CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily ignored the small pile of clothes on the bed and instead stared at the three knives arranged in an even row on a piece of raw leather. She bit the edge of her lip. “What are those for?”
“Protection.” Isobell’s matter of fact reply ratcheted up Emily’s level of concern.
“I don’t have a clue how to use a knife to defend myself or anyone else.”
“Of course not. You come from a more civilized time. Gregor will teach you.” Isobell placed a hand on Emily’s waist, turned her about, and deftly undid the laces on the back of the gown. “Now, let us get you dressed for riding.”
“I’m not sure my time is more civilized.
There is so much political unrest. Urban riots, hate crimes, terrorist attacks.
More and more people carry guns,” Emily said, as Isobell dragged an ecru-colored tunic over her head.
She squeezed into a pair of tight leather pants. “By the way, whose clothes are these?”
“Mine. I am known for riding about the countryside dressed as a lad.”
Emily’s eyes popped. “Really?”
“Aye. I like to be comfortable when I ride.” Isobell chuckled.
“I’m so glad. I was afraid I’d have to ride in a dress in order to conform to the local custom.” Emily smiled and tugged on her own boots. “Thanks for lending me the clothes.”
Isobell rolled the leather cloth around the knives, bound it with a tie, and slipped them into what appeared to be a saddlebag, along with a skirt and another shirt and a chemise.
“Gregor can show you where and how to strap the blades to your body.” Isobel flexed her eyebrows with exaggeration like Groucho Marx.
The woman possessed a contrary mix of past and future idioms.
The craziness of it all helped Emily ignore the heat that flushed her neck and face caused by Isobell’s sexual inference.
Although, she’d certainly like Gregor to touch several sensitive parts of her body.
In only a few hours they would probably make love.
The mere thought made her insides clench and her sex weep.
What had come over her lately? She’d never gotten all pumped up about sex before. Had she?
Everything seemed so confusing. She rubbed her forehead between her eyes where a slight ache of tension had become a near constant annoyance.
The trip down the circular stairs was much easier in pants and boots. Still, Emily ran a hand along the stone wall as she descended. She met Gregor in the great hall a few moments later.
His eyes lit as she approached. He took the saddlebag from her and placed it on a table behind him alongside another bulging one.
Then he turned her about in a circle, his heated gaze sliding over her from head to toe.
He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “You are verra appealing, wife, dressed as a lad.”
A joyful chuckle bubbled up her throat and escaped from her lips in a burst.
Gregor had donned brown leather pants as well.
He wore a hooded rust leather vest over a long sleeved grayish linen shirt.
A wide belt clinched a trim waist. On his left forearm was strapped a thick leather arm guard.
A sheathed sword hung on his back and a quiver of feathered arrows hung from his hip.
He appeared every inch the hunter. She leisurely skimmed his fine physique with a measuring gaze. “Very appealing, indeed, husband.”
His cheeks reddened. He actually blushed. His husky chuckle warmed her heart. He twisted his torso toward the table and retrieved her saddlebag along with the other and his bow. “Let us be on our way.”
They exited the castle though the courtyard gate and made their way to the pebbly beach where several of those small boats Gregor called currachs waited just above the surf.
“Clouds darken the horizon. We should make haste to avoid a soaking.” Gregor dropped the saddlebags into one of the boats and dragged it to the water’s edge.
She hopped in without getting her feet wet. He wasn’t as lucky when he joined her. The view was great. The countryside, of course, but more so, the flex of masculine muscle, fabric taut, with each tug on the oars.
After a short hike up the hill to the stables, Gregor assisted Emily into the saddle of a chestnut mare. He seemed awkward. His hands displayed a slight tremble. He stumbled when he attempted to mount his horse.
“Are you all right?” she asked. He seemed disoriented.
“I am fine,” he claimed as he rose to the saddle and took his seat. She wasn’t sure she believed him. He looked a bit green about the gills.
“Are you sure you want to ride out today? We could wait and go tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.”
He grinned. “I dinnae plan to get much sleep this night.”
She glanced away to hide her burning face. Heated cheeks were becoming way too common of late.
They climbed to the ridge above the stables and followed the tree line.
Long-haired cattle grazed the grasses along the slope below.
After a distance, they entered a narrow trail, riding in single file—Emily tailed Gregor—in silence.
The soft purring trills and high see-see-sees of crested tits accompanied them along the woodsy track.
Occasionally, Emily caught glimpses of the small grayish birds and another yellow variety she didn’t know by name.
They’d ridden for what seemed like an hour when Gregor started to whistle a not quite rhythmic tune and sway in the saddle.
What on earth? Emily tightened the distance between them, concerned by his strange behavior. When the trail widened, she rode up alongside. He glanced over and gave her a shit-eating grin. His glassy eyes darting about. Was he drunk?
“Gregor?”
“Just a wee farther,” he said, the words somewhat slurred.
They broke from the trees into a large meadow. Before she could say another word, he urged his horse to go faster and took off across the grassy field dappled by yellow blooms.
Shit! She pressed her horse to keep pace.
He slowed at the opposite side and, one after the other, they entered another wooded trail, the scent of fir heavy in the humid air. He kept a horse length in front of her not allowing her to catch up.
After riding another mile or so, they entered a clearing that encircled a thatched roofed stone cottage and a smaller wattle and daub structure. Lightning streaked the distant sky. Thunder resounded over the mountains.
Emily slid from her horse with only a slight leg wobble when she landed. She approached Gregor. He was slower at dismounting. His legs faltered upon hitting the hard ground, and he leaned on the horse, hanging onto the saddle for support.
“I dinnae feel well,” he said in a weak voice.
“Are you drunk? Were you drinking the whole time while I changed out of my wedding gown?” She couldn’t keep the annoyance from her voice.
“Nae.” He pushed away from the animal. “Only had that one goblet of wine…”
“From Munn,” they said in unison.
“The wee scunner must have played me a pliskie.”
“A what?”
“Trick.” He waved an arm and nearly toppled over. “Prank.”
“But why?”
“That I dinnae ken.”
The wind kicked up. The uppermost branches of the tallest firs waved with a buzzy whisper. A burst blew through the clearing. Dried leaves tumbled across the ground, tip over stem. Branches of a mighty oak rustled. In the following calm, the smell of ozone seasoned the air.
“It’s about to rain. Let’s get you inside then I’ll care for the horses. I’ll carry the saddlebags. You take your weapons.” She had no desire to touch those.
“I can help with the bags.” He staggered.
“No. You go in the cottage.”
A gust of wind grabbed hold of the wood as she opened the door. The heavy oak slammed against the inside wall with an echoing thump. She tossed the saddlebags on the floor and shoved Gregor hard to get him to move.
His shoulders slumped, but he conceded. “Bed the horses in the wee hut.”
After the door shut behind Gregor, she coaxed the skittish animals through the wind that now blasted the clearing like a speeding freight train with no conductor to slow it down.
The hut was better built than she first supposed.
Someone had recently been there; fresh hay covered the dirt floor and leather bags containing oats hung from two posts.
Emily tied the reins of each horse to a different post then removed the saddles and rubbed down the animals with a cloth she found with other supplies on a shelf.
Thin fissures in the walls hummed from the onslaught of wind.
She’d wait until after the storm passed to give the animals a good grooming.
Hair whipped her face, getting caught in her eyes and mouth as she fought the wind on the trip back to the cottage.
Steps from the door, rain pelted the ground in a loud whish of sound.
Emily dashed for the door. Once inside, she leaned against the closed panel and heaved a hearty sigh. Then her eyes popped as she took in the interior of the cottage. Rustic, but not. Someone had visited before them, making the space a romantic haven from the storm. “Wow. Who did this?”
Body hunched, head bowed into hands, Gregor sat on a bed in the corner of the single room.
The mattress had been dressed with the finest of silks and velvets and furs.
He appeared so masculine sitting within what had obviously been meant as a love nest. His gaze slowly rose to hers.
His complexion really did look green in the dim light.
“’Tis the chief’s hunting lodge. Though he spends more time here with his lady-wife than hunting. Lady Isobell likes her comfort. She must have sent a couple of her women and a lad or two. She wanted to make our eve’n special.”
Emily stepped to the center of the room to warm chilled hands at the small fire burning in a pit of sorts.
A spiral of sweet-scented wood smoke rose, sucked out through a hole in the ceiling.
She flicked her gaze to where a couple braces of lit candles in iron holders sat atop a rough-hewn table covered by an embroidered ecru linen cloth.
A platter of cheese and apples sat upon the table as well as a couple of platters covered with linen cloths.
An equally rough wooden bench topped by a purple velvet cushion sat in front of a shuttered window that held back the fierceness of the storm, making the quaint room a cozy haven.
She approached Gregor and knelt on the woven rush mat in front of him. “Your words aren’t as slurred as earlier, how do you feel?”
“Like I was kicked in the gut by an angry horse.”
“Maybe you should eat something. We’ve been provided with a fine feast.”
If at all possible, he turned a deeper shade of ill. “Need sleep.”
He dragged his legs onto the bed, rolled over, and passed out. At least he’d removed his sword and quiver before she’d returned. They were on the floor beside the bed with his bow and boots.
What was she to do? She glanced at the buffet on the table. No. She wasn’t hungry.
She retrieved the chemise from her saddlebag, stripped off her clothes, and donned the thin linen slip. She bit her lip, uncertain. Oh screw it. She climbed into bed next to him and spooned against his back.
Emotion swamped her. This felt nice. Like when she’d slept with—
The pang of pain hit her right between the eyes. She lay there, unmoving, praying for the headache to recede.
A few hours later, Emily startled awake. Gregor still slept soundly. She padded across the floor.
She pulled open the door and stood in the opening, gazing out into the evening. The storm was long gone, but an eerie mist had laid claim to the land beyond the cottage. A chill snaked over her shoulder blades, and she shivered. Was there someone out there watching from within the thick haze?
Get a grip, Emily. Maybe she wasn’t comfortable alone in the wilderness because she had little experience with such. She glanced back at the bed where Gregor slept the sleep of the drugged. When he woke she’d ask him to teach her how to use the knives.
She wrapped her arms over her chest. Considering her recent experience with the mist’s hidden dangers, more than likely she’d overreacted.
For Pete’s sake, who in their right mind would have thought there was an enchanted time gate in the woods behind a garden center in Anderson Creek?
Emily shut the door and returned to the bed.
* * *
Gregor used a dream-hewed blade to slice through the thick, ropelike web wound about his body as he held the menacing six-eyed stare of the hairy spider keeping him prisoner within the realm of sleep.
Unfettered, he jolted awake, eyes opening wide.
His heart thundered within his chest as it had when he’d chased the white stag onto the Sithichean Sluaigh.
He remained still, unclear of his surroundings. After several tense moments, his mind rose above the nightmarish muck of his drugged slumber, and he remembered riding to the chief’s hunting lodge with…Emily.
He rolled to the side.
She slept beside him atop the covers, her thin chemise hiked to her waist, exposing to his hungry gaze a nicely rounded feminine arse. He hardened at the sight.
Christ! He wore no garment. He must have risen from the bed at some point and cast his clothing aside, for the lass couldn’t have undressed him.
He slid his gaze over Emily’s lovely curves to her face. Dark lashes shadowed high cheekbones. Creamy ivory skin bore a pinkish blush, perhaps from the sun, or from the exertion of the ride to the lodge or from the wind. Sweetly bowed rosy lips made him want to kiss her awake.
Awed by her beauty, he drew in a ragged breath. In distraction, he swept a trembling finger along the smooth length of a muscular feminine leg.
The cadence of her breathing changed. Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh, hey.”
“Good eve’n, lass.”
She snuggled close, rubbed against his rigid arousal, killed him with burgeoning desire.
He cleared a suddenly dry throat. “I agreed to wed with you, be it in name only, or more, to protect you and the wee lad. I want the more. What say you?”
She placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”
That was the only encouragement needed. He dragged her sideways over his body. Touched her lips softly with his, a mere whisper of a touch, then more fiercely, wanting, needing her taste in his mouth.