. Even her sisters had supported this certainty. Who could fall in love with the claw?
Deciding it best to leave Duncan’s wound to air, she pulled a plaid from the end of the bed and draped it over him. After stoking the fire, Meg took the candle and crossed to the other side of the bed where she’d be able to see his face without jostling him. As she thought, his eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady. The candlelight flickered amber shadows across his face. He had not a blemish, though he hadn’t shaved since her rescue. His short beard gave him the look of a pirate. If she didn’t already know his kindhearted nature, she might fear a man as large as he, dark features and all. His lips parted and he sighed with a deep rumble.
In that moment, Meg wanted to climb onto the bed and kiss him. He’d let his guard down and kissed her once. She’d never forget how his lips felt when they touched hers—soft, gentle, spicy. Yes, she would kiss him again if she believed he’d want her to. But a man like Sir Duncan Campbell would never desire a cripple like Meg Douglas. Aye, such a brawny knight could most likely win any fair lassie to whom he took a fancy.
Chapter Eleven
Something heavy draped across her waist. From the warmth radiating along her back, Meg needed no coverlet. A balmy puff of air caressed her neck. She sighed, not wanting to move. Cradled in the folds of a feather bed, she snuggled into the warmth, and her mind hovered in that dreamy place on the precipice of sleep.
Behind her, a deep voice moaned. “Mo leannan.”
Meg’s eyes flew open. Adjusting to the dim light, her breathing sped. She remembered climbing into the far side of the bed late last eve. The bed was large enough for three or four people, and with Duncan fast asleep, she’d seen no harm in it if she kept to her side.
She ran her fingers over the mattress and met the edge. Thank heavens she hadn’t scooted all the way across in her sleep. But Duncan must have.
He’d uttered a Gaelic endearment. Was he delirious? Praying he was not, she took a chance and rose slightly on her elbow. She looked over her shoulder; his eyes were closed and the slow cadence of his breathing indicated he was deep in slumber. Beyond him, the coals in the hearth smoldered with their last embers.
His arm tugged Meg to his chest, and he pressed his hips against her buttocks. Closing her eyes, her hips moved in concert with his. Never in her life had a hot, fire-like yearning inflamed her insides. She arched into him. The driving desire to touch h
er flesh to his made her wish her skirts and the bedclothes weren’t obstructing her so much, on the one hand—on the other, she was grateful they were. An image of Duncan’s manhood appeared in her mind. Oh dear—would she now be plagued with the constant memory of his sex? Inhaling, she conjured another image, not so erotic, but ever so moving. Picturing his beautiful backside made her breasts grow heavy, and the stirring between her hips swirled into a maelstrom of desire.
I cannot allow these thoughts to consume me.
Abruptly, Meg sat up. A hint of light peeked beneath the window coverings. Is it past dawn? Beside her, Duncan stirred.
She quickly jumped off the bed. What on earth would he think if he roused with her lying in his arms? She smoothed her hands over her hair and cleared her throat. “Duncan. You must wake. The captain told us to be on the pier at dawn.”
He didn’t stir. Meg skipped around the bed and shook his shoulder. “Duncan?”
He rolled to his backside and groaned, his entire body stiffening. “Jesus strike me dead, that hurts.”
“We must make haste if we’re to meet the ship.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. When he cast his gaze to the streaming light, he bolted upright. “Bloody hell, how could you have let me sleep until daybreak?”
She wrung her hands. “I only just awoke myself. Surely ’tis not too late to meet the sea galley.”
Stiffly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The plaid shifted, exposing his hip. Quick as lightning, his hand swooped down and caught it before it dropped. He glanced down, eyebrows arching. “Ah.” He cleared his throat.
Meg turned away and shielded her eyes. “Forgive me. After I applied the salve, I thought it best to let your bot—ah . . . your injury air.”
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Bleating bloody hell, I had my bare arse hanging out of me braies all night.”
Meg most definitely would not ask him to repeat it.
The floorboards creaked. Cloth rustled then stopped. “As long as I’m in a state of undress, would you be so kind as to apply the ointment?” he said politely. “Then we’ll need to head out straight away.”
“Is your back turned?”
“Aye, lass.”
She reached for the pot. “Very well.” She made quick work, rubbing in a bit of salve and corking the pot. “That should put you to rights.”
He bent down and tugged up his braies and chausses with another grunt.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You’re still too pale.” She felt for a fever. “And too hot to the touch.”
He drew away from her touch. “I’ll be right as soon as we make it to Kilchurn.”
“The question is, can you make it to the boat?”
He grabbed the flagon of whisky and took a swig. “With this I can withstand anything.”
Meg shoved the salve and bandages in the satchel. “Aye? You didn’t appear all that impervious to the pain last eve.”
He dragged his cloak over his shoulders. “’Twas because I didn’t have to be. Now let’s be off afore we miss the transport.”
After snatching the leftover bread, Meg followed him down the stairs and out into the street. The scene alive with activity, horses pulled carts and people scurried past, bundled under heavy cloaks. Against the wall, a beggar held up a tin cup. “Alms.”
Meg’s heart squeezed. If only she had time to help the indigent, but Duncan reached back and tugged her arm. “They’re casting off, hurry!”
Though she sensed the knight was trying to make a show of robust strength, he still limped. Ahead, a sailor started pulling in the gangway.
Duncan hobbled faster. “Och, what the blazes are you doing? We’re paying passengers here.” He raced for the wooden plank and bellowed in pain.
The captain popped his head over the side and motioned for the man to push the gangway back out. “What? Did ye and the missus have a romp afore crossing the street? Another knell of the bell from the cathedral and you would have missed us.”
Duncan ushered Meg onto the gangway. “A decent man would have sent someone across the road to fetch us.”
She agreed with him—the captain knew where they were staying. How difficult would it have been to send a cabin boy over to knock on their door? A sailor offered his hand, and Meg climbed down the three steps into the galley. She turned back to see how Duncan was faring, and movement across the road caught her eye. The beggar was no longer there, but she stared right into the grey eyes of Isaac, Lord Percy’s man-at-arms. She’d never mistake that man’s face or its jagged scar.
“Cast off,” the captain hollered as the sailor pulled the plank into the boat.
Meg swiftly hid behind Duncan’s large frame. Had Isaac recognized her? She chanced a glimpse around the Highlander’s shoulder. Northumberland’s man-at-arms started to run across the cobbled road. But his anxious expression was blocked by a horse and cart trotting across his path.
Meg’s gaze shot to the captain. “Hurry!”
“What’s the sudden rush?” He sauntered toward them and held out his palm. “Besides, you owe me a half-crown.”
She crouched below the hull.
Fishing in his purse, Duncan eyed her as if she were daft. He held out the coin to the captain. “For this outrageous sum I expect to disembark at the pier on Loch Etive.”
The man snatched it. “With a good wind, we’ll be there before sunset.”
Duncan’s face took on a sallow pall, and he motioned for Meg to sit on the bench beside him. She was only too happy to remain below the ship’s rail and sit. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Tell me, why were you so anxious for us to cast off?”
She warily glanced around them. “I saw Lord Percy’s man-at-arms standing exactly in the spot where the beggar had been.”
He glanced over his shoulder as if Isaac were in the boat. “Bull’s ballocks.” Duncan grasped her arm. “Did he see you?”
“He looked straight at me.”
Duncan jumped onto a rowing bench and peered over the rail. “I’ll be the son of a tit-sucking swine.”
“Pardon me?”
Duncan swayed in place. “What does the bastard look like?”
Meg drummed her fingers on her lips. “He has an ugly scar on his right cheek. He’s tall, with darkish hair, I think.”
“You think?” He leaned into the rail and continued scanning. “Are you certain it was he?”
“Aye. I’d never mistake that scar.” Meg took a chance and straightened enough to peek over the hull. “He’s not there now.” She resumed her seat.
Duncan plopped beside her. “Ballocks.”
By the increase in his cursing, Meg figured he was in a lot of pain. “I doubt he’ll find us unless he can commandeer a boat quickly.”
“It won’t be difficult for him to find out where we’re headed. All he needs to do is ask a laborer.”
Meg thought Duncan might be growing delirious. “But this boat is destined for Mull.”
“Aye, as long as no one from the ship mentioned they’d be ferrying a pair of paying passengers to Dunstaffnage.”
“But no one knows we’re”—she leaned in to ensure only Duncan could hear—“heading to . . . you know.”
“We’ll not tarry at Dunstaffnage, for certain.” He pursed his lips and offered a stiff nod. “Sit back and enjoy the voyage. Once we sail into the Firth of Clyde, the seas could become rough. We’ll feel it in a boat this small.”
Meg smoothed her hand over the space on the bench beside her. The old vessel was worn. Living on the Firth of Forth, she’d seen hundreds like it—fishing galleys, for the most part, owned by local fishermen. Smaller galleys like this one never went far out to sea or crossed the channel to France. They weren’t robust enough.
Beside her, Duncan’s head hit the hull with a bang. He looked like death.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“Aye, just resting my eyes.”
Of course. Everyone smashes their head into the hull of a ship when they want to close their eyes. She wagered he was still fevered, not that he’d admit it. Presently, Meg had more to worry about than Percy’s guard. At least they’d left Isaac standing on the pier. She steepled her fingers to her mouth and offered up a silent prayer that Duncan would keep his wits at least until they reached the shore—else she’d be at the mercy of the captain and the vast Highlands.
Speaking of the leader of the ship, he stood at the rudder and eyed her, just like the Gypsy had done in the back of the wagon. Meg crossed her arms and studied the galley’s timbers. My, how barbaric and dangerous the world is away from Tantallon Castle.
Duncan had never been so cold. It didn’t matter how tightly he clamped his arms to his body—he couldn’t get warm, and the gusts of wind blowing in from the north only served to make his chills worse. He could not allow himself to succumb to a simple scrape on his arse. Surely he’d come through the worst of it.
In no way could he collapse and leave Lady Meg to fend for herself. Christ, the sailors on the galley all looked at her with lecherous grins. He ground his teeth and squinted through his lowered lashes. Meg was too naive to notice the blighters all drooling over her lovely face.
But a mob of lusty sailors was only half his worries. Percy’s man had tracked them all the way to Glasgow? A bead of sweat slid down Duncan’s temple. There he sat, colder than midwinter without a fire, so fevered, sweat poured off him. God bless it, he hadn’t outsmarted the English bastards. What the blazes were they doing in Glasgow, and how far did they intend to go?
When he and Lady Meg reached Dunstaffnage, they’d be on Campbell lands, and safer. It would be suicide for an English army to trespass into Argyllshire. Duncan’s eyes rolled back, and he shook his head. This damnable fever couldn’t get the better of him. He must send out spies and alert the guard as soon as he reached the shore.
Bless it, God would strike him dead before he allowed anything to happen to Lady Meg.
