* * *
Cull stood beside his horse, adjusting its saddle … its bridle … and stirrups, though there was nothing at all to adjust.
Stilling, he stared toward the trees, his teeth clenched. He closed his eyes.
Damn.
All he saw in his mind was pale skin. A slender back. A beautifully rounded bottom.
He hadn’t intended to see. He hadn’t looked on purpose. There’d been no curiosity in him about her. But then … he had seen her … naked through the steam, save for the woolen hose that darkened her slender thighs.
And now he couldn’t stop seeing.
Of course, he wasn’t blind, and he had not been blind before. Not completely.
He’d realized the “child” in his care wasn’t a child at all when he’d chased her down in the forest. When she’d fallen on him, and her wiggling and struggling had revealed her full breasts and the womanly curve of her hips. Even so, he’d told himself she was young. Just a girl. He hadn’t felt the slightest attraction, being that her features were still painted with mud. Only anger and annoyance at her attempts to escape, and the inconvenience she was proving to be. But seeing her there in the haze of steam, with her dirtied, bright golden hair, tangled and full of leaves, falling down her back …
He’d continued on, pitching her into the water and sending the women in to finish the job, just as if nothing had changed. As if she was the child he’d believed her to be. But something had changed. He exhaled through his nose, his teeth clenched.
Something felt … imminent.
He prayed he was wrong, but even now an attraction that hadn’t existed before simmered up inside him, its delicious, teasing warmth licking at his insides … along with a powerful anticipation that rarely ever occurred in one whose every decision was purposefully and intentionally made. That included the seduction of women. He did not seduce recklessly, without thought, without gaining something. He most certainly did not seduce peasants, who had nothing to offer him in his quest to claim a name.
The wind moved through the trees, making a restless sound in the boughs and the fallen leaves.
There came a sound from behind him. A rustling of the canvas and soft footsteps.
He breathed out through his nose, bracing himself, and turned, opening his eyes …
Chapter 5
It was worse than he’d expected.
He felt deceived. Tricked. As if the world had momentarily upended.
She stood on the wooden platform outside the bath tent, staring at him, her blue eyes stormy, her damp hair gleaming like liquid gold on her shoulders.
She had the face of an angel. An ill-tempered angel. Delicate-featured, with a pretty, slender nose and frowning, rose-petal lips. His groin twisted with a sudden spasm of desire.
“I can’t wear this,” she announced sharply, with the impudence of a queen.
“This” being a man’s long-sleeved tunic, the only thing the women had found for her to wear. The neck gaped, allowing him the sight of her throat and a smooth collarbone. The garment left her legs bare, from her knees down. A gust of wind rustled through the trees, plastering the linen against her body—revealing the shape of her breasts, and her hips. Her thighs. She shivered, her nipples sharpening to points. Scowling, she crossed her arms over herself. A tantalizing blush stained her cheeks.
“My apologies,” he said, not feeling sorry at all, and wishing the wind would blow some more, and perhaps sweep the tunic right off her body—a reaction that annoyed him, because what in the hell was he supposed to do with her now?
He needed no distraction. No temptations. Not when so much depended on his remaining absolutely focused in the coming days.
He stated, “It’s not as if we keep a whole wardrobe of readymade garments for ladies at the ready. You’ll have to wait until your clothes are cleaned and dry. Now come with me.”
She glanced down at the mud. Her nostrils flared.
He strode toward her. Not because he had a chivalrous bone in his body where she was concerned but because he needed to touch her, to prove to himself that she was just a woman, and nothing more than that.
“No,” she said, looking up—her gaze flaring, because she realized what he intended. “I don’t mind the mud. I can walk.”
He took her hands and placed them on his shoulders, before touching her side … her waist … and lifting her off the platform. He stared into her eyes as he pulled her against his chest, slowly bringing her legs around his waist. The muscles of his shoulders … his abdomen and his groin, seized tight.
He held her there, his hands on the bare, smooth bottoms of her thighs. She stiffened and her cheeks flushed dark pink, but she did not rebuke him with words. She merely stared into his eyes, as if daring him … expecting him to prove he was the monster she believed him to be.
Even the two wash maids watched from the tent, riveted, as if he might force himself on her there, in the mud, for anyone to see.
He would disappoint them all then. He was not, and had never been, that sort of man. His willpower, and his logic, had always been stronger than his desires.
Turning, he strode through the mud, back to his destrier. Hoisting her by the waist, he set her atop the saddle. She was a fine, delicate thing, compared to his own height and bulk, and required only the slightest exertion of his strength to maneuver about, which he tried not to ponder overmuch, but damn his rampant thoughts, he imagined her in his bed, her naked body turning this way and that, while he—
“You can stop looking at me like that,” she ordered haughtily.
“Like what?” he replied darkly, as if she was ridiculous and vain … but he feared she saw straight into his mind.
“You thought I was ugly and dirty before, and now that you see that I’m not, you’re looking at me like”—she swallowed, and glared at him with bright, accusing eyes—“like a—
Her voice cut off and she swallowed, her eyes bright and her cheeks burning.
“You’re wrong,” he lied, climbing up behind her.
She said nothing more. Because she was too innocent, or because she feared provoking him, or both? Damn, but his blood hummed in his veins, being this close to her. His attention dropped to her hair … and inadvertently, to the shadowed valley between her breasts, visible from his higher perspective.
He tore his gaze away. “Nothing has changed, peasant. As I told you before, I have far finer tastes than someone like you.”
He did not speak the words in a cruel or taunting tone. They were not issued with an attitude of derision. Nay, the words were truth, simply spoken. Just as his every move in battle or conflict was carefully plotted, so were the decisions he made about sharing his affections and his bed.
Cull the Nameless.
He had been known by that name from the moment he had come to the king’s court. In the years following, that name itself had become known. Remembered. Celebrated. He had gained favor among Scotland’s most powerful, and understood that with care he could become something more.
If there was a chance he could gain property, estates, and title through marriage—a life for himself—a name for himself and the sons he wanted more than anything, then he would do whatever he must to take it.
She sat stiffly, with her shoulders rigid. Holding her like this, he felt the chill on her skin. Her hair was still wet and she shivered. His heels jabbed the horse’s side, and he directed the animal toward the tent, where he ordered the women to fetch him a dry blanket, from those beside the fire. This he tucked around the girl for warmth, also covering her hair, because hell, if he hadn’t wanted the men to see her before, he certainly didn’t want them getting a look at her now.
“What is your name?” he demanded, as he turned them toward camp.
“What does it matter?” answered the mystery, now hidden beneath the blanket.
“Because I’m tired of calling you ‘peasant.’”
“You seem to take pleasure in it.” Her voice was like silk. How could
he have been deaf to it before? How had he ever imagined her to be a child?
Already he prayed that he’d been momentarily dazzled by the color of her hair, and that the rest of her wasn’t as lovely as he recalled. Mayhap, he thought hopefully, she had yellow, rotten teeth that he’d not observed at first glance.
“Your name,” he repeated impatiently.
She turned to look at him then, and her blue eyes struck him through. Eyes rimmed with dark lashes.
“Derryth. My name is Derryth,” she bit out.
And of course, her teeth were fine, white and straight, and she was just as damningly pretty as before. She looked away again, but even absent her hair and her face and her teeth, there was her body, settled across his thighs, and her hands, with their slender fingers wrapped round the pommel of the saddle. His scowl and his mood darkened further—and at the same moment his sex stiffened in the confines of his trousers, making a clear declaration of its interest. He shifted, doing his best to conceal the apparent.
It was a hell of his own making, he knew. It was he who had insisted she be ensconced in his quarters.
In silence, they traveled back to his tent, much the same way they’d come. The wind increased, and leaves swirled. Above them, the sky darkened. He could not deny that something felt different now. That every inch of his body felt painfully alive, and honed toward hers. Now, he felt the desire to shelter her from the ugliness of the camp. To make sure that any man they passed along the way knew that she was under his protection.
As promised, he would keep her … Derryth, and the others of her traveling party, only long enough to ensure they would not reveal the presence of his army to the Kincaids.
Until then, he would protect her, then release her and never see her again.
* * *
Cull drew the warhorse close to the tent, and with a nudge of his hand against her back, urged her off the saddle onto the carpet. Turning on bare feet, Derryth peered up at him, to see if he would join her. Behind him, the sky had darkened to clouded violet, and she knew the coming night would also bring rain.
How she wished it were summer, with its long days and no long, dark hours to pass. She could not help but wonder, with a mixture of curiosity and dread, how the night, in his quarters, would pass.
“Find some way to make yourself useful,” he ordered distantly, his eyes devoid of the fire she’d glimpsed in them before. “Make my bed. Tend the fire. There are garments to be repaired. Effric can give you whatever supplies you need.”
Effric, she supposed, was the bent old man stationed outside the tent beside a small fire. She peered up at Cull, clutching the blanket at her chest, for already, with the coming of night, a deeper chill claimed the air. Cull made no move to dismount from his horse, and she could only assume he intended to leave her.
She ought to be relieved by his renewed detachment. His intention to go. Certainly, she did not want him to stay. Certainly she did not wish his eyes to fix on her with heated interest, as they had beside the river.
“You command me to be your personal servant, then?” she said sullenly, before she could stop the words.
It was just that she did not like the idea of serving him! Of repairing his clothes or making his bed. Of doing anything that might improve his comfort. Indeed, she did not embrace the idea of her remaining in his quarters at all, when the others of her party would likely spend the night in much more unpleasant conditions.
“Command?” Cull replied, his voice like a blade. The destrier stamped, as if he sensed the displeasure of his rider. “Aye, yes I do command you. This is an army camp—and I am its commander. If you want to eat, then you work. If you wish to sleep, then you work. If you want my protection … then you work. Everyone does their part. Have you any difficulty understanding that?”
His blue eyes raked over her, and seemed to find her lacking, as if she were a spoiled child complaining of chores. It was an expression she knew well. She’d seen it in faces all her life when her mother, or her stepmother, or her stepmother after that (yes, there’d been two of them) had insisted she assist the maids in cleaning the solar or learn how to cook, so she would understand firsthand, one day when she had her own castle to oversee, the work that must be done. But it was not the chores of which she now complained, but him.
She fixed her lips into a firm line. “You’ll find I’m not very skilled at any of the tasks you’ve given me, and will most certainly be displeased with the outcome. You should return me to the company of my kinsmen. I’m certain I could be more helpful there.”
His nostrils flared in response and his eyes narrowed on her so sharply she almost took a step backward in response—but she forced herself to remain fixed to the carpet, exactly where she stood.
He uttered, “You would do well to recall that you don’t make the decisions here. I do. You’ll be returned to your companions in a matter of days. You are not my prisoners. You will all be released. In the meantime, just do as you are told.”
“I am a prisoner if I have no choice but to serve you,” she retorted.
“There are always choices, little one,” he replied, his voice low and cutting. “If you prefer, I will give you over to another warrior … one of my captains, or Duncan perhaps. They would most certainly find different tasks for you than those I’ve suggested, with which to earn your keep.”
The blood drained from her face, because she understood the implication of his words.
“No,” she whispered, dourly. “I do not prefer that.”
“Good.” He straightened in the saddle. “Then we understand each other.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she replied beneath her breath.
He’d heard. She knew that from the way his gaze darkened on her.
He gathered the reins in his hands. “I will return late.”
“And I suppose I will be here waiting,” she replied—her final farewell to him a scowl.
* * *
Derryth paced the uneven yet lushly carpeted floor of the tent, back and forth, more times than she could count. Eventually, the light that crept beneath the doorway of the tent faded to darkness—as did the voices she’d heard all evening on the other side of the tent walls. She moved toward the portal, touched a hand to the canvas, pushed it aside to peek out.
She was immediately disappointed by what she saw.
Effric looked up from where he sat beside a fire, his aged face, traced with lines, illuminated by flames. He oiled a pair of boots. No doubt his master’s. Several garments lay spread on wooden racks beside the fire. A tunic, a snood, and a pair of hose. Beyond him, shadows occupied the darkness. Soldiers moving about, or sitting outside their tents.
“Get ye back inside there, lass. There’s nothin’ out ’ere for ye.” He looked at her sternly, but his demeanor was no more threatening than a kindly old grandfather’s.
Still, he’d caught her looking, and her mind scrambled to supply some reasonable explanation in order to gain his trust. “I was only hoping to ask you if you might have thread and a needle, so that I might repair your master’s garments, which he has ordered me to do as a means to earn my keep.”
“Oh, aye. I’ve needle and thread, though they’ve gone unused for some time.” He nodded, coming to his feet.
His gait unsteady, he went to the wagon behind him and returned with a basket, which he handed over to her. Beneath his dark snood, she saw the gleam of his silvery hair.
She glanced into the basket, and found everything she might need—threads and yarns of various thicknesses and colors, along with a folded pouch she knew would hold needles.
“Unused, why?” she asked.
His lips thinned, and stated plainly, “He’s been keeping ’is mending from me, y’ see, because he knows me old ’ands can’t manage a needle anymore, and me poor eyes can’t see the stitches or the thread.”
Despite her situation, she could not help but feel sympathy for the man. When he could no longer travel and work to the degree a youn
g and important warrior required, where would he go? Did he have family? They were questions she had no right to ask. For now, she must limit her sympathies and concerns to herself and those whom she loved.
“Thank you,” she said.
He smiled back, his eyes sparkling warmly. “’Tis no trouble at all.”
He seemed friendly enough. Perhaps … perhaps she could win him over, and persuade him to go off on some task. Once he was gone, she could briskly gather the garments drying beside the fire, and once inside the tent, dress in the snood, which would conceal her features so that she could flee.
“Have you served Sir Cull for very long?” she asked … giving him her most winning smile.
He looked at her a long time without answering, then lowered his head.
“I may be a doddering old man,” he said. “But ye can stop right there. I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”
Her smile faltered. “I … don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, aye, yes you do.” His smile faded then too. “You’re a pretty girl. A beauty, that’s for sure. And I’m certain you’ve won many a swain’s heart with that smile. But I know there’s only one reason you’re smiling at an old hunchback servant like that.” He peered into her eyes, his gaze striking straight into her heart. In that moment she felt ashamed and sorry, because what he alleged was true.
He backed away, and made his way back to his stool beside the fire, where he sat and took up the boot again. “And I’ll tell ye now, no matter how sweetly you smile at me, no matter how gently you talk, my loyalty is to Sir Cull. If ye step one pretty little foot off his Persian carpet, I’ll know, and I’ll sound the alarm.”
Holding a cloth, he buffed at the toe of the boot.
“I shall remember that,” she answered softly.
He nodded curtly, without looking up again. She stepped back, taking the basket with her. There, in the shadows of her captor’s tent, her chest and shoulders tightened and tears welled in her eyes. Putting the basket down straightaway, she turned toward the shadows, and covered her face with her hands.
She had never felt so helpless. So alone. She wasn’t going to be able to escape, especially if all it took to destroy her efforts were a few words of rebuke from a sweet old man. And if she could not escape, how would she warn those she loved of the impending attack against them?
The Warrior of Clan Kincaid Page 6
