“No, Ryū,” Mercy crooned as she took hold of his bridle and hugged the beast to her. “Leave Master MacCoinnich alone. He doesn’t know us yet.”
“So that’s the way of it, then. Master MacCoinnich again, is it?”
He studied her with a jaw-clenched stare that made her want to shout at him that he couldn’t possibly understand all she’d endured, but she held her tongue. Mama had taught her better. One did not give in to emotional outbursts. One proved others wrong with controlled actions. She lifted her chin and gave him a damning look she hoped he would understand.
“Verra well then. So be it, I reckon.” He pointed a finger at her. “The order stands. No tent for the horses but blankets I’ll allow. Get ye in the dry, m’lady, and seek your rest. We break camp at dawn.” He turned and stomped away, his kilt snapping behind him like the whipping of a dragon’s tail.
Mercy felt the intense desire to pelt him with anything she could find to throw.
“M’lady?” Janie’s sharp voice broke through her haze of frustration.
“What now?” She turned so fast, Janie backed up a step and raised her fists as though ready to fight. Janie’s reaction made her feel even worse. She’d never struck Janie, but the poor girl had no doubt received such mistreatment from previous employers. Mercy pulled in a deep breath, exhaled, then swallowed hard, struggling to compose herself. “Forgive my tone, Janie.” She swiped a hand against the heavy drizzle, wondering how she’d ever dry out in such weather. “I had hoped our trip would begin in a more pleasant way.”
Janie gave her a forgiving smile, then pointed toward one of the flatbed wagons that looked as though someone had shoved a spike up underneath the tarp and created a makeshift tent. “Doughal and Wills fixed us a place in the wagon after they pulled the tents out. Said we could sit there in the dry ’til they get the shelters up and ready. Cook’s kept the fire going in her wagon and said she’ll have you a nice cup of broth and toasted bread ready in no time at all.”
A fire and hot broth sounded heavenly. “I think I’d rather sit in Cook’s wagon. It’s much nicer than the flatbed.”
Janie made a face and shrugged. “No place to sit anymore in Cook’s wagon. It got crammed full of last-minute supplies right before we left. Even her bunk’s full of tins and sacks of food. The woman fair plans to sleep on the floor, she does. You ever heard such?”
Right about now, a pallet on a warm, dry floor didn’t sound all that bad, but Mercy refrained from saying so aloud. She might be chilled and soaking wet, but she would not whine about it. This had been her decision. As Mama always said, “Sacrifice makes success all the sweeter.”
“To the wagon it is, then.” She forged ahead through the mud, struggling against the treacherous, sticky mire as Janie headed off in the direction of Cook’s wagon. The ground, boggy and wet, grabbed at Mercy’s boots, pulling at them and threatening to suck them off her feet. Every step was a chore. Halfway to the line of wagons, as she came up even with Graham and Duncan, the lacing on her right boot gave way. Her foot pulled free, leaving it behind in the mud. Unbalanced, Mercy careened first to one side then the other, arms flailing to keep from falling as she held her stockinged foot high above the mire. “Oh dear!”
Graham charged forward with the speed and agility of one accustomed to navigating across such ground. Before she hit the muck, he scooped her up into his arms. “M’lady,” he said with a deep, heart-stopping rumble that sounded entirely too amused for Mercy’s liking. He cradled her against his chest as though she were a treasured child. “Seems ye’ve lost your slipper.”
How in the world could one attempt to remain dignified in this sort of situation? Especially when held in the arms of such a man. Mercy clutched her fisted hands to her chest and glared at him from under the sagging brim of her wet hat. With an irritated jerk, she shoved it away from her forehead. “My bootlace came undone.”
The ribbon of her hat chose that auspicious moment to pull free of the bow beneath her chin and plopped backward to the ground, exposing her fully to nature’s downpour. Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for divine guidance, especially for deliverance from the traitorous feelings triggered by finding herself in Graham MacCoinnich’s strong arms. This is the first day of many. Give me strength, I beg you!
Graham snorted out a laugh, then clamped his mouth shut. Sheer joy sparkled in the dark blue of his eyes.
“This is not amusing.” Mercy swiped the rain out of her face and clutched at the heavy wet coil of her hair escaping its pins. Her attempts failed. The soaked tresses unwound down over Graham’s arm, reaching almost to the ground in a shimmering river of soggy, black stubbornness. “Not amusing at all,” she repeated through gritted teeth.
“Aye, lass, but it is.” Graham chuckled as he repositioned her higher in his arms, hugging her close as he slogged across the camp. “Verra much so, in fact.”
She thumped his chest. “Put me down this instant, Master MacCoinnich. A true gentleman does not hold a lady in such a fashion. I appreciate the gesture, but it is high time you released me.” Her words sounded harsh and ungrateful even to her.
“Verra well then.” Graham stomped forward a few more steps, then dropped her into the rear of the wagon. He jerked his arms out from around her, then retreated a step, scowling at her. “I already told ye I was no’ a gentleman, m’lady, and I shall tell ye something more. As I see it, whether ye like it or no’, ye need a man like me who’ll snatch your arse up out of the mud instead of a man like that gentleman over there.” He turned and jerked a thumb toward Lieutenant St. Johns tiptoeing and simpering his way around camp, as though the mud and muck were hot coals.
Her bottom still smarting from her hard landing, Mercy scooted deeper beneath the shelter of the tarp. A shiver rippled across her, making her miss the warmth of Graham’s embrace. How could she have spoken to him in such a haughty manner? She swallowed hard and drew her wet coat closer around her, tucking her feet up under her skirts. She dropped her gaze and stared down at Graham’s boots currently ankle deep in mud and puddled water. Her mother’s teachings nudged her. She knew better than to behave like a spoiled, ungrateful child no matter the actions of her champion. After all, he’d done nothing unseemly, merely held her close to keep her high above the mud.
“Forgive me,” she said without looking up. “Please believe me when I say I am grateful to you and all you do. I would never wish you to think I felt otherwise.” She stole a glance up at him, praying he’d accept her apology.
Graham’s dark, irritated scowl melted away, turning almost sheepish. He glanced aside, squinting against the rain as he looked out across the camp. “No harm done, m’lady,” he said without looking back at her.
“Please, Graham. Sit here in the dry with me.” She patted the rough boards of the wagon. “Bateson has promised hot broth and bread.” Perhaps she could bribe him to forgive her tantrum. “Janie’s gone to fetch it, and I’m more than happy to share.”
Graham stared at the spot beside her, then shifted his gaze up to hers. “I should be helping set camp not sitting in the dry drinking broth.”
“I’m sure Percy and his men would be happy to set your tent and your brother’s. Duncan is more than welcome to take refuge in here, too.” Mercy stole a nervous glance around the back of the wagon. There was enough room for both the men, herself, and Janie, but it threatened to be a mite cozier than she would certainly find comfortable. She bit her lip and turned back to Graham. The look on his face said he knew her thoughts as though she’d spoken them aloud. Frustration pricked her. The man’s opinion of her would never improve if she kept behaving in such a manner.
He shook his head and slicked his dripping wet hair away from his face. “Duncan and I dinna have tents. All we need is our kilts to shield us from the weather. We’ve endured much worse than this many a time.”
Mercy couldn’t imagine such. The men needed shelter from what looked to be a long night of heavy rains. “I can’t abide it. You and Duncan must s
leep in the men’s tent. I am certain there shall be room for two more pallets.”
Graham didn’t comment, acting as though she hadn’t spoken. She watched the rain stream down the planes of his chiseled profile and drip off the tip of his nose as he surveyed the progress of setting up camp. How did one reason with such a man? Did he truly hate her that much for acting like such a pampered noble? Her heart sank, and she swallowed hard. How could she blame him? He considered her a part of the very same society she hated for the way they treated people. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. She had to prove to him she was different. Better.
“Please, Graham,” she said in a coaxing whisper, patting the boards beside her again. “Please forgive my horrid behavior and allow me to show you I am better than this.”
A gentle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and the dimple in his left cheek deepened. With an endearing growl and a shake of his head, he hoisted himself up into the wagon and scooted to the spot beside her. After a stern glance at the tarp above their heads, he gave an approving nod. “’Tis a sight dryer in here for certain.” He folded his long legs into a loose, cross-legged position and leaned his elbows on his knees. Clasping his large hands in front of him, he stared down at them as he spoke. “Your behavior wasna horrid.” He shrugged. “Ye’re a lady, and me mam taught me how to treat a lady, but I thought to save ye from the mud. Truly, that was my intent.”
“And I am very thankful you did.” Mercy rested a hand atop his arm for the span of a heartbeat, then drew it back. She shouldn’t touch him. It wasn’t proper and he might resent it—especially if he belonged to another. She glanced away and busied herself with twisting the water out of her hair. “You will relent and share the tent with Percy and the other men, won’t you? I can’t bear the thought of you suffering a night out in the rain.”
He blew out what he played to be a long-suffering groan, then gifted her with a grin. “Duncan and I shall make our pallets with the men if that will please ye.”
“It will.” She returned his smile and before she thought about it, reached over and swept his dark, wet hair back from his face.
Graham stared at her, all amusement gone, replaced by something akin to longing in his gaze. “I wish to please ye, m’lady.”
Mercy held her breath, staring at his mouth, mere inches from hers. What would a kiss from such a man be like? She swallowed hard, then raced the tip of her tongue across her lip, already tasting…feeling.
With a slow careful leaning, Graham drew closer, so close she felt the warmth of his breath brush across her mouth. She sensed the raw heat of him reaching out to encompass her.
“Your broth, m’lady,” Janie called out, her announcement shattering the spell.
Graham jerked back and scooted out of the wagon, motioning Janie forward. “Come, lass. Serve your mistress. She’s fair chilled to the bone, ye ken?”
“Yes, sir.” Janie slid the tray up into the wagon, then lumbered up the lowered, rear panel to join Mercy beneath the tarp.
Shaking herself free of the aching disappointment washing across her, Mercy raised a hand to beg Graham to return and share her warm repast, but the man was already gone.
“Hot broth and bread cures all that ails a body,” Janie said as she filled a cup, then handed it to her mistress.
Mercy very much doubted a warmed drink could help with what ailed her.
Chapter Five
A sense of peace fed the fragile tendrils of hope within her. Strengthened her. Lifted her up.
Breathtaking yellows and vivid pinks of the rising sun spilled across the horizon, chasing the last shadows of the night away from the sleepy valley below. A cool morning breeze brushed her loosened hair from her shoulders, ruffling it down her back. The air smelled crisp and clean. The land stretched green and vibrant before her, washed by the rains and encouraged to blossom by the welcomed warmth of spring.
Her horse nudged her, grumbling for another bit of carrot he knew she had in the pocket of the coat she’d had her seamstress make for the trip. Madame Zhou had thought her mad to design such a garment. Called it ugly and masculine but Mercy didn’t care. It was practical. The ankle-length, lightweight coat not only protected her clothing from the rain and grime of travel but was also perfect to slip on over her dressing gown for early morning walks. Her spoiled beast snorted and snuffled at her pocket again, butting his head against her side with a gentle, affectionate shove.
“Such a pampered boy, my sweet dragon.” Mercy gave him the chunk of carrot, then laughed as he pressed his cheek to hers while he crunched it.
“Dragon suits him far better than Ryū.”
The deep voice startled them both. The skittish mount jerked away, snorting and stomping.
“Ryū, no.” Mercy caught hold of the stallion’s halter, standing between Graham and the angry horse as she shushed and soothed him. “Graham is our friend, Ryū. You must not hurt him.” Poor Ryū. He trusted people less than she did. “Graham is good. Look within him and see.” Mercy believed animals sensed a person’s true heart and spirit. She trusted her stallion’s judgement implicitly.
“Aye, lad,” Graham added in a calm, quiet tone as he held out his hand to the horse, knuckles extended. “I mean ye no harm. To neither yourself nor your lady. I promise, I’m here to protect her.”
The horse calmed but grumbled, ears still flattened to his head.
Graham shook with a silent laugh. “He’s protecting his lady and merely wishes to be appreciated.” He turned and squinted at the dazzling blaze of morning colors painted across the horizon. “And I’m surprised his lady rises this early to feed him treats.”
“I find the gloaming, especially the twilight of early morn, fills me with the inner peace I seek.” She cast a glance over at Graham’s state of dress. “Not a wrinkle in your kilt. Did sleep escape you, sir?”
Graham clasped his hands to the small of his back and walked closer to the edge of the short cliff upon which they’d camped. “I dinna lay down and sleep whilst in England. ’Tis no’ healthy.”
Graham’s leeriness gave her pause. Mercy joined him at the edge, very much aware of his silent strength as she stood beside him. Perhaps Graham was wise to be so cautious. King William trusted very few. Both her father and the rumors said His Majesty hated Scotland. Some said he even feared it. She glanced at Graham again. ’Twas little wonder the king felt such concern if the Highlands were filled with men like Graham. A calm knowing overcame her, coupled with a mildly disturbing growing affection for the man beside her. Graham could be trusted. He was a good man. She would never fear him.
“I would hope your health is quite safe among my camp. You must have sleep. Not all of us are bloody Sassenachs,” she said in her best imitation of a Highland brogue. “We’re a great deal alike—you’d discover that if you’d but take the time to get to know us.”
Graham studied her a long while, long enough to make the simple act of drawing breath a chore. When she feared she could bear his scrutiny no longer, he shifted his gaze back to the vista below. “If England were filled with such as yourself, m’lady, I would consider an opportunity to visit the land and get to know her people a blessing. And I would sleep.” He took a deep breath and shuffled his feet. “But such is no’ the case. Tell me…” He turned and nodded toward her precious mount. “Why do ye call him your dragon?”
“It fits his spirit,” Mercy said, allowing Graham to shift to a safer subject. Perhaps, ’twas best. She stretched out her hand to the horse, but he snubbed her with a toss of his head. “And it’s also the meaning of his name. Ryū is Japanese for dragon.”
“Japan,” Graham repeated with a thoughtful nod. “Isolated country. Closed to foreigners.” He gifted her with a gentle smile that encouraged her to keep talking. “Your ancestry, I presume?”
“Yes.” Mercy struggled not to grow defensive, but a lifetime of rejection was difficult to overcome. “My mother…of course.”
“Of course,” Graham said in a quiet,
respectful tone, seeming to sense her discomfort.
“And what of your ancestry?” She’d rather not speak to him about Mama. Not just yet.
Graham grew thoughtful, frowning at the land, eyes narrowing as he studied the skyline. “Before Alexander married into Clan Neal and they took our name and made him chieftain, there werena many of us MacCoinnichs left.” He gave a shrug as though his words didn’t matter. “The clan died out, fell to illness. Only four of us brothers, two cousins, and half a dozen more I havena seen in years survived. We lost the ones we loved.” He shook his head. “It took so many from us. Morbid sore throat, it was. Didna leave enough of us to even give the dead proper burials.”
“I am sorry,” Mercy whispered, wishing she could offer him some sort of comfort. She understood the agony of losing everyone you had ever loved. “So, you became a mercenary?” Her heart ached for all Graham had suffered.
“Aye.” Graham nodded. “My brothers and two cousins. We lost our lands, so we banded together and left. Included one of our friends as well. Magnus de Gray. We consider him blood, and the seven of us traveled the world together.”
“Lost your lands? How?” Had Graham and his brothers gambled away everything like her father had? Mercy retrieved Ryū from foraging too close to the cliff’s edge and led him to a safer distance from the precipice. Surely, that wasn’t the case. Not a man like Graham.
“Political games, m’lady,” Graham said. “Campbells claimed our lands with the king’s blessing. He didna feel enough MacCoinnichs were left to give a damn.”
The hatred and revulsion in Graham’s voice were unmistakable, and Mercy didn’t blame him. It was bad enough to lose one’s entire family, but to be stripped of ancestral lands at the same time? Unforgivable. Without thinking, she reached out, took his hand, and squeezed. “Again, I am very sorry.”
Graham looked down at her hand and covered it with his own. “Ye’re a kind woman, m’lady. I thank ye.” He looked up at her then, tilting his head and studying her before unleashing the smile that always touched her heart and deepened the one dimple in his cheek. “Ye should always wear your hair loose. I like it. If possible, it makes ye even lovelier.”
The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection Page 59
