by Amy Jarecki
When Calum finally came out, he didn’t look happy. “They have one room available.” He looked at Anne. “You cannot stay in there alone. Ye’ll take the bed and the rest of us will sleep on the floor. Apologies, but ’tis the best I could do.”
There went her imaginings of a bath.
Calum grasped her elbow and whispered, “Stay close to me. I dunna trust a single scrapper inside. They’d sooner slit me neck and spirit away with ye draped across the pommel.”
He placed his hand in the small of her back and spoke so all could hear. “The mistress of the inn will serve us a warm meal. Watch yer backs and dunna drink too much.” He locked eyes with John who fell in at Anne’s other elbow.
When the door opened, the racket of men telling tales and the stench of sour ale wafted around them. Inside a candelabra, encrusted with years of wax and dust, dimly lit the room. Rickety wooden tables huddled in the center of the room with the bar at the back. Calum led them to a dark corner where they would attract little attention.
He held out a chair for Anne and then sat with his back to the wall. This was a side of Calum she’d never seen. Very cautious, trusting of no one, his face deadly, his eyes shifted across the room with watchful vigilance. A buxom woman set a loaf of bread and a carving knife on the table in front of them, behind her was a greasy-haired man toting a black pot and five bowls. The stew splashed over the sides as he ladled it up. Anne tried not to cringe. Luncheon had been a quick bite of bully beef on the trail and she was starving.
Calum divided the bread and Anne looked at her bowl. She didn’t dare ask what was in it. Bran dove in, dunking his bread and chewing. Anne carefully dipped a corner of her bread and nibbled. Finding it palatable, she dipped in for another taste. The matron tossed a handful of spoons on the table and brought a pitcher and five tankards.
Anne rubbed the knot in her shoulder and let out a long breath. The men at the bar had left them alone. She sipped her ale and looked back over her shoulder. A big Scot, possibly larger than Calum, stared back. She could smell him from where she sat. She averted her eyes, the knot in her shoulder seizing up as if she needed it to tell her to be careful.
Calum’s guarded frown transformed into a scowl and she didn’t need to turn around to know why. The big oaf had wandered up behind her, his stench nearly rancid. Calum’s hand disappeared under the table and he tipped his up chin. “What can we do for ye, friend?” He drew out the word friend as if to emphasize its importance.
“I’ll pay ye coin for a toss with yer wench.”
“She’s no wench.” The chair clattered against the wall as Calum stood with his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “I suggest ye go ’bout yer business afore ye insult the lady further.”
Anne glanced between the others. The unspoken expressions and nods around the table were unmistakable. She fingered the little dagger in her pocket and tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. She knew she was no match for a soul in the room, including the buxom matron of the inn.
Chairs scraped across the floor and she stole a glance over her shoulder. A half-dozen men walked up behind the big Scot. She stiffened when he reached out and grabbed a lock of her hair. “Me thinks I want a turn with the lass.”
Anne’s hands shot up to protect her head when he pulled. Her knife flew out of her hand and skidded across the wooden planks. Faster than she could blink, Calum drew his sword. With an inhuman roar, he leapt forward. One foot tapped on the table and he launched himself over Anne’s head. Feet first, he thrust his full weight into the brute’s chest. Careening backward, the Scot thudded hard against the floorboards. Anne shrieked when he jumped to his feet and scrambled to pull his long claymore from its scabbard.
Anne dropped to her knees and scurried to the wall as the room erupted in a full on brawl. She eyed her knife. Crawling under the table, her hand was inches from it when a booted foot kicked it across the room.
She scurried back against the wall and she hugged herself as Calum and his men stood back to back in a circle in the center of the room. Drunken, barbarous savages lunged in, swinging claymores and battleaxes. Calum’s relentless sparring sessions sprang into action. The MacLeod men wielded their swords with expert finesse. Even Bran held his own. Bloodied, the attackers began to ease away, but the big Scot advanced on Calum with fire in his eye. He swung his sword over his head and Calum stopped him with a swipe of his dirk across his exposed under arm. The brute staggered back, mouth agape. He raised his sword and charged in for another clash of iron.
Anne shrieked. A thick, hairy arm grabbed her around the waist and hefted her over his shoulder.
“Help!” Anne kicked her legs as the pungent swine hauled her out the door. She slammed her fists against his back and the heathen mocked her, howling with a hacking laugh.
He pushed through the stable doors and into a vacant stall. Throwing her down on a musty pile of straw, he slid the door shut behind him. The moonlight shone through the barred window and cast a shadow across his black bearded face.
He glared down at her and cackled while he unclasped his sword belt. “You’re a pretty morsel to be traveling around these parts.”
“Keep your filthy hands off me.”
His eyes popped wide. “Why you’re an English lass.”
“Lowlander.” She hedged, trying to affect a Scottish accent. Calum had warned her to keep her mouth shut. The feral beast took a step toward her and Anne shoved her back against the wall, her hands blindly feeling for anything she could use as a weapon.
“It doesna matter to me, wench, as long as you’re warm.”
Discarding his belt, in one move he crouched over her. His hands either side of her head, he trapped her with a low chuckle. Anne swallowed hard and crossed her legs tight. The stench of him made her wretch. She shrieked when he grabbed at her, his hands everywhere. Her dress ripped. He seized her leg. Anne twisted against his brutal fingers. He pressed her to the ground and forced her legs apart with his knees, pinning her shoulders down with his hands.
“Friggin’ boar’s bullocks. Trews?”
Anne kicked and gasped for air. His face was an inch from hers and he licked her mouth while one hand fumbled with her trouser laces. Unable to break from under his crushing weight, she raised her head and bit his cheek. Her mouth filled with vile beard and the taste of salt and dirt but she didn’t release. She sank her teeth deeper until he yanked his head away.
He bellowed like a bull being castrated and jerked his palm back. Anne tried to shield her face, but the speed of his hand ripped through her defenses and slapped across her face. Her teeth crunched and the stinging pain seared her skin. Anne struggled to pull her legs together against his weight. He crushed his body atop her. She could scarcely breathe. With all her strength, she shoved his heavy chest, unable to make him budge. Hot prickles attacked her skin as she wheezed. His weight would soon suffocate her.
Chapter Seventeen
In a flash, the rutting bastard’s heavy body lifted. Anne sucked in a gulp of God given musty air and recoiled at a thud crashing across the stall.
“I’ll cut off yer cock and stuff it down yer neck!” Calum crouched low and brandished his claymore as the moonbeams shot rays across his deadly sneer. A savage growl erupted from Calum’s throat as he circled the filthy animal.
The rogue’s eyes darted toward his sword. Anne saw it glimmer in the hay beside her leg. She snatched up the hilt and bolted for the far wall.
“Ask forgiveness for yer sins ’cause I’m sending ye straight to hell.”
The brute bent down to pull a dirk from his hose. Calum didn’t hesitate. He lunged and sliced his blade across the stunned man’s neck. The Scot’s mouth gaped and his hands flew up to stop the bleeding but there was little he could do. He flopped down to the hay and lay in a lifeless heap, his vacant eyes staring at nothing.
Calum dropped his sword and pulled Anne into his embrace. “Are ye all right, milady?”
She buried her head in Calum�
�s shoulder and shuddered. “I-I don’t know.” Tears streamed down her face. With every nerve trembling, she tried to be strong. “I-I’m a b-bit shaken.” Anne wanted to nestle against his warm chest and stay there.
His lips caressed her forehead. “Of course ye are. A woman as fine as ye should not be traveling these lawless lands—’tis no place for any lassie.”
Anne wrapped her arms around his waist and he grimaced. Her hand touched something hot and wet. She held up her hand to the streaming moonlight. Blood. “You’re injured.”
“Tis just a scratch, but we need to get back to the men.” He led her out of the stall. “’Twas only a drunken barney but I want to be sure it’s over.”
Mopping up a substantial puddle of blood, the inn’s matron shot them a heated look when they returned. Calum dug in his sporran. “I’ll pay ye for the damages.”
“Aye, ye will.” She held out her hand while Calum counted out the shillings.
Ian and John walked in through the back door. “The big fella didna make it,” John said.
Calum faced them. “I’ll take me cousin upstairs. Give me a minute to get her settled, then bring a basin of hot water.”
Anne let Calum take her arm and lead her up the creaking steps. Her hands still trembled, but so did his. He closed the door behind them and faced her. “I shouldna brought ye overland but now ’tis too late to turn back. Ye do not look like a Scottish lassie and I cannot figure how we’ll make it all the way to Carlisle with ye in that dress and yer highborn English accent.”
“I’m sorry.” Anne studied the toes of her boots. “If you had only explained the danger—queen’s knees, you just said your word is law and I’d better go along with it or else.”
“I’m a laird. The care of the clan is in me hands.” Calum stretched his side with a grimace. “’Tis no’ just that. Do ye ken how beautiful ye are?” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never seen a woman with half yer beauty. Ye have it all—hair of spun gold, rosy lips like an archer’s bow and eyes that look as if they were forged of sapphire. ’Tis too much for a Highland scrapper to resist.”
“How could you exaggerate so?”
Calum grasped her shoulders. “What I’m saying is you’re very pleasing to the eye—very. Every heathen from here to Carlisle will want to lay with ye.”
Anne bit her bottom lip. “I’ll wear the trews on the morrow.”
“Thank ye.”
“Can the pack mule carry my day gown?”
“Aye.” He cupped his hand against her cheek. “All yer fine things left behind. Is that why you’re fighting me so?”
Anne wrapped her arms around her body. Her things? Is that what he thought? What about leaving Raasay and Mara and Bran and Friar Pat, Swan…and him? Did he have no clue how she felt? How much this ransom tore her apart?
“Anne?”
“We both knew this was coming.” She swallowed the words she so desperately wanted to speak. Calum had made it clear—he cannot love her. “But that does not make it more palatable.”
She dropped her gaze and studied the blood caked on the side of his linen shirt. It ran down over his kilt. He looked as if he was still bleeding. He needed tending. “Remove your shirt and I shall inspect your wound.”
“’Tis nothing.”
She tapped her foot. “I’ll be the judge of that. Now let me have a look.”
With a groan, he cast his eyes toward the rafters. “Do ye ken anything about stitching up wounds?”
“I’m adept at needlepoint.”
Calum tugged his shirt out from his kilt and pulled it over his head. The sight of Calum standing bare chested right in front of her sapped every ounce of her resolve. A shock of heat coiled between her hips. Her knees buckled and her mouth went dry. The muscles on his chest stood proud and square, leading to a rippled stomach. His kilt sat low on his hips, exposing his naval—and below it, a silky trail of tantalizing coppery hair. Anne couldn’t breathe, and this time there was no smelly brute crushing her.
Calum chuckled and pointed to his side. “Me wound’s over here.”
With a blink, Anne tore her eyes away. The heat rising to her cheeks felt like a blast from a flame. She stared at the oozing cut just above Calum’s hip—a sobering sight.
“I told ye ’twas just a scratch.”
Anne placed her fingers on either side of the gash. He gasped when her cold fingers touched his warm skin and gently inspected the wound. Blood gushed out, and Calum pressed his shirt against it.
Anne grasped the shirt and held the compress in place. “It needs to be stitched.”
Reaching down, Calum lifted her chin and tilted it up toward him. His chest heaved with every breath. His tongue slowly ran across his top lip. She’d kissed him enough to know he wanted to taste her—even with his wound bleeding. Events in this God forsaken place had rekindled the spark they shared. Anne realized it had never been snuffed.
John burst through the door with Ian and Bran behind him, carrying ewers of water. They all stood in the doorway with gaping mouths.
“What?” Calum threw a hand out to his side. “She needs to stitch me wound.”
They all nodded with nervous laughs, and the tension in the room eased. John, Ian and Bran gathered around her, showing their battle wounds. Fortunately, none had anything else that needed to be stitched.
Anne had Calum sit on the lone chair and she knelt beside him. She removed a bone needle and catgut thread from the kit Friar Pat had insisted they carry along. Careful not to cause more bleeding, she closely examined Calum’s flesh. It seemed so human, so vulnerable. Yet he had fought with the heart of a lion. He smelled of wood smoke and the spicy musk that made him not just any man, but Calum MacLeod, Laird of Raasay.
He had always said he would protect her and this night he had not hesitated to act on his promise. A pink scar under his arm caught her eye.
“How did you come by that?”
“Fighting the English with the Sutherlands, protecting Dornoch Castle in forty-seven.”
Anne did the math. “You were but a boy.”
“Aye.”
His eyes darkened, and Anne realized he’d been in the midst of battle against Lord Wharton’s sword. “He was there. Was he not?”
“We chased him all the way back to Carlisle.”
“Why were you helping the Sutherlands?”
“That’s what any honorable Scot would do when their ally is plundered by a…”
“Murdering bastard?” The curse spilled from Anne’s mouth. Is the baron truly thus?
Calum ran his hand over her hair. “Aye.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Beside her sat a man who would defend his clan against any foe and fight for her virtue, the virtue of his enemy’s wife. Calum was a man of honor. She brushed her fingers across his warm skin. This would hurt him. She looked at the bone needle and gritted her teeth. Deftly, she pushed it through and tied off the first stitch. Calum made not a sound but took a draw from his flagon.
She kept her eyes on her work. “He’s a good man, your friar. ’Tis nice to see someone looks after you.”
Calum took another swig of whisky. “Aye. He does what he can.”
She needed to take another stitch. Examining at the wound, Anne’s stays pushed against her ribs as if constricting her to the point of swooning. She swallowed and willed herself to keep her wits. Her hand trembled when she held up the needle.
Calum reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “Would ye rather John do it?”
She dared rake her eyes up his torso and met his gold-flecked gaze. With a swallow, she shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” Anne steadied her hand. He took in a breath, and the copper hair below his navel strained against his kilt. If only she could run her hand across the rock hard muscles of his abdomen.
He cleared his throat and she again focused on the task at hand. Though he showed no outward sign of discomfort, the needle had to hurt. She must work quickly
for him. After the first piercing of flesh, Anne tied off five stitches. She blew on the gash to cool the burn, just like Hanna would have done back at Titchfield House.
Calum took a long draw from his flagon and gave her a cockeyed grin. “Ye done well, milady.” His voice sounded low and husky. He reached down and traced his finger from her ear, along her jaw. He stopped at her lips. Her tongue snuck out and tapped it. Eyes locked, Anne wondered if it was the whisky or if he, too, felt the surge of their unbridled attraction.
Chapter Eighteen
Calum and his men had the horses saddled and the mule packed. The feisty English woman had locked herself in the room right after they’d broken their fast. She’d insisted on privacy and four ewers of hot water. Calum warned her they had no time for a bath, but of course she wouldn’t listen. Why does someone need four ewers of hot water to wash their face and hands? At this rate, we willna reach Carlisle until Christmas.
He didn’t care if she was bare arsed naked. Heading toward the inn to fetch her, he didn’t make it far. Anne walked out the door wearing her trews. The only problem, she looked nothing like a man. Calum rubbed his hands across his eyes and gaped again.
“What?” she asked.
Anne’s trews fit snugly, and she’d belted the linen shirt around the waist so it clung to her bosoms. He could tell she’d wrapped them, but she had far too much on top to be wearing a shirt snug against her body. Anne managed to stuff all of her hair under the bonnet, but she had the cap cocked halfway atop her head like one of her fancy coronets.
Her eyes had that spark behind them—told him he’d better tread lightly. “Ye look—ah—too pretty. I think we need to roughen ye up a bit.”
