by Jessi Gage
“What now?” she asked Darcy.
“We go up to Skibo,” he said, his face grim. “And see if the rumors are true.”
Chapter 12
From the impeccable Roman cut of his white-gray hair to the polished silver-and-jeweled hilt at his hip and his luxurious rabbit-fur sporran, Laird Wilhelm Murray looked the epitome of a Scottish warrior king. He wore a burgundy great kilt wrapped over a leather shirt that would double as light armor. The rich wool shifted majestically with his every step as he descended a curved stairway. On his arm was Lady Constance Murray, who looked just as regal in her maroon, flat-fronted French-Renaissance gown and with her salt-and-pepper hair swept up and encircled within a silvery tiara. A roomy hood of Murray plaid loosely covered her head and flared behind her like a cloak.
Caught up in the grandeur, Melanie curtsied on her wobbly legs.
Laird Murray’s silvery-blue eyes fastened on her. His lips twitched. “No need for that, lass. A laird isna royalty, though some like to pretend they are.” He came to a stop in front of Darcy, his hands clasped at his belt. He was easily over six feet tall.
Lady Murray hung back and studied her with shrewd hazel eyes.
“My chief guard tells me you are a Keith and that you wish an audience with me,” the laird said.
“Aye,” Darcy said. “I apologize for the intrusion. We come begging refuge from Laird Steafan of Ackergill.”
Laird Murray emitted a very Scottish sounding harrumph that held more consonants than she had imagined possible to squish together in a single syllable. “Mayhap you’d better sup with us and tell me what this is about. I dinna suppose you’ve eaten.”
“We gratefully accept any hospitality you see fit to extend to us,” Darcy replied.
A plump, aging maid escorted them to a beautifully furnished bedroom with a high, curtained, four-poster bed and a pair of ewers for their washing.
Darcy tossed down his saddlebag and propped his sword against the wall. He looked around the room with his hands on his hips. “I didna expect such a warm welcome,” he said with lowered eyebrows and those pursed lips of his that meant he was thinking hard. The expression endeared him to her, and she realized that during their harried flight, she’d completely forgotten about her resolve to seduce her husband. As long as they were truly safe tonight, she looked forward to carrying on with her plan.
“Does Laird Murray have a reputation for being inhospitable?” she asked, going to one of the ewers and running a damp cloth over her face and chest. She squeezed a little water out so it left dewy drops that ran into her cleavage.
Darcy’s gaze followed the rivulets. He swallowed audibly and turned away. “He has a reputation for being as ruthless in the protection of his clan as Steafan is paranoid.” He put his hand on the door handle. “I’ll step out while ye wash.”
She didn’t give him the chance. She came up behind him with the freshly-wrung cloth and ran it down one of his dusty arms. “I’d prefer for you to stay.”
When he didn’t work the latch, she kept washing his muscular arm, smoothing her fingers over the tawny satin of his water-chilled skin. Needing to dip the cloth again, she tugged him to the dressing table and sat him down, then continued to remove dust from the sculpted mound of his shoulder and the sinewy column of his neck.
As she worked her way down his other arm, she noticed his ears had turned red and he’d clenched his fists on his thighs. His shoulders bunched as if he might bolt any second.
Not quite the reaction she had been hoping for.
The mystery of Darcy Keith deepened. He was attracted to her, wanted her as his wife, but he didn’t want a physical relationship with her. That much she knew already. But this shyness seemed incongruous with his warrior build and his chiseled good looks. It was almost as if he wasn’t accustomed to a woman’s attention.
She was tempted to stop tormenting him, not liking to see him uncomfortable, but couldn’t bring herself to end this quiet moment after the ride they’d had. She also couldn’t deny herself the thrill of this large, beautiful man submitting to her ministrations. But Darcy’s comfort was important to her, so to distract him from whatever had him so tense and embarrassed, she asked him questions about the Murrays. Did they have a history with the Keiths? Was Wilhelm a fair laird? What did it mean to ask another laird for refuge?
Darcy’s coloring returned to normal as he answered, and she learned that he knew very little about Wilhelm, aside from rumors of fiery rampages that had left entire villages and even churches leveled when other clans had dared to cross him.
“Though I wouldna mention those rumors to him,” he tacked on at the end.
“Don’t mention his home falling to ruin. Don’t mention his rampages,” she said. “Is there anything I can say to Laird Murray?”
He thought about it. “Mayhap you’d better–”
“Leave the talkin’ to me,” she finished for him in her laughable impression of a Scottish brogue.
Their eyes met in the mirror over the dressing table. “Aye,” he said with an unguarded half smile. His gaze traveled from her face to the tear in her dress. The sleeve was nearly separated from the bodice, and as a result, the neckline sagged precariously, meaning she needed to move carefully or flash everyone Janet Jackson style. “Mayhap I can ask for some thread and mend your dress for you before dinner.”
Of all the things for him to be concerned about at the moment, it touched her for him to worry about her dress. “That’s sweet, but do we have time for that? It feels like dinner time to me and the little one.” She rubbed her hollow-feeling belly.
He shrugged while he watched her hand in the mirror. “I dinna ken. Mayhap they’ll send someone for us when we’re wanted. Shall I fetch ye some figs from the saddle bag?”
She shook her head. She’d clean her dinner plate for sure, but she wasn’t ready to fall on it like a ravenous beast. Not yet anyway. If she had to wait another hour for dinner, she refused to be held responsible for her actions. But at the moment, she was more concerned with studying her husband. Here he was in a powerful laird’s home, and he seemed unconcerned about impressing or infuriating Wilhelm Murray. Confidence or naivety?
Confidence, she decided. She’d seen Darcy with his uncle, and knew he was not naive when it came to dealing men of power. From all he’d told her this evening, he’d given this meeting with Laird Murray a lot of thought during their ride. Even so, she couldn’t help but worry about what it might cost him to assure their safety from Steafan. Laird Murray did not strike her as one to give something for nothing.
Regardless of what their future held, she had Darcy with her now, and he was relaxing in stages under her care. Moving to stand between his spread knees, she began washing his face with gentle strokes of the cloth over his smooth, tan brow.
His eyes drifted closed, and she took the opportunity to drink in his stunning masculinity. Cinnamon-colored beard stubbled his strong jaw since he hadn’t shaved in more than a day. His nose was straight and broad and slightly reddened by the sun. Between his proud cheekbones and slashing eyebrows, a shade darker than his dark-blond hair, he looked every bit as intimidating as she’d first found him at Berringer’s field. Except now, she wasn’t afraid. Now, he was hers.
Tentative wonder filled her chest.
She set down the cloth and, starting at the tips, began combing her fingers through the wind-blown tangles falling around his face. The prolific number of split ends didn’t detract from the beauty of his majestic mane. In fact, they leant his soft locks a roughness that reminded her of the way his warrior exterior disguised the core of vulnerability he hid from the world. What she wouldn’t give to see his hair washed and combed properly, to have those strands skate over the bare skin of her stomach, her breasts. She sighed. She was a goner for Darcy.
Well, if you’re in serious lust with a man, it might as well be your husband.
By the time she finished untangling his hair, there wasn’t a trace of tension left in his sh
oulders. His hands were no longer in fists but splayed open on his thighs. He still had his eyes closed. His lips parted with a release of breath and she needed to feel those lips on hers again.
She brought her lips to his in a slow and tentative kiss, careful not to stretch his comfort zone too far. When his hands came around her waist and he drew her down onto his knee to take control of the kiss, she knew she’d won a small victory.
Her husband might be averse to having sex with her, but he did not seem to mind kissing her. And what a kisser he was! His tongue gently pushed into her mouth and stroked hers, around and around, over and under. He explored her as thoughtfully and masterfully as he did anything he set his mind to, and she was glad she had his solid thigh under her because her legs might have given out from sheer sensual delight.
A knock at the door was the only warning they received before the maid bustled in with an armload of clothing. Darcy ended the kiss and went on tense alert again.
She bit back a curse.
“The laird said to give ye these for dinner as your own clothes are a bit travel worn,” the maid said. She dumped the things on the bed and left as abruptly as she’d come.
Darcy cleared his throat. “We shouldna tarry,” he said, standing and setting her on her feet. Without a look back, he went to the bed to study the clothes, a dress in a rich chocolaty-brown brocade with ivory ribbon trim for her, and a folded bundle of burgundy plaid and a large men’s linen shirt for him. He frowned at the kilt.
“He wants you to wear his tartan,” she said, forgetting her frustration over their interrupted kiss. She put a supportive hand on his arm as he weighed the wool in his hand. “That’s significant, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” he said, without looking at her. “It means he expects me to give him my fealty tonight.”
“Please don’t.” He had given up next to everything for her. She couldn’t stand to have him give up his clan by allying himself with another.
“It would be a grave insult for me not to don this.”
“I think it’s a grave insult for Wilhelm to put you in this position.” She folded her arms and scowled at the crisp tartan, completely ignoring the lovely dress she’d been offered.
“No. I’ve asked for his help,” Darcy said. “This is what he wants in return.”
“He wants you? He wants you to forsake your home, your family? For what? Will he protect us from Steafan’s bounty hunters? If so, for how long? Are we supposed to live here in Dornoch forever? I don’t understand. If you put that on, does it mean you can never go back to your mill? To Edmund and Fran?”
“We can ne’er go back, as it is.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I refuse to believe that. There must be a way.” She yanked the plaid from his hand and tossed it on the bed. “It’s your home. And Steafan is being completely irrational. Won’t he come around? Eventually?” She winced, suspecting she already knew the answer.
Darcy’s droll look confirmed her suspicion. Steafan was not the kind of man to “come around” merely because a little time had passed.
“You can’t just give up on Ackergill. It seems impossible now, but maybe after a while we can write to Steafan and explain things. Or maybe there can be a trial or something. Isn’t there a judicial system for clan disputes? A third party who can examine our case and make Steafan take us back?”
“The laird is the only judge a clan needs.”
“But he’s being unfair.” Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head, “Life isna fair, child. If ye go about expecting fairness from all and sundry, ye shall be a disappointed soul, indeed.”
“Aye, but he doesna see it that way. And offering my sword and strength for the Murray can ensure that Steafan willna get his hands on ye. He wouldna cross the Murray.”
“Those are facts, Darcy. What does your heart say?” She moved close to him, her face in line with the organ in question. She placed her hand over his breastbone and gazed up at him. “How do you feel about this?”
His lips pursed. “’Tis no’ important how I feel. ’Tis my duty to protect ye. And the Murray are a large clan. ’Twould be a fine place to live, Dornoch. And not far from Inverness. I can still find your MacLeod for you.”
“Never mind about the box. And never mind about me. This is about you. Dornoch might be a nice place to live, but it’s not Ackergill. Don’t do this if your heart tells you not to. We can find another way to stay safe.”
His gaze pierced hers. “We would have to keep running. ’Tis no life for a woman, especially a woman with child.”
She didn’t particularly want to keep running either, but she didn’t want Darcy to lose even more for her sake. An idea struck her. “Maybe we can meet Wilhelm half-way.”
* * * *
Malina looked like a dream of cream and silk in the dress Wilhelm had sent for her. Darcy’s chest puffed with pride as he escorted her to the laird’s private dining room, even as his stomach churned with unease at how Wilhelm would take his appearance. He had put on the new shirt but had left the burgundy plaid folded on the bed, wearing instead his plain brown one. Instead of offering his fealty this night, he and his bride had talked about what else he might offer. He had to admit, she had a fine mind on her. If they were lucky, Wilhelm would be too intrigued to take offense.
As they approached the dark-wood door, guarded by a barrel-chested, freckled man with forearms the size of clubs, the savory scents of collops and roasted grouse, the briny bite of salted herring, and the sweetly-flavored air that spoke of apple frushie for dessert had his mouth watering despite his nerves. If he angered the Murray and went to the gallows for it, at least he’d go with a happy stomach.
The guard flicked his eyes up to Darcy’s in a look that passed quickly from surprise at his height to cautious respect. He inclined his head and pushed open the door to the dining room while Darcy schooled his features into the relaxed smile he always wore when hoping to put Steafan at ease. He didn’t ken if Wilhelm was as prone to tempers as his uncle, but it wouldn’t hurt to start things off with a disarming countenance.
The table was set with porcelain trenchers, silver utensils, simply-adorned wooden mazers, goblets of pewter, and lace-trimmed linens of the kind that would have pleased his mother. Wilhelm broke off his whispered conversation with his wife and rose from the head of the six-seater table. The laird’s expression was unreadable as he took in Darcy’s dress, but a slight smile curved the lips of the laird’s wife. Her eyes were unsurprised. Mayhap even a little pleased.
He had good reason to observe the reactions of both his host and hostess, for it was not Wilhelm’s reputation for ruthlessness alone that had drawn him to Dornoch. Rather, it was the rumors of the cause of that ruthlessness, the Lady Constance Murray, whom Wilhelm was said to have rescued from a burning pyre down in Edinburgh thirty years ago, before he’d become laird. He hoped that mayhap he and Wilhelm shared a commonality that might sway the laird’s sympathy in his favor. They both cared for women who had been accused of witchcraft. And they’d both risked much to protect those women.
“Was there a problem with the fit of the plaid?” Wilhelm asked.
“I dinna ken,” he replied. “I didna try it, but I have other things to offer you in exchange for your hospitality.”
“Such as?” Wilhelm asked coolly.
Lady Constance rolled her eyes and nudged her husband’s hip with her elbow. The laird gave her his attention, and a single look from her had him glancing sheepishly back at Darcy. “Where are my manners,” he bit out. “Sit. Eat. And tell me what brings you to Dornoch.”
The laird sat down and he breathed a sigh of relief as he and Malina took their seats across from a wryly smiling Constance.
While they dined, he told Wilhelm about Hamish taking Malina away not twelve hours after Steafan had married them. Avoiding the detail of the box, he said simply that his paranoid uncle had found improper cause to accuse Malina of being a witch, and that he’d hastily given the order to have her
burned.
“I wouldna stand by and let him take from me what he had just given. She is mine to protect, and protect her I will, even if it means ne’er returning to Ackergill.” He caught Malina’s approving eye. “Though, as Steafan’s heir, it is my hope that Ackergill willna be lost to me forever.” He didn’t expect to still be heir to the lairdship after fleeing the way he did, but it couldn’t hurt to mention his standing among the Keith to Wilhelm.
Back in the bedchamber, the sight of Murray plaid in his hand had made the hackles on his neck rise. He would join the Murray for the sake of Malina’s safety, but his very heart would break to turn his back on Ackergill forever. And his wife had kent it. She had convinced him not to disregard a possible return, and at her prodding, he’d permitted himself to imagine coming home to Fraineach with Steafan’s blessing.
There was but one way he thought it possible. If Malina was not with him.
He had vowed to return her to her home, and he meant to see it through. And with her safe in her own time, he would mayhap be permitted back, though he feared Fraineach wouldn’t feel like much of a home without her. Yet it was the only home he had, and Malina was right, he couldn’t leave it without first trying everything in his power to return.
“If ye grant us your protection,” he continued, “I will promise ye a fifth-share of my take at the mill once I return. And I will come to your hand and fight with the Murray whenever ye send for me, so long as I am able.”
Wilhelm leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. “Ye plan a homecoming? Ye assume whatever offense your wife has done to your laird, he will eventually forgive her?”
Constance spoke for the first time. “No. He plans to return without her. Don’t you?” Her English was not accented with the brogue of Scotia, nor the softer, cultured strains of England. In fact, it wasn’t so very dissimilar from Malina’s. “You plan to send her back through time.”
