by Aileen Adams
She turned away again, flopping onto the ground with a grunt. The others sat around the fire, talking in low voices. Fergus was looking better, which filled her with untold relief.
She’d never had a brother or sister—at least, none who’d lived past infancy. Their faces blended together, both girl and boy since babes looked the same at that age.
As she watched Fergus and thought about the man lying behind her, it was easier to put herself in Brice’s place. The way he behaved toward Fergus made it plain that he was the elder of the two.
His younger brother had come under attack, and it was all because a thoughtless young woman had behaved recklessly.
It wasn’t easy to remove her personal concerns from her thoughts as she tried to understand Brice’s side of things. What did he care that she would’ve rather died than become Earl Remington’s bride? It was none of his concern.
After they had delivered her, he would go back to his life. His life included his brother. Fergus would always be a priority, as would the others. And that meant more to him than her unhappiness.
These thoughts did not cause her any happiness, but they made it easier to lie with him behind her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning her head slightly so her words might reach his ears. “I truly am. You’re correct; I was not thinking of anyone but myself, just as my unhappiness matters not to you. We’ve both got to live our lives when this is over, which means thinking about ourselves and those we care for.”
He was quiet long enough to leave her wondering if he’d even heard her. Was it possible he’d fallen asleep that quickly?
He sighed, stirring her hair again. “I never claimed that your unhappiness matters not, lass. It’s merely that there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing any of us can do. It isn’t our place to come in between your clan and this earl. As I said earlier…”
He trailed off.
She held her breath in anticipation of what he might say next.
“As I said earlier,” he repeated, “there are times in which we cannot think only of ourselves.”
She blinked. What did he mean?
Did he mean he’d rather not deliver her, knowing what it meant for her to marry this total stranger? Or simply that she ought to consider her clan and not only herself?
If it was the latter, there was less than no chance of her ever doing so. “My clan cares nothing for me; and as far as I am concerned, I am a Stewart in name only. Douglas Stewart all but cursed the day I was born prior to my leaving his unhappy household. Being away from him is the only uplifting point of this.”
She turned her head again, whispering over her shoulder. “Do not ask me to do what I’m doing for their sake, for I cannot force myself into believing something which brings only pain.”
He snorted softly. “I didna mean that, lass.”
Her heart soared, when all had seemed lost only moments earlier. He did care. He did not wish to deliver her.
While that wouldn’t stop him from performing his duty—after all, he was not her only escort—it meant he was more sympathetic than he’d let on. This was a good sign.
She did not respond, choosing instead to wriggle slightly as though she were adjusting herself for comfort’s sake.
“What are ye doing?” he muttered.
“Attempting to make myself comfortable enough to fall asleep. If you keep speaking, I won’t be able to do so.” She wriggled again, grunting softly as she did.
“And if ye insist on moving so, I will never be able to do so.”
“You might move away, then, and give me greater space. I will not disturb you then.”
He snickered. “So you might believe. I can tell you, it wouldn’t be so. Not to mention, I intend to give you as little space as possible for the duration of our journey.”
She wriggled again, moving closer to him, and he growled.
She let out an exasperated sigh. “I did not invite you to join me.”
It was a blessing that he couldn’t see her face, for it burned as though she’d lowered it to the fire. She would never have imagined using her body to tempt a man, especially not a man such as the one behind her. He was rough, coarse, a stranger.
A stranger who had saved her life.
It mattered not. He was still a man with whom she was unfamiliar.
His chuckle was dark, knowing, and it made her cheeks burn hotter than ever. “Aye, but never has there been a lass unhappy after having done so,” he murmured, humor plain in his voice.
“I am not one of those,” she murmured, torn between gladness at his turn in humor and humiliation. “I merely wish to get enough sleep before the sun rises.”
“As do I.”
“I bid you good night, then.” She closed her eyes with a smile, a new plan already forming itself.
It would mean turning her back on everything she’d ever learned about the behavior of young women such as herself. One who’d been raised well—if not lovingly, at least with all attempts made at preserving chastity.
What good was chastity when it meant being sold in marriage?
She moved again, shifting her hips slightly, and Brice groaned without uttering a word.
Her smile widened a bit just before she fell asleep.
14
It was due to be a long, miserable night.
Brice deserved no better—after all, it had been his idea to sleep at her side. No matter how many oaths she swore or tears she shed, he trusted her no farther than he might throw her.
He’d had no inkling of how alluring she would prove to be.
It was his fault for being weak. Not hers.
Even so, would that she might stop tempting him by moving as she did.
He was intensely aware of her, lying with their bodies nearly touching. The swell of her hip beneath the blanket. The curve of her buttocks as she all but rubbed against him. He’d nearly jumped from his skin the first time she attempted that.
She was warm. Pleasant. He’d forgotten how pleasant it could be to sleep alongside another body, even though there was no chance of touching that body.
Sweet smelling, too, which seemed to defy logic. How could she smell so pleasant after engaging in the same activities as the men? It was part of her, he supposed, the lingering scent of heather and roses.
Or her kirtle had been washed in fragrant water, he reminded himself. No sense in thinking overmuch on it. There was nothing unique about the lass. She was merely a female, the same as any other, and she enjoyed carrying the scent of flowers on her clothing.
And in her hair. The firelight turned it to gold, made it appear to shine. It all but pleaded to be touched.
He ground his teeth together, clenching his hands into tight fists. He’d roll onto his back with his hands beneath him if he had to. Anything to keep from reaching for her.
She sighed in her sleep, disrupting the even flow of her soft breathing. The side of her throat pulsed with her steady heartbeat. He wondered what it would be like to touch…
He rolled to the other side, slamming his eyes shut.
For both their sakes.
Good thing the lass could not read his thoughts, for she might reach out and slap him.
If sleeping beside him had caused her any strain, it did not show on her face or in her voice as she checked the condition of Fergus’s arm the following morning.
“How are ye feeling today?” she asked in a gentle voice while unwinding the bandage.
“Seeing as I nearly lost an arm, fairly well.” He was grinning when he said it.
Alana grinned in return. “Were ye able to sleep?”
“I couldna stop myself,” he admitted.
“Aye, well, I suppose that has to do with losing blood,” she reasoned. “But rest is important. I’m glad the pain from the wound did not keep ye awake.”
“I was able to secure a number of tinctures from a healer, and the instructions on how to create them,” Rodric explained as he handed Fergus a cup of water
with a few drops of tincture. “I’m afraid I’m not nearly as skilled as the healer herself, but my wife was able to brew a fresh batch before our departure.”
“I don’t need it.” Fergus shook his head.
“It will make the ride easier for ye,” Brice argued.
“I said, I do not need it.”
Alana knelt beside him, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “The reason you do not feel as though you need it is because you haven’t moved it much this morning—and you drank the tincture last night. Once we move out, the pain will return, and it will take time for the tincture to do its job after that. Do you see what I mean?”
He grumbled, turning his face slightly away from hers. “Aye.”
“Will you drink, then?”
He didn’t answer, choosing to reach for the cup instead. Rodric and Brice exchanged grins as Fergus drank the contents in a single gulp.
She had a way about her, it seemed. By rights, Fergus should have resented her for leading him into mortal danger. He should hardly have smiled at her, laughed with her, and certainly could not have been blamed if he’d told her to go to hell for urging him to drink something for his pain.
“They seem to be getting on well,” Quinn remarked as Brice helped saddle the horses.
“Aye, it seems,” he agreed, unwilling to commit himself either way.
There was no mistaking the tinge of regret in his friend’s voice, as though the lad mistook friendliness for something more. Then again, he’d already allowed Alana to lead his thoughts astray with a few smiles.
It was for the best that he believed her out of his reach. After all, she was to be another man’s bride.
“What say you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her kirtle as she rose.
Brice hadn’t overheard the conversation, and so had no knowledge of what Alana spoke of.
Fergus looked skeptical. “I don’t like the idea.”
“It makes the most sense,” Rodric said, taking Alana’s part. “Your arm should be allowed to rest.”
“I can ride with one hand.”
Alana assisted in placing the wounded arm in the sling Rodric had fashioned from Fergus’s ruined sleeve. “Why would you want to, when there is someone more than able to assist you? It is the very least I can do.”
“You’ve done quite enough so far.”
“Nonsense,” she replied with a shake of her head, her jaw set in a firm line. He may not have known her well, but Brice recognized her expression for what it was. There would be no winning an argument against her.
“What is it the two of you are on about?” he asked as he finished with the last saddle.
“She insists on riding with me. Nay, on doing the riding for me, while I sit behind her,” Fergus grumbled.
Brice frowned, then asked himself why he did so. It only made sense; the lass had no horse to ride, and Fergus had the use of only one had. Why should she not do the riding for him?
Besides, it would mean her staying with the group. No chance of running away with Fergus riding behind her, an arm about her waist.
Something about the thought sickened him, and he did not know why.
“It makes sense. The more time you waste in arguing, the more time we waste when we might be making progress. We’re already behind.” With that, he took the reins of his horse and mounted, bringing the animal about until its nose pointed toward the road. “Are we ready to leave, then?”
Rodric chuckled as he mounted his horse. “It seems the final word has been spoken, then.”
“I only wish to avoid losing more time,” Brice insisted.
“Aye, naturally,” Rodric said with a smile. “I agree with ye. No need to argue with me.”
“I’m not—never mind.” Brice tapped his heels to the gelding’s sides, and it took off at an easy trot in response. He did not look to see whether any of his party were behind him, as it mattered little at that moment.
So long as he did not have to see his brother’s arm about the lass’s waist.
Something about the very image perturbed him more than he felt comfortable admitting. Even to himself.
15
Perhaps it wasn’t fair.
This thought struck her more than once as they rode through the day, Fergus behind her with his good arm snug around her waist.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair for her to use his injury—which she had a hand in causing—as a way to get under his brother’s skin.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to feign innocence, to pretend as though she meant only to be of service.
There had been no mistaking Brice’s interest in her the night before, lying next to each other, as they had.
The seed had been planted. It needed only water and sunlight and careful tending to grow into something much larger.
A pang of fear struck her heart. Could she manage something much larger?
She had no experience with men. The previous night had marked the first in which she’d slept beside one of them. Had she not been so thoroughly fatigued, she might have spent half the night fretting over his nearness.
Exhaustion had proven itself a blessing, then.
No, she knew nothing of men. But she recognized jealousy when she saw it, and Brice was jealous of the way she rode with his brother.
Fergus, on the other hand, was either too far gone to notice—thanks to the tincture—or simply did not care that his brother rode several lengths ahead of the rest.
The day was gray, thick with clouds, and considerably cooler than the day before had been. She shivered involuntarily when a breeze blew past.
“Are ye chilled, lass?” Fergus asked.
The wind must have blown his question in Brice’s direction, for his back stiffened not a moment later.
“Aye,” she admitted, “though I’m certain it would be worse were ye not behind me. I’m grateful for your warmth.”
Was it her imagination, or did Brice let out something like a bark? It could have been a laugh—a rather bitter one, if so.
“Ye had both better make certain that warmth isn’t fever,” he called back over his shoulder.
A fair point. Alana looked over her shoulder, up into Fergus’s face. There was no flush on his cheeks, his eyes did not shine as though he were in the grip of fever.
Just the same, she had to be certain. “Whoa,” she murmured, pulling the gelding to a halt.
Quinn rode up beside them. “Why do you stop?”
She held up a finger to signal his silence, then bade Fergus lower his head slightly. She pressed her lips to his forehead, feeling for warmth.
Quinn gasped.
Even Fergus seemed taken aback.
“It is a much better method of testing whether a person is feverish,” she explained, facing forward once again. “The mouth is far more sensitive than the hand.”
Brice was glaring in their direction, having stopped when he noticed they’d come to a halt. “And?” he demanded.
“And, your brother is fine.” She bit the side of her tongue, straining to hold back her laughter.
Quinn’s jaw was all but trailing on the ground, Rodric merely looked pleased to hear that Fergus was doing well, but Brice looked fit to strangle someone.
Fergus was beyond the point of noticing. “You seem to know quite a lot about healing and taking care of others,” he noted. His arm tightened about her waist, and she was, indeed, glad for the extra warmth against her chilled skin as another gust of air blew past them.
“I had hoped to train with a healer,” she admitted. “Healing has always held an interest for me.”
“What prevented you from doing so?” Rodric asked, bringing his sleek, black horse in step beside her.
She sighed. “My father did not wish it so. His daughter would not heal the sick, for that would mean coming into contact with sick people. I suppose it makes sense in some ways, though I certainly do not share his opinion.”
“It seems unlike ye to simply give in to his wishes,” Quinn poin
ted out. “I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries by saying so.”
“Not at all,” she assured him. He seemed like a nice enough lad, but rough at the edges. He tried so hard to be gentle and sweet for her sake. “And there is truth in your words. I did go against his wishes, at first.”
“And?” Fergus asked.
“And, I did not sit without pain for a week.”
The men chuckled, likely remembering lashings they’d taken in childhood—she supposed they were no better behaved as children than as men, and likely much worse—but she did not share in their mirth.
For she remembered the pain, the humiliation as each stroke of the leather strap made contact with her skin. She remembered the sound of it cracking against her body, the blood which had pooled in her mouth and trickled down her chin as she bit her lip to stay her agonized cries.
There was a moment that day, in the midst of her beating, when she’d wondered if he worked as hard as he did simply to get a reaction from her. When she hadn’t cried out or begged for him to stop, she’d only enraged him further.
She’d borne the bruises for a fortnight.
Brice did not laugh, but then he pretended as though he did not hear a word being spoken behind him.
He might understand, she thought. If he were speaking to her. She might have explained it to him, recounted the humiliation for the first time. He would not have laughed.
But he was too far away.
There had to be a way to bring him back to her. The idea was not to repel him but rather to pull him in. If she was to do what she planned and do it successfully, she had to place herself in his good graces.
“Tell me about you and Brice,” she suggested, looking up at Fergus.
“What do ye want to know?”
“Why did you join the army?” she asked. “He told me ye did not wish to live in the village for the rest of your life.”
“He did, did he?” Fergus grinned. “Aye, he would.”
This sparked her interest, as it was not what she’d expected to hear. “Oh? Was there another reason?”
