Highland Flame

by Mary Wine

  She would be.

  And yet her pride stung almost as much as her feet while she sat there. Diocail Gordon let out a whistle, which called his men to order. They mounted in smooth motions that betrayed their strength and command of the beasts they rode.

  Savages.

  And yet the men had a majestic beauty. So adept in their environment. They neither appeared to be suffering hardships nor were burdened by their Highland home. They were jovial indeed as they set out. Diocail led them from the back of a black stallion. The wagon jolted down the road as the sun rose higher in the sky.

  She’d really be a wretched creature to cause trouble today.

  You are making excuses…

  It was a solid truth, and yet she could not deny that her feet were not as thick as her will. For the moment, she would have to accept the hospitality of the Gordons.

  Yet again, she seemed to have no other choice.

  Curse Fate. She was a true shrew.

  Two

  By noon, Jane was ready to walk in spite of the blisters on her feet. Never had she sat so many hours idle, simply wasting the daylight. It was a sin.

  Sloth…

  However, she was more concerned with the threat to her sanity, feeling sure she would go daft long before any true threat to her immortal soul took hold.

  They’d reached a village, and Diocail was being greeted by his tenants. They lined up, some with goods and even livestock to offer as payment for their rent. They also took the time to swear their fealty to the new laird of the Gordons.

  She sat through it all. Gratefully.

  Still, by midday, she was ready to strike out and resume her journey. More than one person cast a curious look her way. Jane could hardly blame them. She could only imagine how she looked huddled beneath the cloak. Without a comb, her hair must be an unruly mop, and she doubted there was a clean patch of skin on her face after a week of walking through the wilds of Scotland. As the day warmed, the cloak became too heavy. She shrugged it off and then regretted doing so when more than one woman’s eyes rounded with alarm as she hurried her children away.

  Diocail turned to discover the cause of the commotion. Heat teased her cheeks when she realized she’d interrupted him. It was his captain Muir who came over to deal with her.

  “I didn’t mean to draw attention to myself.” Honestly, they had insisted she stay with them, so in truth, she didn’t owe them an apology. Unless she was being realistic and honest about how much she needed their help.

  Muir wasn’t nearly as cross with her as she’d expected. The captain eyed her for a long moment before he ambled off. His sword was strapped to his back, his kilt swinging behind him as he went. He wore boots that had rows of antler-horn buttons running up the sides to his knees. Any Englishman would have called them rough, but she noted they were likely very warm and waterproof.

  Something well suited to Scotland. Her own shoes had left her toes frozen for a good portion of the day, but she preferred them to bare feet, and that was a fact. Still, she admired the sturdy boots.

  Muir disappeared and then came back into sight. He’d pulled something from the first wagon and offered it to her.

  “It’s a length of wool, naught more, mistress.” He spoke in a voice kind enough if a bit uncertain. He had a dark beard kept better than she’d have expected, and he looked at her with a pair of blue eyes. “I thought ye might…” He made a motion with his hand. “Fashion it around yerself somehow…”

  He lowered his gaze to where her breasts were and turned red, looking away when he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, lass…mistress. I’ve no’ known many women of…yer station.”

  He seemed unable to stand still in his agitation. “Ye’ll be needing a belt.”

  Muir latched onto that as a means of escape and nearly ran away. Jane took the time to consider the fabric he’d given her. It was a fine piece of wool in a light mulberry hue. She pulled it through her fingers and draped it around her shoulders so that it dropped down her front. Muir appeared again, relieved to discover her more clothed.

  “Aye, no’ too bad at that.” He dropped a belt over the tailgate of the wagon. She pulled it around her waist and buckled it to hold the wool in place, working at the fabric to move it around her body and form a rather rough sort of skirt. Muir surprised her by remaining where he was and nodding when she finished.

  “The cloak was too warm,” she offered by way of explanation.

  Understanding dawned on him, and he nodded again before cocking his head to one side and looking as though he was judging her. Something was on his mind, and she waited for him to decide whether to voice it.

  “I was wondering—” He stopped, clearly waiting to see what she made of his comment.

  “Yes?” The truth was her day had been so boring she couldn’t curb her curiosity.

  “Me laird thinks ye are a woman of some education. In womanly arts.”

  “I suppose so,” she answered. “My stepmother insisted on devotion to my studies and the skills of housewifery.”

  The first hint of a glimmer entered his eyes. “Can ye sew shirts?”

  The eagerness in his tone befitted a boy more than a huge, burly Highlander. It brought a smile to her lips and made her realize how long it had been since she’d been charmed by something simple.

  “Mind ye,” Muir was quick to add. “I know that, well, making shirts is a…private thing…between man and wife. But seeing as how ye are widowed—”

  “I would be happy not to waste the daylight,” Jane assured him.

  Muir’s lips curved into a wide smile. He held up a finger before disappearing once more. This time when he came back into view, he looked at his comrades before he turned to face her and pulled a bundle from the front of his doublet.

  “Ye see, I’d nae ask, except for…I had a friend who promised me a new shirt. Her being a widow, it was no’ a difficulty…and I always brought her some linen for her own use.” Muir pushed a leather-covered bundle over the tailgate. It fell into her lap with a little plop. “However, seems she wed again this last year and, well, has her hands full with the two young lads her husband brought to the marriage for her to mother. Sorry she was to disappoint me, and I do nae wish to burden ye.”

  His face was flushed once more due to the nature of the topic. Shirts were an intimacy because they lay against the skin. Tailors made them only for the elite, and the rest of the population had to either wed or hope one of their female relations would gift them with one. Sewing was one of those refined skills that fathers often listed among their daughters’ attributes when negotiating wedding contracts.

  It was a skill she might trade for her supper and gladly so. “I sit here doing nothing,” Jane told him, eager to have something of worth to offer.

  Muir flashed her a smile before he reached up and tugged on the corner of his cap. “Just ask if ye need anything else.”

  He was gone in another moment. It was strange the way he wanted to be gone from her company as quickly as possible. Well, it wasn’t as if she needed to understand her companions.

  What mattered was letting her feet heal and regaining her strength and doing so without being kept, but by bartering her skill.

  Sewing shirts, well, there was something she knew well how to do, and she wasn’t being overly proud in acknowledging her skill in working the needle. She’d bloody well earned the right through hours and hours of practicing her stitches as a child. Unrolling the bundle, she felt a great deal of tension easing from her shoulders as she at last had a purpose.

  Perhaps her companions would even take her farther down the road toward England. For the moment, though, she would simply have to be patient while her blisters closed. She opened the tie that held the leather around the cut pieces of a man’s shirt, a small needle book, and some thread.

  She’d never m
ade a shirt start to finish because sewing was something done when the rest of the day’s work was complete. It would be mindless work and yet not so wit-numbing as doing nothing at all.

  At last, her luck was changing for the better. At least that was what she would believe. The alternative was to think herself forever stuck in the Highlands of Scotland.

  * * *

  “Ye have her making ye a shirt?”

  Muir smirked at Diocail. “Ye are just jealous on account of the fact that ye did nae think of doing it yerself.”

  Diocail contemplated his captive as she plied a needle and grunted at his captain. “Have ye checked to make certain she is no’ ruining yer cloth?”

  Muir only continued to smirk as he nodded. “She’s what ye thought. A decent woman who has been taught how to sew fine, even stitches. It’s going to be a good shirt, and with her no’ being able to walk and naught else to do, well, I’ll have it before the week is out.”

  Muir was downright giddy.

  “Bastard,” Diocail grumbled. His captain’s grin brightened.

  Diocail was jealous. Shirt linen was expensive, and not many females knew how to handle it well. Sewing was a skill that required practice, the sort a well-tutored girl might receive. His captive was humming as she worked the needle with ease and confidence. A wife made shirts for her husband as a sign of affection. It was an intimate thing.

  The afternoon sun was teasing her hair, turning it into a glowing copper mass. In the morning light, she looked like a little brown bird. Nothing unique about her features. Ah, but when the sun kissed her hair, she became a flame. Even her eyes were a mixture of colors. Greens and browns and ambers.

  She looked up and caught him staring. Perhaps he should have looked away, but the truth was, he just didn’t want to. She still wasn’t afraid of him or his men. Sat there in the wagon, using her delicate fingers to work thread into fabric as contently as if she were in the solar of her own home. Never mind that her circumstances were clear in her bedraggled condition. Not a whimper out of her, and she clung to her persistent need to leave them.

  Of course she did. He was a Scot, a savage to her way of thinking.

  Diocail chuckled as he turned back to his tenants. Little did she know how barbaric his home was and how much he longed for a woman like her to transform it into something more comfortable. Not that his idea of a home and hers were likely the same. Still, it was an amusing idea. He reckoned she’d take to running, blistered feet or not, if he made mention of it in her hearing.

  * * *

  “I thought…” It was Niven who had ventured closer to her but stopped, tongue-tied, as he faced her. He was younger than Muir but still a man. He reached up and hastily tugged on his bonnet. “I thought ye might enjoy some soap and water, mistress.”

  He set down a bowl and a bucket and flashed her an eager smile. “I’ll fetch up some water from the river and then bring the kettle from the fire…” He was gone in a flash of bare knees and pleated wool.

  “The lad is hoping to make friends with ye before the others beat him to it.” Diocail came closer, stopping with one foot propped on a rock near her.

  It was strange the way she felt when he was close, as though her breath was tightly lodged in her chest. She caught herself smiling and tried to force her face back into a neutral expression, but the corners of her lips simply refused to remain that way. When she looked into his brown eyes again, she was smiling once more.

  “He wants a shirt as well.”

  “Oh.” Understanding made her nod. “It seems a fair enough exchange. He need not worry about asking me.”

  Diocail contemplated her from behind the stern expression she’d come to expect on his face. It spoke of a harsh life in which he hid his feelings. She noted his sternness as Niven came back with a bucket, easily grinning at her without concern that his enthusiasm might make him appear weaker.

  Well, weak was not a word that suited either man. Even the younger Niven. Perhaps approachable was better. She was looking at Diocail again and caught herself smiling at him.

  Again.

  She looked away as Niven poured some of the water into the bowl. He was off again toward the fire and the promised kettle.

  “It’s a skill no’ every woman has. Do nae speak of yerself so.”

  She drew the needle up, knowing the feel of just how tight to make the stitch without having to look. “A fair exchange for feeding me then.”

  “Aye, it is a fine barter, I’ll agree.”

  Diocail spoke in that low tone that he used. She found it oddly enticing, like some sort of promise. He knew his strength was great and therefore held himself in check. Her husband had always shouted to gain his way.

  Stop it. You cannot trust him…

  Or any man, ever again.

  A snap drew her attention back to Diocail. He’d shaken out a leather hide and laid it on the ground. He placed the bowl on it, making a clean place for her to stand while she made use of Niven’s gift.

  It was certainly that. She was itching just thinking about removing some of the grime from her skin.

  “The men will go down by the horses.” He spoke quietly as Niven returned with the kettle, steam trailing from it. “So do nae cry out unless ye fancy company.”

  “Of course.” She was starting to shake with excitement.

  She hadn’t dared long for a way to clean herself. Muir suddenly appeared, two buckets in his hands. He nodded before placing them near the bowl. Niven had paused to consider his work, grinning at his accomplishment.

  “Come on, ye puppy.” Muir reached out and tweaked the younger lad’s ear. “Ye don’t gawk at a decent woman like her.”

  The captain tugged on his bonnet before he turned and followed Niven. They passed the fire and went over a small rise before disappearing.

  “None will peek at ye, lass. Yet we’re close enough to defend ye. The horses will tell us if anyone comes near.”

  Diocail offered her another rolled length of canvas. He might have dropped it onto the leather, but she realized he wasn’t going to allow her to be so timid. If she wanted it, she would have to reach for it.

  “Thank you.” She closed her hand around the canvas, but he held it for a long moment.

  Their gazes were locked, and his went hard. “There is worse out there, lass. For all that I ken yer reasoning for wanting to leave, do nae do it. Me men will no’ care for treating ye harshly.”

  But they would. The threat was clear. It was a promise that flashed in his eyes before he released the bundle and turned around to leave.

  Jane realized she’d been holding her breath. It came out in a little sound that betrayed her. She thought she saw him hesitate between steps when he heard it, but he kept going until he’d disappeared from sight.

  She should run.

  But the moment she stood up, pain went through her feet, reminding her how little protection her pride was against the hard ground of the forest. What she wanted and what might be were, once again, two vastly different things.

  So it had been for most of her life.

  She laughed softly at herself and unrolled the newest canvas. It was a clever way to hold smaller items for traveling, and this one held lumps of soap and even a comb. She pulled a folded washcloth from one side and realized she as was giddy as a child who had just received a treasured toy.

  She cast a last glance toward where the men had gone. They might be peeking, but the opportunity to clean herself was simply too enticing to hold up against her shredded modesty. Honestly, they had seen her nearly bare already. Better to make use of what she may while it was available. Who knew what tomorrow might bring?

  That thought sobered her as she unlatched her belt and laid the wool off to the side. Her life had ever been one full of consequences and disappointments, her marriage the biggest of those. Henry had never made he
r giddy with excitement, not in word or deed, and if he were standing there, he would have declared loudly how superior he was to the Scots keeping her in their midst.

  And yet Niven’s thoughtfulness was a larger kindness than her own husband had ever thought to bestow upon her.

  Stop it…

  Lingering in the past was no use at all. If it were, she’d have cultivated a childhood of happiness from the memories of the time when her mother was still alive.

  Instead she would concentrate on the present moment, which pleased her, restoring her humor. She took a last glance around before pulling her smock off. Fishing with it had cleaned it somewhat, but she still wrinkled her nose at the thought of putting it back on.

  Well, there was nothing to help that.

  So she grasped the linen cloth and plunged it into the bowl, carrying water up to wash the dirt from her limbs. The sun was a glowing ball on the horizon, making the experience a chilly one, but being cold paled in comparison to the exhilaration of being clean. The soap smelled slightly of rosemary, and she dug the remaining pins from her hair so she might wash it. There was even a longer length of linen to dry herself with. She ended up wrapping it around her head as she dressed again, grateful for the wool to put over her smock. Working the comb through her wet hair took patience, so much so she failed to notice when Diocail ventured back into sight. She noticed him walking toward her though, and there was no way she might have torn her eyes from him.

  The man was impressive.

  He was also dangerous, and she would be wise to remember it. His men might be trying to be kind to her, but they answered to him, and his command was absolute. Whatever he decided, it would be done.

  “The sun is going down, lass.”

  She looked up at him, realizing no man save her husband had ever seen her with her hair flowing. It was a strangely intimate thing because her father had insisted on modesty caps. She suddenly felt as if she understood just why too. Diocail’s attention was on her hair, his eyes narrowing just a bit as his face softened in a purely male manner. He liked what he saw—the appreciation was impossible to miss. It was not about being vain, no, more of an awareness that he found her attractive.