by Sandy Blair
“Ack, Birdi, I swear ye’ll be the death of me.”
She’d be the death of him? ‘Twould more likely be withershins—the other way around—if his hands continued to chafe her skin as they did. But she didn’t complain. Chafing was better than his unmerciful pounding.
“Lass, open yer eyes and look at me.”
She did and found his face only inches away, well within her clearest range of vision. He was staring at her intently from eyes fairer than the mid-summer sky, bluer than a jay’s feather, fringed by long spiked lashes the color of wet bark. Truly lovely. Too bad they were frowning at her. Sadder still, they weren’t hers. She did so dislike her eyes.
She’d seen them once in a looking glass when she’d been summoned to the Macarthur’s keep. She hadn’t realized until that moment that her eyes marked her as different. The Macarthurs—those few she’d seen—had eyes of smoky blue or green. Hers, alas, were the color of snow in shadow. It explained why the Macarthurs feared her so. Graces, her eyes had startled even her, spying them for the first time. So why didn’t they frighten the Canteran?
“Ye’re freezing, lass, I need build a fire.”
Before she could say there wasn’t need—the heat radiating from his chest was certainly warm enough—he sprang to his feet and carried her to his horse. Holding her in one arm with no apparent effort, he reached behind his saddle and pulled down a package. He carried it and her back toward the waterfall.
He laid her down on a grassy spot in the sun, the place where the horse—a huge, slow moving white blob to her burning eyes—grazed. Angus tore into his package and pulled out yard upon yard of deep green, shimmering cloth. He then—to her horror—started pulling up her kirtle.
She squeaked and slapped his hands. “Leave me be!”
“Not until I have ye out of these wet clothes. I dinna want ye catching the ague.”
He again reached for her hem and she swatted his arms. “I can do it myself. Turn around.”
Grumbling, he handed her the shimmering cloth and turned his back.
Teeth chattering, she pulled on her water-soaked sleeves and her arms came free. She glared at his broad back. The nerve of the man, thinking he could strip her without so much as a by-yer-leave!
She yanked her kirtle over her head and quickly wrapped the shimmering cloth over her nakedness.
Fearing Birdi didn’t have the strength to manage on her own, Angus watched her out the corner of his eye. Her chilled skin was almost blue.
When she’d finished donning the velvet fabric he’d
intended as a wedding present for his bride, he faced her. “Are ye feeling better?”
In response, she narrowed her incredible eyes at him and pressed her lush lips into a thin line. One hand slipped out of the yards of fabric. When she fingered the velvet, he grinned. Aye, she felt better. Feeling immeasurably better himself, he told her, “I’ll leave ye to warm in the sun while I gather some firewood.”
The wood gathered and lit by her side, he stripped down to his sark—something he normally didn’t wear liking the feel of air about his nether parts, but now wore in an effort to protect his groin while traveling through forest at night—and donned the second tunic he carried.
He then spread their clothing on a flat boulder to dry in the sun. Stomach growling, he sat down beside her. A healthy pink had returned to her lips and cheeks, and her hair, which she’d pulled from beneath the cloth in his absence, was again starting to billow about her waist in the faint breeze. “Are ye warm yet?”
She nodded.
Wondering if he dared leave her to catch something for them to eat, he murmured, “Ye scared me witless, lass.”
“Myself, as well. Thank ye for saving me.”
“No need. I’m happy I managed it.” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, his back to the sun. He studied the scar encircling her right wrist. It looked like she’d been caught in a poacher’s snare. “Lass, how did ye come to be alone in Macarthur’s forest?”
She pulled the velvet closer. “Minnie died.”
“My condolences on the loss of yer mother. And what happened to yer guards?”
She tipped her head, her brow crinkling. “We had no guards.”
“None?” He couldn’t believe her mother’s stupidity, given how lovely her daughter was. “How long ago was this?”
She nibbled on her lip. “Ten summers past, mayhap more.”
Ten summers? Nay! She’d misunderstood. His Scot, apparently, wasn’t as good as he thought. “Your mother died when you were a bairn?”
“Aye, when I was so high.” She held her hand a yard from the ground.
Nay. She couldn’t possibly have survived on her own for so long. “But how did ye feed and clothe yerself at such a tender age?”
“Minnie had taught me. ‘Twas her way. We had only each other, and so I learned before she died.”
Still not believing his ears, he asked, “And how did she die?”
“A boar gored her.” Birdi’s eyes became glassy. “She’d not died right away. She lingered. I tried to help her, tried to ease her pain as best I could, but the fever still took her.” She again fingered the velvet and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I wonder at times why it happened when it did, before I had grown.”
He brushed the lock that fluttered about her face over her shoulder. “Sometimes there is nay reason why things happen as they do. All we can do is make the best of a bad situation, which ye apparently did.” Though how she had was beyond his knowing.
She plucked at the fabric covering her lap. “Like now.”
He chuckled. “Am I so bad, lass?”
She looked at him, one corner of her lips quirking up. “Why do ye wear the metal shirt?”
Ah, so she still wasn’t yet ready to admit he wasn’t a complete ogre. “To keep from being injured in battle.”
“Oh.” She remained silent for a moment, and then asked, “What is this called?” She patted his bride’s wedding present.
“Velvet. Ladies wear gowns made of it.” Yards and yards of it. Another reason he hadn’t wanted a wife before now. The fabric Birdi fingered—now smudged with mud and liberally covered with pine needles—had been booty, a prize of war, from his campaign in France fighting for Louie against the Sassenach—the English dogs. He couldn’t have gained it otherwise. Its value was more than he earned in a year. “Where did ye live, lass? I didn’t see a croft.”
She eyed him warily for a moment. “‘Tis a wee croft. The villagers built it long ago. I have a soft bed, a table, a cuttie stool, and a fire-ingle.” She smiled for the first time and his heart stuttered. Dimples, lovely deep crevices, bracketed her lush mouth and even teeth. “I have,” she told him, “a down pillow, a posnet, and two kirtles, as well.”
She was so proud of so little his heart nearly broke.
As he pondered how she’d survived, her dimples disappeared. Her eyes narrowed and made a canny shift. To his amazement, she said, “Ye can have it all if ye’ll bring me back to the glen.”
Ah, cunning. He suppressed a grin. “If the matter were so simple, lass, I would, and without so grand a bribe, but it is not possible.”
“But why is it not?” She looked about to cry.
As kindly as possible he told her, “Because it is not safe for such a lovely lass as ye to be alone. Ye could be set upon by rogues.”
“Rogues?”
“Aye, shiftless men who rob and plunder.”
“Ah.”
He nodded. It was enough she understood some of the danger. He hadn’t wanted to discuss the possibility of rape. He touched the scar of her right wrist and she immediately pulled her hand beneath the velvet. “How did ye come by the injury, lass?”
She looked away. “What means sheet?”
Hearing her mimic his accent as he’d cursed, he gaped at her, heat infusing his face. “Umm...’tis not a word a lady uses, Birdi.”
“Why not? Ye did.”
True, he had
said shit, and on more than one occasion but... “‘Tis a curse, lass. I wasna thinking clearly when I said it.”
She frowned, then pointed to the raised and clenched fist and motto embroidered on his chest. “What means this?”
Accepting her reluctance to confide in him, he looked down to where Birdi pointed. “Vincere aut mori. It means ‘to win or die.’”
“Oh.” Birdi wobbled.
He steadied her and she managed a smile of thanks that didn’t reach her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Had he been in her position he’d have wobbled too. Poor lass.
He rose and checked their clothing. Finding the top layers reasonably dry, he turned them.
His stomach growled, he opened his sporran and pulled out his fishing string with weighted bobber. “I’m going to try and catch more fish. Will ye be alright?”
She squinted at his hands. “Aye. Be careful ye dinna fall in.”
He laughed for the first time since meeting Birdalane Shame. “Ye are a wonder.”
She grinned in lopsided fashion. “Ye dinna ken the half.”
Suspecting she might be correct, he ambled toward the outcropping of rock at the base of the waterfall. In short time he caught three small fish, cleaned them, and brought them back to the fire. As the fish roasted, juices dripped onto the flames and he eyed the straight column of smoke marking their exact location. Deciding they’d be wiser eating half-cooked fish, he stood and kicked sand into the flames.
“What are ye doing?”
“Now that ye’re warm and dry there’s nay need to call undue attention to ourselves. ‘Tis not safe when we’re not among friends.”
Just as the fire snuffed out, Rampage whinnied in warning. Angus spun. Three riders were rounding the river’s bend, riding hard in their direction.
The fine-tempered steel of his claymore sang as he pulled his broadsword from its sheath and yanked Birdi to her feet. “Hide, lass. Back to the boulders with ye. Now!”
“But—”
“Now, damn it. Run!”
Christ’s blood. He stood alone with a half-naked woman at his back. A woman any one of these men would gladly hie off with given half a chance.
Chapter 6
Sword in hand, Angus assessed the three riders as they charged toward him.
The youngest, a youth of about five-and-ten years, small boned and well dressed, was nay doubt Fraiser’s heir and of little threat. The men flanking him, however, were a different matter entirely. The elder of the two was of Angus’s own height, bearded, a bit heavier and thankfully a good bit older than himself. From the man’s dress Angus took him to be a Fraiser captain. The younger, also a big man, wore Fraiser plaid but no jeweled broach, no marks of distinction other than a nasty-looking battle scar across one cheek. He was simply a skilled warrior.
As they came to a prancing halt before him on shaggy ponies, the eldest guard demanded, “Who be ye and what business have ye on Fraiser land?”
Angus looked each in the eye. “I’m Angus MacDougall and have no business with the Fraisers. I’m just passing through on my way to Beal.”
“More like eating yer way through,” the younger of the two guards grumbled, pointing to the discarded fish. “And ye have nay doubt neglected to pay Fraiser the Plaque-mail.”
As they eyed him warily, Angus mentally cursed. The fines levied by some Highland chieftains for safe passage through their lands could be backbreaking. Would the lad try to increase his father’s coffers by some exorbitant amount?
Before he could ask how much they wanted, the lad leaned toward the younger of the two guards, pointed toward Rampage, and whispered something.
Humph! If the lad thought he could take his mount he’d best rethink. Rampage would toss the lad into the river the moment he set a foot in a stirrup.
Sneering, the eldest Fraiser asked, “Why is it, MacDougall, yer horse has six legs?”
What? Angus snapped his head around. Rampage did indeed appear to be standing on six legs, four heavily muscled and feathery white limbs and two decidedly sleek, feminine ones.
Good God Almighty! Birdi had taken refuge behind his charger.
Angus sucked air through clenched teeth. Why couldn’t the blasted woman do what she was told?
The youth called, “Lady, come out where we can see ye.”
Angus bellowed, “Nay, lass! Stay right where ye are.” To the men, he said, “What do I owe for the rest and the fish?”
“Now what’s yer hurry?” the younger guard asked. Grinning in what could only be called a lascivious manner, the man eyed Rampage’s flanks and started inching his horse around to the left.
Kenning the man’s intent, Angus grasped the hilt of his broadsword in both hands and swung the claymore in menacing fashion, arcing it right and left, making the metal sing in the wind. “Keep yer distance from her.”
The older of the two guards, his sword at the ready, laughed and kicked his mount, angling to the right. “Have ye reived yerself a wife, MacDougall? Last I heard no decent lass would have Angus the Blood.”
Angus narrowed his eyes. It had been too much to hope they wouldn’t recognize him. “Since ye ken me, ye also ken what will happen if ye try to touch my woman. Ye’d best take what coins ye want and go.”
The younger guard snickered. “Now is that hospitable, MacDougall?” He angled more to the left for a better view of Birdi. “Why will ye not introduce us to yer woman? I’ll wager she’s quite fair above those lovely white thighs.”
Blood roared into Angus’s tensing muscles. There wasn’t a way he could keep both men at bay if they flanked him. Had he been alone he would have charged the closest and drawn in the other. As it was he had only one choice.
Screaming “Vincere aut mori!” at the top of his lungs, he charged young Fraiser. Before the startled youth could react, Angus swung his blade in a mighty arc and caught the lad’s pony across the chest with the flat of his blade. The lad and horse keened as they toppled.
The guards spun. Shouting and cursing, they flew at Angus with their swords raised.
Angus vaulted over the kicking pony, grabbed the scrambling lad by the hair, and slammed a fist into his jaw. The lad collapsed like a ragdoll in his hands. He pressed his blade to the unconscious youth’s throat as the guards bore down on him. “One step closer,” Angus yelled, “and the lad dies!”
The men reined in, exchanged glances, and growled deep in their throats. Shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed, they inched forward. Angus yanked the lad’s head back, exposing the blood he’d already let. The men’s faces blanched.
“Aye, ye ken me.” He nodded to his right. “Move over there and dismount...slowly.” To Birdi, he bellowed, “On the horse, lass. Now!” Please, God, have her make haste. He had no desire to kill the Fraiser lad. To do so would make his father, Alex Fraiser—a fierce chieftain—a blood-lust enemy of both Angus and his clan. To bring war down on innocent MacDougall heads was unthinkable. Those at Blackstone meant more to him than life itself.
Wondering what was taking Birdi so long, Angus slid his gaze from the frustrated Fraisers to his agitated horse snorting and pawing the earth.
He cursed.
All he saw were dangling feminine feet and a mound of deep green velvet lying beneath his horse’s hooves.
Chapter 7
Birdi couldn’t recall ever being more furious in her life. Hissing “Sheet, sheet, sheet,” she clawed at the saddle as Angus’s horse pranced.
Her initial terror—of being discovered by heavily armed strangers—had dissolved as quickly as a puff of smoke listening to their and Angus the Canteran’s conversation.
Now, not only was she naked—thanks to the blasted horse stepping on the velvet and yanking it from her body as he shifted this way and that, thwarting her efforts to climb upon him—but the Canteran had done the unthinkable.
He’d called her his woman!
He hadn’t, apparently, been satisfied with taking her from her home and tearing through miles of forest with her. Oh
no! He had to claim her—aloud—before Goddess and three strangers! Twice!
She was now handfast to Angus MacDougall.
Oh, aye, she kenned handfasting all right. Two summers before her mother passed, she’d brought Birdi to the annual Beltane gathering—the last Birdi ever attended—where a young man and woman became handfast. Minnie had explained it all in depressing detail.
Did Angus the Canteran think her an idiot?
When she got to him—if she ever got to him—she’d give him what for. Oh, yes, she would! Thanks to his obstinacy, she no longer had a roof over her head, hadn’t food nor clothing, and now no freedom.
She was his for a year and a day.
Holding onto the stirrup for dear life with one hand, she slapped the horse’s side. “Halt, ye blasted beast!”
To her amazement the animal froze in place.
Sputtering her limited list of profanities, most of which referred to cattle droppings, she grasped the leather dangling from the saddle with both hands and hauled herself up, hand over hand. When her foot caught the stirrup, she vaulted into the saddle. Relief flooded her. She took a deep breath, wondering how one steered the beast so she could drive it toward home after she rode over Angus the Canteran.
A whistle pieced the air, and the snorting horse lunged forward, its neck arched, hooves thudding like thunder. Birdi yelped and grabbed onto the saddle pommel for dear life.
As the beast closed on its master, Birdi silently cursed it, the strangers, and Angus MacDougall.
She came to an abrupt halt. Hair billowing about her, she straightened, took a deep breath, and heard a collective gasp. Metal clanged as it fell to the ground.
Eyes blazing, she turned in the direction of the sound and hissed, “What are ye staring at?”
The dark lump, a man, to her right murmured, “Merciful mother of God,” and backed away.
Humph!
The saddle suddenly shifted beneath her and Angus MacDougall engulfed her. As his arm clasped her waist and the horse bolt forward, he laughed, “Ye are a wonder, lass.”
