Mad for the Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  But before he opened his mouth, caution stilled his tongue. Those secrets weren’t his to share. They belonged to his country and to his title. He’d been taught this over and over as a child, and had lived with it for years and years as an adult. Never share more than is necessary. It will only bring regrets.

  Still, he couldn’t help feeling as if he were letting her down. Finally, he said, “My Tata Natasha has great wealth. Obviously someone knew this.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “But only two hundred guineas were requested in the ransom note,” she repeated.

  “I cannot explain that. I—”

  “Stew is ready.” Mackenzie sat down beside Ailsa and handed her one of the plates he held, steam rising into the air.

  She looked over the plate at Nik. “Well?”

  He sent a meaningful look at her cousin. “We will discuss this later.”

  Her brows knit. “Why—”

  “Not now, Lady Ailsa,” Nik said firmly.

  Mackenzie blinked. “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt—”

  “Nae, nae.” Ailsa picked up her spoon, sending Nik a flat look, as if she knew he was using the interruption to his advantage and the knowledge disappointed her. “We were done.”

  Rurik brought Nik a plate of stew, and soon everyone was gathered about the fire, the only sound the scraping of spoons on metal plates.

  Still, Nik could not forget Ailsa’s expression. It nipped at him, that disappointed look, and made him wish he could share his thoughts. But he wasn’t here to make friends, or to tempt an engagingly honest lady into exchanging confidences.

  He was here to save his grandmother and that damned treaty, in that order.

  And if that meant he lost Ailsa’s regard, tentative as it was, then so be it.

  Jaw set, he dug into his plate of stew, fighting the urge to look across the fire into the silver-gray eyes he knew followed his every move.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning dawned crystal cold, the air burning as one breathed it. Buried deep in fur-lined bedding, Ailsa pulled the blankets over her mouth and nose, drawing her knees to her. Even that small movement had her muscles protesting. All that riding yesterday. Now I’m as stiff as a board.

  Perhaps she should stay still a while longer. She’d just rest until— An odd noise grated in the quiet. Was someone scraping metal over a rock?

  She opened her eyes. Stooped by the fire, his cloak hanging from his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground around him, was Nik. As she watched, the morning sun broke through the thick cover of clouds and flooded the campsite with a yellow glow that lit his shoulders and black hair with golden lights.

  It was fitting, she decided sourly, for he reminded her more and more of a lion. A large, pompous, opinionated lion.

  The clouds converged and stole away the golden light. She glanced about the camp. The other bedrolls were empty, which made her grimace. She should have been first up, blast it. She might not have slept so late had Stewart not snored through most of the night as if he were sawing enough logs to make a shed.

  Her gaze moved back to the snapping fire. A pot hung from the hook—porridge, from the smell of it. The flames had been stoked, and they licked at the fire ring. One rock had been moved into the flames until it glowed red, another pot sitting on it, piping out a steady stream of steam. The scraping sound that had woken her must have come from the tin cup now resting in the prince’s hand. He set the cup back down, making no effort to muffle the noise.

  Apparently “quiet” was not a word found in the prince’s vocabulary. He is nae a “prince” for this excursion, though, she thought with satisfaction. Just Nik, a lowly groom. In no way did the strong, simple name describe this man. He was far too complex, and far more confusing than the name implied.

  She watched him through her lashes as he removed his glove and folded it in half, and then used it to pick up a worn kettle. Steam curled from the spout as he lifted the lid and peered inside. As he did so, he glanced in her direction.

  She closed her eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen her looking at him. The last thing she wanted to do was add to his too-large pride. Still, it was hard not to stare at him. He was just so very watchable. Too much so.

  She heard the thunk as he replaced the kettle on the hot rock, and then silence once again.

  What’s he doing now? She cracked her eyes open again and found him still by the fire, his face in profile as he lifted his cup and took a sip.

  The steam curled up, a wisp brushing over his face as his lips touched the warm metal of his cup. She found herself remembering those lips on hers, the heat and pressure of his mouth and how he’d slid his tongue over her bottom lip—

  She shoved the memory away. If she wished to lure information from his lips—the very ones she’d once kissed—she’d have to keep her wits about her. It was time someone stood up to this man, and she was more than happy for it to be her. Why, if she had her way—

  “Your eyebrows are knit so tightly I worry you might get a headache.”

  Blast it! She gave him a sour look. “I never get a headache,” she lied. And then she rolled onto her side, turning her shoulder to him, even though the movement made her eyes water with pain from her stiff muscles.

  “Krasavitsa, if you wish your tea warm, you must rise. It is good tea and will brighten your morning.”

  The only thing that could brighten her morning would be if she turned back over and discovered that the prince was nothing more than a bad dream. But that was highly unlikely to happen. Besides, she had little doubt that even if he were nothing more than a dream, he’d be one of those annoying ones that lingered long enough to cast a pall over the entire day.

  She turned onto her back, biting her lip against the complaints of her legs. “Where is everyone?”

  “Nearby. Chores took them away.” Nik folded his riding glove once more and used it to pick up the pot as he found an empty cup. As he filled it, his gaze flickered to her. “Are you getting up now? Or do you still pretend to sleep?”

  “I was nae pretending; I was stretching my legs under the blankets before I arose.” She gritted her teeth and sat, pulling her blankets and furs with her. “I see I’m the last one oop.”

  “By only a few minutes.” Nik grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Your cousin was also a— How do you say it? A bed slug?”

  “A slugabed.” She pulled the furs closer. She was warmer inside the bedding than she’d be out of it.

  Nik held the cup toward her, grinning. “Here. Drink this soon, or the cold will steal its heat.”

  Which meant she had to rise and put up with her pained legs, the bitter cold, and an annoyingly cheerful-in-the-morning Nik.

  She’d lived her whole life in a drafty old castle that, from September to May, was never truly warm. She knew from experience that the best thing to do was to bolt from a warm bed and face the cold quickly.

  Holding her breath, she threw back the cover to grab her cloak where it was spread over her pallet. She gasped as the cold air hit her like an icy wall, grimacing as her calves complained.

  She tugged the cloak about her and, for good measure, wrapped the top fur over that.

  A soft chuckle from the prince made her flash a glum look his way.

  He threw up a hand as if to protect himself. “You cannot walk in all of that.”

  Her first step proved him right; the heavy fur curled about her, holding her feet prisoner. She had to kick, step, kick, step, kick, step her way to the fire. This is good for my stiff legs at least, she told herself through clenched teeth.

  She knew she must look ridiculous, but she didn’t care. Her shivering body refused to allow mere pride to get in the way of warmth.

  She sank onto the log Stewart had placed by the fire the night before, and reached for the tea Nik held out.

  He placed the mug in her hands, the warmth tingling and welcome, soothing her shivers. His bold gaze swept over her. “Sore, eh?”

  “I’m only stiff.” She sniffed
with what she hoped was queenly dignity. “Thank you for the tea.” Her voice was morning-husky and not nearly as repressive as she wished.

  “You’re quite welcome. Seeing your dance made it worth my while.”

  She didn’t deign to answer; instead she sipped her tea. The instant it touched her tongue, bitterness filled her mouth. “Bless me,” she choked. “What is this?”

  “It’s Romany tea, like my grandmother makes. It is not the weak drivel you drink here.”

  She stared into the cup, thinking it was strong enough to stare back. “I’m surprised it has nae eaten its way through the tin.”

  “Drink it. It’s warm and it’s good for your—” He patted his stomach. “When you eat.”

  “Your digestion. I find that hard to believe.” But the tea was hot, so she took another sip and realized that there was a hint of spiciness to it. That’s . . . not bad. “Does everyone in your country drink this, or only the auld, who’ve nae taste left in their ancient mouths?”

  He chuckled and reached for the kettle to refill his cup. “Everyone drinks it—men, women, children. It is good for you. The Romany live long, long lives.”

  “If they can withstand this every morning, they must be hearty indeed.” She looked around. “Did the others drink some of this, too?”

  “Not yet, but they will like it.”

  “If it dinnae kill them first.” She smiled when he sent her a pretend affronted look. “Where is everyone?”

  He nodded toward the forest. “Rurik is scouting ahead. Stewart is on watch, while MacKean and Gregor ready the horses. I’m surprised you could sleep through all the noise we made.”

  “And you?”

  He cleared his throat as if about to make an important announcement. “I collected the morning wood for the fire. And without being asked.”

  “That’s kind of you.” She meant it, too.

  “I’m learning.” He looked a little stiff, as if he were about to say something of vast import. “I’m not used to traveling in such a manner, and I fear I am a bit rusty on the etiquette. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  “You’re welcome.” She had to smile a little at his uncomfortable expression. He always seemed so certain of everything. It was somehow reassuring to see him offset, though she couldn’t help but wonder if he were indeed sincere. She looked at him through the steam that rose from her tea. “How long have you been oop?”

  “I arose with the others. Stewart started the porridge before he left.” Nik cupped his mug in his large hand, the vessel too small for him to wrap both hands around it as she’d been able to do. “When Rurik and the others return, we will have breakfast.”

  She nodded, noting how the smoke of the fire created a veil between them. They seemed destined to be on opposing sides, she and this stubborn, pampered, confusing prince. Yet as he sat by the fire, a nicked metal cup in his hand, his face stubbled, his hair mussed from sleep, he looked . . . normal. Like any man might look. Any man who was devastatingly handsome. The scruffiness became him, softening the taut line of his jaw and making her palm itch to run her hand along it.

  His gaze met hers, a satisfied twinkle in his eyes, and Ailsa was suddenly aware of how she must look—sleep-wrinkled and ruffled, her braid frayed.

  She placed her mug on one of the rocks ringing the fire and smoothed back the loose strands that tickled her neck and cheeks.

  He watched, a smile curving his mouth. “You look fine, krasavitsa. More than fine.”

  That, she did not believe. “What is this krasavitsa? Is it something rude?”

  He chuckled. “Nyet. It is merely what I call you, as it becomes you. You do not like it? It is a beautiful word.”

  “I dinnae know what it means, so I have nae opinion one way or the other.” She fumbled with her braid, her hair tangled near the tie. She pushed the braid over her shoulder impatiently. She couldn’t do anything about it without her comb and mirror, which would require rising and walking, and her legs bitterly protested the idea.

  She’d better move, lest she lock into place. Gritting her teeth, she stretched her legs toward the fire, fighting to keep the blanket and cloak over them.

  Nik seemed to note her every move. “We covered a lot of ground yesterday. How many more days do we travel until we meet this Greer?”

  “Four, five, hopefully nae more. It depends on the weather and the condition of the trail.”

  She sipped the tea, managing to swallow it this time without scrunching her nose. By God, if he could stomach this brutal drink, so could she. “Last night Stewart said he expected it would warm some today, so the snow will melt and make the trail slick and dangerous.”

  “That will slow us.”

  The wind stirred and she pulled the blanket more closely around her and held out her mug. “More tea, if you dinnae mind.”

  He filled the mug with the steaming brew. “It is not as evil as you originally thought, is it?”

  “I’d have drunk molten lead just to warm my fingers. I—”

  A rustling in the shrubbery announced the arrival of Stewart. The huge man muttered a greeting and knelt by the porridge, pulling off the lid.

  “Is it done?” Ailsa asked. “I’m famished.”

  “’Tis guid enough,” the hunter answered.

  She sniffed. “I can smell the cinnamon, and you know how I love that.”

  The burly hunter beamed. “It adds a nice taste, dinnae it?”

  Watching them, Nik found himself intrigued. The smile Ailsa shared with her servant was brighter and more open than any she’d shared with him. In some ways, she concealed her thoughts and feelings as much as he did, but only with him, which irked him far more than it should have.

  The leaves crunched as Ailsa’s cousin appeared. Neatly dressed, his brown hair combed above his recently shaved face, he looked as if he were ready for a formal hunt rather than a fireside bowl of porridge. He sat beside Ailsa with the ease of long familiarity, groaning as he did so. “I feel as if someone beat me with a log. How are you?”

  She shrugged. “A little stiff. Nae bad.”

  Liar. You don’t like to admit to weakness, do you? That was something he should remember.

  Mackenzie peered into his cousin’s mug. “There’s tea!”

  “Of a sort,” Ailsa murmured, sending Nik a teasing glance from under her lashes.

  “It is good tea,” Nik said firmly. He fixed a cup for both Mackenzie and Stewart.

  Mackenzie grasped the warm cup eagerly, took a bold sip, and choked. “That’s—that’s—good God!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

  “It’s what?” Nik asked in a flat tone.

  Mackenzie blinked. “It’s—it’s quite good, but I’m not used to such—” He pressed a hand to his throat.

  Ailsa chuckled. “That’s almost exactly what I said on drinking it.”

  Stewart sent a dismissive glance at young Mackenzie and calmly drank his tea, his broad face expressionless.

  Nik held up the pot and asked the younger man, “Would you like more?”

  “No, thank you. I still have some.” Mackenzie took a sip of what he had left, although Nik suspected the lad merely pretended to drink. “How far will we attempt to go today? Has it been discussed?”

  Ailsa answered. “Stewart and I spoke last night. We’d like to camp just south of Loch Glascarnoch, if possible.”

  “Loch Glascar-what?” Nik asked. The names the Scots gave places and people made his tongue tire. “Had it been up to me, I would have given it a longer, more tangled name, just to keep foreigners from pronouncing it correctly. But Glascar-whatever-that-was will have to do.”

  Stewart snorted a laugh.

  “How long will it take us to reach this loch?” Mackenzie asked, stretching out his legs.

  Stewart sent him a glance from under his bushy red brows. “Most of the day. I dinnae think we’ll make it as far as the loch, but MacKean wants to try.”

  “I hope it’s safe, with the wet trai
l,” Mackenzie said.

  “Aye, and ’twill slow us doon if you fall off the mountain, too, so dinnae do that.”

  A shadow passed over Mackenzie’s face.

  Nik swallowed his grin, seeing that Mackenzie’s pride had been wounded by the huntsman’s barbed humor. “What about these brigands you’ve mentioned? Should we worry about them?”

  Stewart pulled some metal plates from his saddlebag and began to spoon the thick porridge onto each one. “They’re here. We’ve seen signs, but only auld ones.”

  “I’ll keep my pistols primed,” Nik said.

  Ailsa said, “We’ll need a guard oop front and one in the rear.”

  “Rurik and I can follow behind and provide protection.” Nik poured himself more tea and then held the kettle out to Ailsa.

  She shook her head and put her empty cup on the ground near her feet. The tea had warmed her, and she was definitely now wide-awake. Bitter or not, it had been effective. “Tell me, have you ever performed guard duty?”

  “Aye. Not recently, perhaps, but enough. It would surprise you, all of the tasks I can do if I set my mind to it.”

  His gaze flickered over her and she instantly thought of several “tasks” a lady should never think of. Fighting her heated cheeks, she said, “I am surprised to hear that.”

  “My life is not all dress balls and routs, you know.”

  “But I daresay it has been mainly dress balls and routs.” She hid a grin at his irritated expression.

  All he said was, “Perhaps. Do not ask me to reveal all my secrets.”

  As if merely asking him would reveal anything. Ha!

  Stewart handed her a plate of porridge and she ate, watching the prince from under her lashes as he spoke to Stewart, noting how Nik became more jocular and far less serious as he spoke with the Scotsman.

  She wondered how it would have been had they met in the sedate confines of a ballroom in London or Edinburgh. No doubt he wouldn’t have paid her the slightest heed, nor she him. She was not a beauty, nor wealthy, nor politically important, all things that set a woman apart from the masses of husband-seekers who crowded the ballrooms of the world. She would have been politely ignored by him and others, while he would have been fêted and pursued. And she would have been quite content with that.