He looked down at the bowl of water, then up at her. “I have been cleaning my wounds for many years, lass. I’ve had quite a lot of practice.”
“I cannot imagine why anyone would wish to wound you,” she muttered with a sigh, now wishing she had never come. “Can you please allow me inside your chambers before someone sees me here?”
“What would it mean if they saw you here?”
“What do you think?” She shoved the bowl at him, sending water sloshing to the floor. “Wash yourself, then.”
“Nay,” he chuckled. “Now that ye have offered to do it for me, the notion appeals. I implore ye, please.” He stepped back, allowing her to enter his chambers after one last look up and down the corridor.
The room was simple, yet it served its purpose. A bed much thicker than the one afforded the maids, for one. A fireplace, though it sat dark and cold just then. It would be ablaze during the night, she knew, when the room would grow quite chill.
She set the bowl on a table beside the fireplace and bade him sit before her, where light coming through the narrow window would allow her to see better. The bruises running from temple to jaw had begun to turn an alarming shade of purple, the blood which had flowed freely from his lip and nose had turned an ugly brownish red.
Yet it did nothing to mar his perfection. In truth, he struck her as being handsomer than ever thanks to his defense of her. Twice now had he taken pains to protect her, but why?
She dipped the linen into what was left of the water after some of it had left the bowl. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what, then?” He turned his face to the side, allowing her a clear view of every wound he had taken on her behalf.
“You know what, and do not avoid my question while I could easily cause you greater pain.” She dabbed as gently as she could at the first of the bruises, water running down his cheek and mixing with the blood. The very sight pained her, and not because it was just any blood.
Because it was his blood. Shed for her.
He sighed. “I canna stand the sight or sound of a man thinkin’ he can speak to a lass as he spoke to ye, is all. Nothing more than that.”
“Which is why you spoke to Calan Stewart last evening, is it not?”
“I spoke quite a bit to Calan—”
“About me,” she muttered. “You know what I meant, Boyd MacPherson. Why did you do that? Do you not know the trouble that could cause? Do you not know the trouble that could be caused by starting a brawl in a crowded market? You might be laird of the MacPhersons, but you are not of the Stewarts. He might be cross with you after this.”
“He will not be.”
“Why not? How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can. I know him. I have known the man since I was a bairn. He feels as I do, or else why would he have spoken so sharply to his nephew?”
“You know about that?”
He chuckled. “I guessed, lass, and ye proved me correct.”
She blotted a bit harder than need be, hard enough that he winced. She could not help but smirk. “Pardon me.”
He grunted, perhaps in humor. Perhaps not. “Will ye tell me something? Now that I have risked life and limb for ye?”
She dipped the linen into the water once again before raising it to his cheek. “Life and limb? Your face is bruised.”
“Aye, my knuckles, too,” he murmured, raising his hands that she might see for herself. “As I say, might I ask ye something and hope for a truthful answer?”
“You can hope.”
“Why did ye run away? Truly?”
She lowered the linen into her lap, ignoring the water which seeped into her apron and then through to her kirtle. “Is that why you came here? To ask me that? Truly?”
“Nay, lass. I told ye. I wished to see Calan before war is declared.”
“Of course,” she whispered, turning her face toward the window. How frightened she had been while riding through the very Highlands which spread out as far as the eye could see. How frightened and how lost. How hungry, how cold at night.
Something warm covered her hand, still in her lap.
His hand.
“I needed to know where ye had gone, Olivia. Whether ye were safe. Whether ye were dead. I couldna go on without knowing. And if I could have helped ye somehow, I would have. Believe me. But it seems ye have helped yourself.”
She longed to throw herself into his arms and weep, to pour the entire unhappy tale out onto his strong shoulders that he might bear the weight in her stead. She was so very tired, and so uncertain of what the future held. If only he could help her with that. If only someone could.
Instead, she whispered, “I did help myself. I would not be married to a man I do not care for. And I do not care for him. I do not know him, mind you, but I cannot imagine caring for him.”
She turned to Boyd still allowing him to hold her hand. Wishing he would never release her. “He rode out to Scotland for me. He crossed the border, knowing how difficult it would be. Because he loved me? No. Not even because he cared for me as he would care for a dog or a favorite mount. But because I was his, and someone had sent me away without his permitting it.”
Boyd huffed. “Tis as if ye were riding alongside us all the while.”
“I knew it. Which is why I ran from Donnan’s keep before George could reach me.”
“It was a dreadful chance ye took.”
“Less dreadful than being wed to George Ainsworth.”
She looked into his deep, dark eyes. Another dreadful chance, for every time she did so she thought she might drown. “You will not give me away, will you? Oh, please, do not. Pretend you did not see me here. Please, I beg you.”
“There is no need to beg, lass. I would not tell anyone, especially not that loathsome Englishman. I would not betray ye.”
He surprised her then by raising her hand to his bruised, bloodied lips and placing a gentle kiss along her knuckles. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stopping for a sweet, glorious moment. She took him in, all of him. The brown hair which shone in the afternoon light, the bruises marring his otherwise perfectly handsome face. The way his hand made hers look like a child’s hand, engulfing it.
She committed him to memory, knowing she would go over and over this single moment for the rest of her days. The silent, simple sweetness of it. He did not need to say a word for her to understand him.
Again, she dabbed at his face, still downcast, watching the way the water rolled down his cheek. He raised it, lifting his chin, and without asking what he wished she dampened the linen again and blotted at the dried blood on his lip and jaw.
Their eyes met. Her hand fell from his face, yet they continued to stare into the other’s eyes. Whatever was she going to do if she could not keep from losing herself in his gaze?
He raised his hand to her face, nearly mirroring the motion she had just made. He ran his thumb over her lower lip, making it sizzle like hot fat over a fire. She forgot to breathe again.
His sigh reached the very core of her, into her soul. It spoke of so much that could not be spoken, and the delicious ache it stirred in her chest both dismayed and delighted her.
“I-I hate ye,” he whispered, stroking her chin, her cheek. Never had those words been spoken so tenderly, she was certain, and in her heart, she knew he did not mean them, even if her mind screamed out in shock and surprise. “I hate ye so, I believe it might kill me. I hate ye so, it was enough to bring me across the Highlands in search of ye. There are times when my heart might burst from it. I canna stop thinking of how I hate ye, no matter where I go or what I do. I am afraid I shall never be able to stop.”
She leaned into his touch, tipping her head to the side that she might rest against his palm. He cupped her face, then held it in both hands.
She leaned in, allowing him to draw her nearer. For if that was what he called hate, she hated him as well. Perhaps even more strongly, perhaps enough to kill her on the spot.
He kissed her gentl
y, gingerly, his sore mouth making it impossible to kiss her as he had at first. But this was even better. Slower. One slow, soft, lingering kiss at a time.
It made her lose her breath and stirred a fire in her core, a fire that spread through her body and all but burned her alive. She clenched her fists around his tunic, over his shoulders, before allowing her fingers to press into those shoulders.
This was why she had run, though she could not bring herself to admit it. She had run because his kiss made it impossible for her to remain in place.
And because no matter how thrilling and heart-stopping his kiss was, it was not enough to remove what stood between them. A border, for one. A war, for another.
She opened her eyes to find him already watching her. Had he watched her with every kiss? Had he watched her all the while?
“I must go before they miss me,” she murmured, still mere inches from him. His nearness made her wish to do things she’d never done before. To sink her hands into his hair, to wrap her arms about his neck and never let go. To indulge herself in his strength and fierceness and goodness.
“Aye,” he whispered. “Ye must. Or else…”
She would not allow him to finish that thought. She would be lost forever if she allowed herself the pleasure of hearing him say he could not let her go.
Yet even that would have been better than leaving his chambers in such a state of disarray to have not first looked out to see whether anyone was watching. She was in such a fog, her thoughts swirling about and dizzying her so, she forgot to make certain she was safe.
She was not safe. She was being watched.
“Well.” Alec leaned against the wall just beside the door, arms folded. He stepped in front of her, blocking her way past. “I might have known.”
Her heart froze, along with the rest of her. “What do ye believe ye are doin’, standing about and listening to something that had nothing to do with ye?”
His wry expression changed to one of sweet innocence. “The laird sent me to him, wishing to speak to him over an important message from Donnan MacNair. Imagine finding ye slipping from his chambers, lookin’ as though ye were just kissed.” The innocence disappeared, replaced with shrewdness. “I might have known why he cared so much whether I had my way with ye. He wished to have his own way, the sly thing.”
“Ye are speaking of a laird,” she reminded him, throwing back her shoulders, raising her chin. “Ye might remember that and speak with more respect.”
“Spoken like a lass in love,” he chuckled. “As if a laird would trouble himself with a maid for longer than the time it takes him to satisfy himself.”
“Vile, wicked thing,” she spat, drawing back one foot and delivering it firmly against his shin.
He sucked air in through clenched teeth, but rather than bending to rub the aching shin, he drew back his hand as if to slap her.
“Olivia!” Greer reached the top of the stairs, throwing her hands into the air when she found them. “I have looked up and down for ye, lass. Ye are needed in the kitchen for the laird’s feast.”
Never had she been so relieved to see any single person in all her life.
Alec drew a deep breath, straightening his tunic. “Ye might find the laird has already feasted,” he murmured just loudly enough for Olivia to hear before rapping on the chamber door to request Boyd’s presence in Calan’s study.
She ignored this as best she could, choosing instead to follow the lady of the house while praying Alec was wise enough to hold his tongue in Boyd’s presence.
Or perhaps it would be better if he was foolish enough to speak to him as he’d done to her. Perhaps Boyd would bring the man’s miserable life to an end.
18
Calan thrust a scroll toward him. “What is this about an Englishman searching for his betrothed?”
Boyd took the scroll, reading Donnan’s message. “Och, aye, ‘tis something I thought had passed by now.” So Ainsworth still searched for Olivia. He had paid a call on Donnan, hoping Olivia had returned, and was furious she had not.
“He threatened Donnan MacNair?” Calan marveled. “What sort of fool need a man be to threaten one such as himself?”
“I could not say,” Boyd murmured, reading the rest. “What is the rest of this? Word from a spy?”
“Aye. Word that the English plan to sail up the eastern and western coasts to invade from the sea rather than traveling by foot across the southern border. We might find them at our borders at any time.” Calan slowly shook his head. “This, of course, will change how we face them.”
Yes, they could be there at any time. They might already be sailing, or might have arrived in Edinburgh or further north. They might already be on the march, with riders on their way to deliver a word of warning. Anything might be happening.
“We must prepare ourselves,” Boyd mused, reading the message a second and third time. The messenger delivered similar scrolls to other clans, he knew, and he silently thanked Donnan for having the presence of mind to send word.
He raised his head, finding his friend staring at him. “Ye are bruised,” he observed. That was his way. Rather than speak of what he knew to be true, he would make mention of it and wait for Boyd to speak.
“I didna wish to anger ye by fighting,” he said by way of apology.
“I never said ye did, man.” Calan stroked his chin. “I would have done the same were I in your place. My brother assures me he will see to it such a thing does not happen again. I am only sorry none of the Stewart men felt it their duty to put a stop to it before ye did. ‘Tis a shameful thing, to be sure.”
“Not so shameful,” Boyd assured him, relieved that his rash actions would not lead to strain between them. Nothing would have pained him greater.
Except if he had not been there to protect Olivia and she’d been mishandled even worse. That would have been unbearable. He would have done much more than knock a man to the ground if that were the case.
“Might I send word with one of your men that I have received this message and will be home soon?” he asked, already using a blank piece of parchment to scratch out a few lines.
“Aye, but it will bruise Greer’s heart terribly if ye dinna stay for the feast she has laid out in your honor.”
And damn him for being glad of it, knowing it gave him reason to linger longer still. His clan needed him, no doubt.
But he needed her.
“Aye, I shall dine with ye,” he agreed. “But I must be on my way soon after.”
Spirits were low, however, and there was no air of festiveness as there had been while dining with the MacNairs. Word had spread of the spy’s findings, and everyone present spoke in voices tight with dread.
“It would still take many days for them to cross the Highlands,” Calan reasoned, speaking loud enough for only Boyd to hear. He sat to his host’s left, while Greer sat to his right and ordered the maids about in her usual efficient manner.
“Aye, ‘tis true,” Boyd agreed. “And we will receive word of it, no doubt. I believe it would be best to shore up our western borders, then, as they will no doubt march in from that direction.”
He only wished his thoughts could remain on the subject, but how was that possible with Olivia walking about the great hall? She poured wine and ale, removed empty platters and returned with fresh meat and boiled potatoes.
Always she worked with her eyes downcast and her head lowered, ever mindful of her place in the household.
It was enough to make a man wish to slam both fists against the table and roar. This was no maid. This was a noblewoman, a lady, one raised to sit at the head table. Not to serve the lowest of the low.
The indignity was enough to make him grit his teeth.
But he’d given his word, had he not? He would not give her away, for where could she go? With tension as high as it was regarding the English, the presence of an Englishwoman in the household may very well be mistaken.
They might think her a spy.
His stoma
ch turned at the thought, souring the food he had just enjoyed and had planned to still enjoy until now, at least for the sake of being a gracious guest. Truly, his conscience tugged at him, pulling him toward the home he’d done little but pass through over the last several weeks.
Only Greer’s disappointment, which would have inevitably trickled down and become her husband’s ire, kept him in his chair.
That and the presence of the woman he loved.
She would be safe here, no doubt, so long as she kept her Englishness a secret. If no one had taken notice by now, a fortnight or more after her arrival, she may very well manage to continue.
Or was he merely telling himself this? Were these little more than pat excuses to make his departure easier to bear?
How sorely he was tempted to speak honestly with Calan, to confess all under the condition of the great laird not speaking a word of it to another. That would mean confessing that he’d known all along, however, and admitting that Clan Stewart harbored an Englishwoman whose betrothed still roamed the Highlands in search of her.
Damn that man and his pride. It was nothing more than that, Boyd knew. Not affection, not concern. He doubted one such as George Ainsworth was capable of either.
“Aye, so ye have taken notice of the lass.” Calan spoke with a twinkle in his eye, nodding toward Olivia.
Boyd cursed himself for being so poor at concealing his thoughts. “I suppose it is not to be helped after what took place this morning. She was one of two plagued by those lads in the village.” Yes, and there was no sign of any of that group of ill-mannered young men at the feast.
“Och, I see. I suppose it would be a simple thing, feeling protective toward the lass after what ye had already done for her. Dinna allow it to go to your head,” Calan chuckled. “Many is the man who wishes he’d been a bit wiser when allowing a lass to get his attention.”
“Aye, too true.” He forced himself to cease looking in her direction, no matter how it pained him or how insulted he was on her behalf at seeing her reduced to a maid.
The Highlander’s Lady: Highlands Forever Page 12
