Highland Flame

by Mary Wine

  And you liked knowing it…

  “I’ll carry ye over to the fire.”

  He was already reaching for her when she shied away. He frowned, clearly taking it personally.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered. “It’s just that my hair is down, and no one except my husband ever…well, I suppose I don’t really have any choice in the matter.”

  Diocail’s expression eased, and he stood with his hands crossed over his wide chest. The position made him appear even larger than he was. “What was yer husband doing in Scotland? To leave ye here with no one to look after ye?”

  He’d tempered his tone, but a glint in his eye betrayed how little he thought of her husband. Many might have told her that she should refuse to answer, owing Henry some manner of respect, but the truth was, Jane felt no such loyalty.

  “He was a wine merchant, delivering a large order of French wine, and no one else wanted to risk the journey so far into Scotland and—” Jane stopped and drew in a deep breath. “He drank too much while gambling, and…I was a widow by morning light. I really do not wish to speak of it at any great length.”

  Diocail made a sound in the back of his throat that made it clear he judged Henry harshly.

  “Ye’d mourn for a man who left ye in such circumstances? Who brought ye along when he knew full well it was no’ a safe place for him, much less a woman?” He shook his head. “Ye have too kind a heart. It’s a man’s duty to think ahead and make certain his wife is no’ left in dire circumstances. The road may be lonely, but better to suffer lack of companionship and leave yer wife at home where she is sheltered. That is the true duty of a husband.”

  “Your heart is soft too,” she countered before she realized she was rising to his bait. It was difficult to be meek in his presence. “Others would have left me to my plight. Doubly so, since I am English.”

  One side of his mouth twitched. “Ye have a bold nature, mistress.”

  From him, it was a compliment. Jane realized she enjoyed it too. He wasn’t a man easily impressed.

  “Yet I believe I am bolder than ye are yerself.” Diocail scooped her up, cradling her against his chest as he carried her toward the fire. “For I’ll no’ allow modesty to outweigh sensible thinking. Ye’ll catch a chill if ye do nae dry yer hair. Ye’ll have to content yerself with practicality tonight.”

  His men made way, clearing off a rock so their laird might settle her on it. The heat from the flames made her realize how cold she was. There was silence around her for long moments before one of the retainers cleared his throat and started to tell a story. He seemed to be searching his memory for the details of the tale, and Jane realized it was a childhood one. Something suitable for her company.

  The effort they employed to cater to her gender charmed her. But it also made her realize how little happiness there had been in her father’s house.

  For the first time, she dreaded the need to return.

  But yet again, she had no choice, for happiness was the stuff of stories told by firelight. The harsh light of day always defeated them. What was she to do? Stay in Scotland, where her blood was hated, and it had already been proven that many would stand by while she was turned out to starve?

  For the moment, she had landed among kind-hearted men, but she would be a fool to forget that they were in their country, and she was far from her own. While Alicia’s house was stern and strict, it had made her strong, and there was family to protect her against men like Gillanders. Happiness had to surrender to logical thinking.

  Tomorrow she would put the subject firmly to Diocail.

  * * *

  Jane’s feet healed slowly, keeping her in the wagon while Diocail kept to his duties.

  She’d finished Muir’s shirt by the time they were done with another village. Niven was quick to present her with a length of cloth, and in spite of her being behind him while she measured him, she was almost certain he was smirking at his comrades. They stood watching her, making her fight to keep her hands steady while she carefully noted the length of his arms, the width of his shoulders, the size of his wrists and collar. She used a bit of chalk from the sewing bundle to write the numbers on the board of the wagon so she would cut the fabric correctly. The length of creamy linen had likely cost a large chunk of the retainer’s pay. He also entrusted her with a small leather pouch with buttons in it. They were well used but still very serviceable.

  “Thank ye, mistress.” He tugged on the corner of his cap and left her with a flash of a smile that made him appear very handsome, if still rather young.

  He’d barely made it back to the fire before one of his fellow retainers launched himself at Niven, and they went rolling across the ground. The rest of the men decided to place wagers as the two wrestled, calling out encouragement to their man of choice.

  Jane shook her head before considering just where she might cut the fabric. The table the secretary used suddenly moved. Jane gasped, turning about to discover Diocail behind her.

  “Seems ye’ll be needing this.” He offered as he began to set it up.

  The fight died down. Jane didn’t look behind her because Diocail was far too mesmerizing. He set the table up and pulled the leather hide out to place on the ground. It was a welcome escape from the wagon, a chance to stand and stretch her legs. She hummed as she laid out the fabric, making sure it was neat and smooth without a single wrinkle to make the pieces less than perfect.

  It would never do to waste fabric.

  She heard a scraping sound and looked over to see Diocail using a sharpening stone on a pair of shears. He held them up, checking the edge before testing it gently with the tip of his finger. He caught her watching him, and once more she was smiling at him before she thought of it. A strange twist of sensation went through her belly, making her turn her attention back to the cloth, lest she appear witless before his keen stare.

  She realized there was a space in the canvas sewing kit for those shears. Clearly, Muir had removed them. It was rather nice to know they considered her a threat, even a small one. She decided she liked that far better than being nothing more than their foundling.

  Jane looked at the numbers and measured the cloth twice before drawing careful lines on it with the chalk. The white lines were faint, and when she was finished, there was not a single bit of fabric unused. She marked the place where she’d open the neck and made sure she had two gussets to sew into the corners to round the opening before attaching the collar. There was even enough to put a box-pleated ruffle into the neck. She circled it, making sure she’d marked the fabric correctly before cutting into it.

  She used the shears slowly, ensuring that no threads pulled while she was cutting. Her shoulders tightened as she concentrated, not allowing her thoughts to wander until she’d finished and neatly stacked the pieces in the bag she was using for her sewing.

  She stood back, pleased with her efforts. But she also caught sight of the Gordon retainers. They’d come close during the time she’d been so intent on the fabric, watching her quietly.

  “It is only a shirt,” she muttered, quite unaccustomed to having her efforts so closely watched.

  “Aye, but a fine shirt,” Muir offered with a glint in his eyes. “I’ve never had a better one.”

  “You are being kind.”

  The captain shook his head and moved back toward the fire, his comrades following.

  “Some men might take exception to ye questioning their word, lass.” Diocail reached past her and took the shears. He noted her watching him as he tucked them into his belt. “Best I keep these for the now.”

  “Don’t trust me, Laird Gordon?”

  He offered her a grin. “Do ye trust me, lass? Perhaps ye might care to tell me yer name?”

  His voice had an easygoing tone—he was toying with her, expecting her to refuse him.

  “It seems to matter not at all.” She sat
down on the bed of the wagon once more. Her feet were healing, but she still felt the blisters, reminding her of her circumstances.

  “And yet ye would return to the house of a man who wed ye unwisely.”

  Jane discovered herself scoffing at him. “And what would you have me do? Expect you to feed me? For naught? What choice is there except to return to my father’s house since, as you noted so very correctly, my husband failed to ensure my well-being? Do you truly need another person looking to you for their bread?”

  She’d given him pause. He considered her for a long moment, unable to form an argument against her words.

  “Muir considers it a fair trade,” Diocail replied after a moment. “Niven will likely join him now. They will no’ quibble at sharing the supper with ye.”

  “Yet you are their master,” she replied. “To you, I am a burden.”

  His expression tightened. “Is that the way ye were raised, lass? Thinking ye bring naught to those ye live with?”

  She offered him only a raised shoulder. “I was a fourth daughter, quite the disappointment to both my parents. My stepmother made it clear I should be grateful for anything she chose to give me. I don’t expect you to understand. You were born a son.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “But to me uncle’s brother’s wife, and he did nae care to have a new branch of the family threatening his own bloodline. Burden, threat—both are challenges that test a person. Such circumstances can make a person stronger.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I admit I learned to have finer stitches than my older sisters.” Heat teased her checks when she realized she was boasting. “Prideful of me to say such.”

  “Honest too,” he answered with a jerk of his head toward his men. “They may be rough, lass, but make no mistake, they know quality stitching when they see it. They’d no’ be fighting over Niven’s boldness if Muir’s new shirt was no’ something to be envious of.”

  “I never imagined they’d take to fighting.” The skirmish was over now, Niven enjoying whisky as money changed hands over the wagers. “My apologies for disrupting your ranks.”

  “Disrupting me ranks?” He chuckled at her formal speech. “Christ, woman, ye know precious little about men. That”—he jerked his head toward the men behind him—“was good fun. Naught else.”

  “I doubt Niven would agree.” In fact, the young retainer had blood running down one side of his face from a cut in his scalp.

  “He’d be the first to do so,” Diocail answered her confidently. “Because he knows the lads wouldn’t bother if they were nae envious, and he knows he’s stronger for being tested by his comrades. Fate knows what it’s doing at times, placing us where she will. There is a reason ye are a fourth daughter. Me men are grateful for it, for if ye were of higher station, ye would certainly no’ be here.”

  Grateful. No one had ever described her in such a manner. “And you are laird, no matter what your uncle thought.”

  It surprised her, that they had something in common. It was a strange feeling, to say the least. One she enjoyed a great deal.

  He choked out a bark of amusement. “Aye, Fate has a sense of humor, it would seem.”

  “Enjoy it. I have very recently seen the harsher side of Fate’s workings.” She was telling him what to do, offering her opinion when it had not been asked for. But he didn’t bristle, didn’t mutter “woman” at her as a reminder of her place.

  “I know those as well.” He nodded, once again appearing as though they had much in common. She savored the sensation because it made her feel less alone.

  But that brought a prickle of guilt. She had no right to chastise her circumstances. Loneliness was certainly better than starvation or worse, and his men shouldn’t have to sensor their conversation because she was near. They did enough for her.

  “Good night, Laird Gordon.”

  She crawled back into the wagon and pulled the sewing bag into her lap. There was little light left, but she would make good use of it and earn her place. Diocail watched her for a long moment. She would have sworn she felt his gaze on her, which was impossible, of course.

  And yet she was keenly aware of him.

  She felt a teasing of heat on her cheeks as she drew a length of thread off the wooden bobbin it was wrapped around.

  Blushing…

  She knew what it was and still couldn’t recall ever having done so in response to a man before. Even if it was ill timed, she found it curious. Looking up, she found Diocail still standing there, watching her with his warm brown eyes, captivated by her.

  She drew in a stiff breath and held it, feeling as though something had shifted between them. She must have annoyed him because his eyes narrowed before his expression tightened, and he granted her a half nod and turned his back on her.

  Disappointment needled her.

  You are being quite ridiculous…

  There was a solid truth if ever she’d heard one. The man likely thought her a mouse, to be gasping just because she’d met his gaze. He was not a man to suffer timid females.

  No, and she found that a pleasing trait in him.

  Diocail Gordon was who he was because he had pitted himself against the odds and survived.

  Likely it was better that she’d disgusted him.

  So why did it bother her so greatly?

  Because she longed to be something quite different than she’d been raised to be. Jane looked back at the fabric, drawing the thread through it in a careful stitch.

  Careful…

  Such was everything in her life. Years full of days dedicated to becoming the ideal set forth to her by the men around her. To deviate was unacceptable. She spent hours on self-directed lectures. Had gone to sleep with her mind full of how many mistakes she’d made that day and the need to dedicate herself to doing much, much better the next day. Because men did not tolerate shrewish behavior. They craved submission and duty in their wives.

  And her purpose was to please the men around her so greatly that one of them would honor her with a marriage proposal. Well, she’d accomplished that goal, and what did she have to show for it? An ill fate. Damned if she didn’t feel cheated by God.

  Diocail Gordon wouldn’t be satisfied with a mouse for a spouse.

  He hasn’t asked you to marry him either…

  It was a sinful thought, one that stirred up something in her belly. She allowed her mind to contemplate what manner of wife Diocail might enjoy. He chuckled when she argued with him, grinning when she expressed her opinion without being asked.

  Men enjoyed brazen harlots too and let them die in the gutter. Discarded mistresses when the excitement faded. Scots also enjoyed ransoming women, a fate she didn’t fancy.

  Such were the lessons of her youth, repeated over and over, and still she sat there thinking about how all her proper behavior had yielded was a mean-hearted husband who had squandered her dowry and her dreams of love.

  There was a bitter taste on her tongue, left there by the knowledge that she must return home. Decency demanded it. She wished she’d reaped the rewards of behaving. The truth was she was sorely tempted to toss all of the rules out in favor of doing exactly what she pleased.

  She smiled brightly as she thought about just what Diocail Gordon might make of such behavior. Very brightly indeed, even if she knew in her heart it was nothing but a fantasy.

  * * *

  “Take me son.”

  Jane wasn’t in the habit of watching Diocail while he was dealing with his tenants. She cringed, though, as the woman’s voice reached her ears.

  Another village and another line of tenants paying their due. The first wagon was almost full now after another week on the road.

  “He’s a fine, big lad who will grow into a retainer who will show no fear.”

  The woman was rushing and had to stop to drag in a breath.

  “I do n
ae take children,” Diocail replied in that soft tone of his. But his neck was corded. Jane could see his fingers gripping his shirt where he had his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Ye must,” the woman’s voice came out in a thin whine. “Me man died a few weeks ago. I have naught.”

  And she was dying herself. Jane stared at the horrible truth as the woman began to cough. The effort shook her thin frame. She had a dirty piece of cloth in her hand that she pressed to her mouth. When she lowered it, the bright spots of fresh blood were clear.

  A small face peeked around her tattered skirt. Jane felt tears sting her eyes as she recognized the boy who had built her a fire. The woman reached down and gripped his hand. “Here…ye must…he’ll starve…when I follow me husband…”

  She changed places with her son, stepping back and leaving him standing in front of her in his dirty shift with his knife. “Show…the laird…how much…courage…ye have…”

  The boy gripped the handle of his knife. He looked up at Diocail, blinking. There was a slight tearing sound as the fabric of Diocail’s sleeve gave way under his grip. He grunted, releasing the sleeve and letting out a long breath.

  “Aye,” Diocail spoke.

  He looked down at the boy as his mother dropped a kiss on the top of his matted blond hair and whispered something in his ear before hurrying away.

  The boy did have courage, but he was still tender in his years. His eyes welled up with tears as he stood facing a man three times his size. The Gordon retainers were frozen, looking at the boy with confusion. Jane wasn’t sure when she decided to move, but the mother was gone, the sound of her hacking cough drifting on the wind from behind some of the rough walls of the village homes. It grew fainter, and the boy’s lower lip began to tremble.

  Her feet were almost healed now. Jane walked over to where Diocail stood and lowered herself before him. There was still a line of tenants watching to see if he’d abandon the child. Jane held out her hand to the boy. He looked up, his lips curving as he recognized her.