by Trisha Telep
But whatever beauty he’d never claim about his face, Francis seemed determined to make his own in his dress. To greet Jeanne Forbes, he’d donned a grey doublet, slashed and pinked as were his trunk hose. His trews were a deep burgundy and the cloak suspended from his shoulder was deep green velvet lined in gold.
In contrast, Rob doubtless looked his subordinate. He wore but a simple leine and leather waistcoat under a short coat of dark green wool and, of course, his plaid, belted at the waist. Except for his stockings and shoes, his legs were bare. He’d caught his hair back from his face and bound it, not bothering to let it flow to his shoulders like Francis in the style his foster brother assured him was most admired at court. Well, they weren’t at court, and best this girl reported back to her mistress that the laird of Barras was no popinjay.
“Some of us speak, lady,” Alex said, a curl on his lip. “Though we prefer action to words. Perhaps you’d care for a demonstration?” He leered at her as he stepped forward and Rob was about to intervene when a great, deep rumble issued from the chest of the white dog. Alex stopped, uneasily regarding the tensed bitch who’d stood up now, her hackles raised.
“Who are you, lass? What are you doing here, unescorted and unprotected?” his uncle, Colin Frasier asked.
The girl touched the dog’s head and at once the bitch dropped to a sit. She smiled, steel as well as humour in her gaze. “I’m hardly unprotected, as you see. And as to who I am, I’m Joan, maid of milady’s chamber. And as to why I’m here, I come bringing the Laird of Barras a gift from the Lady Forbes.”
Once more her gaze flickered towards Francis who, Rob was amused to suspect, seemed to have been struck mute by the sight of a real French lady. At least French-raised. That hair was born in the Highlands and no doubt of it.
“And what would that be, Joan?” Rob asked, coming forward from where he’d stood in the back.
The girl’s gaze swept over him, widening a bit in an expression Rob could not read before a faint blush spread over her cheeks, confounding and beguiling him all at once, for he had said nothing to give rise to that sweet blush and yet once he’d seen it, it lodged in his heart, enchanting him. Caught offguard, he shook off the sudden, intense attraction. ’Twould never do to go lusting after his bride’s companion. He was not that sort of man and he had no intentions of becoming one.
“Well?”
In answer, the girl reached beneath her cloak and withdrew from some inner pocket a small, wriggling white creature, a pup but a few weeks old, Rob guessed.
“He’s an Alaunt,” the girl said proudly, petting the broad head of the beast beside her. “Paula here’s only whelp. Both Paula and the sire’s ancestors came from the Holy Lands, brought back with the crusaders from my … my lady’s family. I,” the girl’s eyes fell, suddenly shy, “I trained her.”
“Paula?” Alex burst out, laughing. “Ye named the bitch Paula?”
“Aye,” she said. “For the saint.”
“What sort of name is that for a baiting dog?” Alex jeered.
Joan swung towards him, her eyes flashing. “She’s no baiting dog and never will be. She’s a companion and a guardian should there be cause. But she’ll not ever spill her blood for the obscene pleasure of a bunch of drunken boys.” Her eyes flashed with contempt and disgust.
At this, Alex surged forward in fury, only to meet the immovable bulk of Rob’s massive arm. “Stay, Alex,” he murmured through clenched teeth.
His cousin needed no further instruction. Alex was a loyal man, if not a temperate one. He spun away from Rob, stalking to the door and shoving the girl aside as he passed, spitting down at her, “I’d keep the bitch close if I were you,” and Rob, already angry at Alex’s treatment of Jeanne Forbe’s liege woman, felt a black rage seize him.
Before he realized his own intent, he’d snatched Alex back and spun him around, gripping him around the neck and slamming him to his knees.
“By God, Alex, you go too far,” he rumbled. “If you—”
“Stay!”
Rob felt another’s hand on his shoulder.
“Leave off!”
Again he heard Francis’s urgent voice and looked up to meet his foster brother’s worried gaze over Alex’s head.
“Let him go or Joan will be forced to report to her mistress that having no foreigners to fight we fall upon each other like the very pit dogs she decries,” Francis said in a low voice. “Leave off, I say.”
Thank god for Francis’s reasoned calm, a calm for which Rob himself was usually known. But some instinct had snapped to life at Alex’s threat and he knew that he would never allow any man to lay rough hands on the gallant girl. With a bare nod of acquiescence, he released his hold on Alex’s throat, leaving his cousin sputtering and groping his way out the door with the aid of his amazed father.
He looked up at Joan. Her hand was clenched at her bosom, her eyes wide and frightened. Her gown’s sleeve had pulled up revealing a crescent-shaped red welt on her forearm. Rob froze.
He knew the story of that scar: a brazier filled with roasting nuts, a greedy toddler and inattentive nurse. He knew because in one of her first letters to him Jeanne Forbes had written him about her “battle scars”.
Jeanne, not Joan.
But then, Joan was simply the Scottish version of Jeanne. She had come, Rob realized, to learn about him covertly. If she had arrived as herself, his behaviour would be at its best and his kin and servants would keep their tongues well guarded. But if she arrived as a simple companion, she would be more likely to learn what his servants and kinsmen thought of him.
It was, he acknowledged, a practical ploy. And a cunning game.
One that two people could play …
The dark-haired young giant moved with lethal quickness for one so large and broad-shouldered. One moment the sneering, fair-haired Scot was growling his threat and the next he was on his knees clawing uselessly at the vise-like grip around his throat. And then the man Jeanne took to be her intended husband – for who else but he would be wearing such princely garb? – proved further proof of this supposition by staying the giant’s hand and sending the other two men from the room.
He was a judicious man then, neither passionate like the young giant nor violent like the other. A worthy man, then. A man who understood prudence and politics. She should be happy. Delighted. For political reasons had brought her here to this small castle to accept its laird as her husband.
She shouldn’t be surprised by his actions. In his letters, Rob Macalduie’s commitment to a lasting peace amongst the feuding Highlanders had been framed in careful, weighted words. His thoughtful and circumspect letters had demonstrated the statecraft that would be necessary to ensure it. Aye, he was a statesmen in the making, was Rob Macalduie.
And it was for just that reason she had ventured on this impersonation. For Rob Macalduie’s words had been too carefully select, too self-conscious, had sometimes made her feel that she’d revealed too much of herself in her own effusive ramblings while discovering too little about him. She wanted to know, to really know, what sort of man she’d agreed to wed. It was a small enough thing to insist upon.
She studied her fiancé now as he stood in deep and tense conversation with the young Scot whose broad back all but obliterated her view of the laird. She’d been told that Rob Macalduie had been in more battles than she had years and it stood to reason that he’d carry physical reminders of them. She knew that physical beauty was a vanity and an illusion but … she had hoped that he’d be not unpleasant to look at.
But alas, he was. His brow overhung deep-set eyes like a rock shelf over small pebbles, and his heavy brow stretched across that great land bridge like a brown weasel. His huge jaw hung at an oblique angle, caved in at one side. But he did have kind eyes – worried eyes, but kind – and his hair was pretty, thick as a lass’s, long and scented. And he was well-shaped. Though not so well-shaped as the large young warrior who had turned towards her.
Now, he was handso
me. His eyes were a clear green, fringed by thick short black lashes, his brow high and clear, his nose was bold and straight. His jaw was clean-shaven, his shoulders and the breadth of his chest beneath the leather waistcoat strong and hard, and the size of his hands and the length of his muscular legs and –
Oh my. She pulled her gaze away, feeling her face growing hot. His wide, well-shaped mouth quirked in a smile. The brigand! The great lout! He obviously thought she’d blushed because of him. Well, aye. She had. But he was no gentleman to make note of it.
And ’twould not do, besides! He would be her kinsman in but a few days.
“Lady,” the laird was saying and, even though it was hard to pay him the heed he merited when the younger man was watching her so intently, she forced herself to do so.
“Aye, sir?”
“When will your lady be arriving?”
Lady? Oh. Oh! He meant her! She must stop paying heed to the grinning Highlander.
“If I may make a request, sir. She bids your indulgence in letting me be her eyes and ears here for a single day.”
“Why so?” asked the giant.
She essayed a prim smile. “So that when I return to her tomorrow I might teach her better how best to please.”
“Ach!” At this the young giant broke into laughter, winning a sharp look from his laird. “Those are pretty words, lassie. Skilful. Are they yours … or hers?” His smile was vulpine.
Damn the man. He would make his laird doubt her. “Sir?” she managed to say with a guileless smile.
“Faith, yer a beauty,” he murmured, his gaze roving over her person so openly she felt another blush rise. Why didn’t the laird do something? But then, why should he? If his man indulged in a flirtation with his intended’s companion, what matter was it to him?
Well, it would presumably be a great matter when she revealed who she was. She should do so now, before this got out of hand and the black-haired giant found himself exiled when the laird recalled his brazenness towards her. But … she hadn’t learned anything of the laird yet and very soon it would be too late. She would be married to him. This would be her most promising opportunity to see him as his people saw him. Perhaps her only opportunity.
She would be careful. Starting now. She turned away from the dark-haired Highlander towards the laird, ignoring the giant.
But he refused to be ignored.
“But, won’t your lady be uncomfortable, sleeping in a wagon on a narrow cot with a lumpy mattress?” he murmured from close behind her. “Why subject her to that when here her bed would be strong. And broad. And firm.”
He wasn’t talking about beds. Fire flashed up her throat and into her face as she heard the laird make some sort of constrictive sound in his throat. She could feel the giant coming closer, caught a faint scent of pine and heather and a rich sort of earthiness. She glanced down at Paula. The white bitch was looking at the man, wagging her tail, her tongue lolling happily. The tart!
She looked up, meeting the laird’s sympathetic gaze, silently praying he would agree to her request and take her away from this man’s proximity.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Faith, lady, do what you must,” the laird said, unhappily it seemed to her. “Since your mistress is not to arrive today, there’re other matters to which I must attend.”
“Of course,” she said. “I would not be in the way. If you could send one of the women to—”
“There’s no need to take some poor woman from her duties, or her leisure, when I am already here and more than willing to act as your guide …” the young warrior said. “Joan.”
No. No! “But,” she sputtered, “don’t you have things to do, too?” She cast a desperate look at the laird. “Doesn’t he have things to do?”
“Like what?” asked the giant.
“Like … hacking things? Sharpening your claymore?”
“Though kindly meant I am certain, you may lay aside your concern regarding both my prowess and my sword. I promise you that my prowess is at its zenith and my claymore is … well-shaped.”
“Oh!” She gasped.
“He’s right, lady,” the laird said. “You’ll not find a better guide nor a more knowledgeable one and so I will leave you in his care.”
“But, what of Paula? And what of her pup?”
“They’d best stay with you until … They’d best stay with you for now.” And with that, the laird sketched a quick bow and left.
Slowly, Jeanne turned around to regard her guide. He was standing with his fists on his hips, his bare legs braced wide beneath his belted kilt. She’d never seen so large, so intimidating, so virile a young man.
“Well, Joan,” he said, his teeth flashing white and strong in his dark, handsome face, “what would you like to see first?”
She blushed, her cheeks turning as bright as autumn apples and ducked her head. Rob was utterly captivated. Her letters had revealed her intelligence and character, but not her youth or femininity. Hers was a girl’s blush, shy and unknowingly seductive and Rob felt his body react to its sweet temptation.
To disguise his discomfort, he hunkered down on his heels and held out his hand to Paula, palm down, fingers curled under. At once, the white bitch came forwards, tail-wagging, ears notched back in pleasure at the invitation. She sniffed his hand and he scratched her silky neck. Needing no further encouragement, she bowled into him, knocking him flat on his arse, and proceeded to bathe his face with her great pink tongue. He laughed and this only encouraged her further, for she squirmed in delight, planting her great boulder head in his lap and rolling over so that her four paws waved in the air.
“Ye great hussy!”
Rob looked up to find Jeanne smiling down at them. He grinned back. “I like a lass who’s a bit of a tart.”
“Bit of a tart?” She laughed and the sound was lovely, infectious, but then recalling herself, her smile faded and the blush deepened. She raised her chin to a haughty angle – because even though for all she knew “Joan” could be his equal or even his subordinate, Jeanne Forbes was definitely his superior – and demanded, “What is your name?”
It must have dawned on her then that she had not been introduced to anyone for her brows knit together. “What is anyone’s name? Who were those men?”
He rose, dumping poor Paula at his feet and sketched a bow. “Forgive our poor manners. ’Tisn’t everyday Barras is treated to the company of someone so elegant and exotic as yer fair self.”
She eyed him closely but since his words were no less than the truth, she could find no deceit nor mockery in his face or tone and so blushed again, making him smile even broader.
“My name is Rob, my lady,” he said then, catching the slight widening of her eyes, added, “Aye. ’Tis a name as common as bracken in the Highlands, I’m afraid. As to who the others might be,” he continued, not giving her time to ask his surname, “the older man is Colin Frasier, the laird’s uncle and the graceless cur he hauled out of here is his son, Alex.” He left off naming Francis, but then she assumed she already knew his identity.
“Now, where would you like to go?” he said, offering her his arm. After a second, she took it. “What would you like to know?”
He smiled down into her tip-tilted eyes. Her lashes were so long they brushed the delicate flesh beneath her arched brows. This close he saw her eyes were the colour of wild honey, a rich glowing amber. Eyes a man could get lost in. “What would you like to see? How can my laird win your … mistress’s heart? What would impress her most? What least? Let’s connive between the two of us, Joan, to see this union come to pass. And then,” he covered her delicate hand with his and felt the fingers flutter like a captive bird beneath, “we’ll have time to devote to getting to know one another.”
“Oh!” A gasp escaped her lips and she turned her head away. “No! No. Never.”
“Never?” he asked, cocking his head, pleased. Despite their mutual attraction, she understood honour and duty, the meaning of sacred vows and
political necessity. Once sworn to Rob Macalduie she would be his and no other’s – no matter how much she might want to. And she did.
He could tell from the agitation that lifted the delicate lace kerchief covering the soft swells of her bosom, by the colour staining her throat and the warmth of the hand beneath his, the glow in her eyes, the catch of her breath …
“Well, there’s a sadness then,” he said, trying not to sound too cheerful about it. He gave a gusty sigh. “But if that’s the way it is, far be it from me to try and foist my attentions on an unwilling maiden. So then, where is it you wanted to go?”
Her head swung up, her gaze sharp with disappointment and, aye, exasperation. He almost laughed. He’d apparently given up too easily and her pride did not like it much.
“The stables,” she said frostily.
He was surprised. He would have thought she would want to inspect the Great Hall, the solars or the stores, the buttery or the chapel, places where the wealth of a lord could be gauged. But he nodded and led her with the white pup in her hand from the gatehouse annexe across the bailey, Paula trotting behind. No one looked surprised by their passage or took particular note of him, though Jeanne in her finery and the great, muscled dog at her side drew many an interested glance.
His people were used to seeing him hither and yon about the castle. He’d been born and raised within these walls and, while treating him with deference, everyone accepted that theirs was a laird who must know everything about those things and people for whom he was responsible. There was no room he had not been in, no roof he had not climbed over, no floor he hadn’t trod, no person with whom he hadn’t shared a word and a drink.
They entered the stables at the far end of the bailey, Paula hard on their heels. The light inside was soft and diffused, the horses in their stalls whickering softly at the sight of the strange dog.
“Who goes?” a young man’s voice croaked from overhead. A second later a gangly lad of fifteen or sixteen years jumped down from the loft where he’d been napping or – a giggle from above caught Rob’s wry attention – indulging in another more pleasurable pastime. One look at his laird and the boy dissolved into abashed silence for which Rob thankfully offered up a prayer.
