Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Athick cloud poured shadow across the road, a harbinger of the evening soon to come.
Kenna looked about for any sign that the company would be slowing, but there was no change.
For what seemed like hours the road itself had few turns to it.
Dense fields of heather had long ceased to enchant her, and a clump of trees now and then was almost a treat.
She’d expected the world to be a more interesting place.
With a lack of entertainment and only disturbing and unanswered questions in her mind, she turned her attention to the men and beasts surrounding her.
She noticed that men certainly smelled different from women.
There was something almost sweet about them, while women could be quite rank.
However, she had no intention of getting a taste of the pungent soldier before her.
To keep from doing so she breathed lightly through her nose and clamped her lips shut.
Finally a break in the monotony—up ahead was a thickening forest and the road bent, narrowing enough to shift the troops. After her eyes adjusted to the head-on glare of the lowering western sun, she was presented with a new set of backsides at which to stare.
The hindquarters directly before her were curtained by a long tunic.
The rider was one of the few who still wore his armor, without his helm.
A mass of dark gold hair stuck to his head in spots, his head still sweaty.
Not a hair fluttered in the passing draft of air.
At times, when he turned his head, she caught glimpses of a prominent brow and a handsome face.
Kenna’s attention rested on the horse’s plodding backside. It was a pale, dappled gray animal whose rump was splattered with a reddish-brown trail of dots, resembling a necklace of giant beads, subtly diminishing in size as they rounded the large cheek and disappeared from view.
Kenna frowned. She had seen this before.
Playing out once more in her mind was the sight from the earlier battle.
She remembered clearly a long blade slicing through a man’s neck, seeming to have done no harm until his head began to turn, and then turn too far as it spun away from his body.
The trail of blood arcing away to rain in an orderly pattern on the rear of a pale horse.
In a haze, she again saw the same face revolve, the mouth twisting in a cry for which there was no longer a voice.
Then Kenna knew the kind of peace found only in a swoon.
Tearloch’s gut clenched when he saw her fall. He judged the space between them and knew he would never reach her in time. As he gathered the breath to bellow a warning, the man on her left shot out an arm to keep her upright. The soldier on her right reached down to stop her horse.
Tearloch flew from his saddle, barely touching the road before he reached her side and lowered her to the ground. While he waited for her legs to support her, she shuddered against his chest.
“She’s going to collapse, lad! She’ll not stand,” Duncan shouted.
Tearloch held her away from him, insisting with a stern look that she stand. But she never looked his way. Her eyes were glassy and staring, her teeth chattering.
His captains dismounted and gathered around her in a circle, nudging her horse out of the way. Jamie passed a hand in front of her face, but she didn’t blink.
“She’s breathing funny,” Leland said, pointing out the obvious. He was the shortest of the bunch, and the broadest. His hair was carrot red. His plump apple cheeks, usually flushed with laughter and drink, lay slack against his face. Concern lowered his ever-smooth brow.
The men held their own breath to listen to hers. Shallow puffs barely moved her nostrils, and all eyes dropped to watch her chest rise and fall at a frenzied rate.
“She’s tied in too tight, do ye think?”
“Leland’s right. How can she breathe?” Jamie whispered.
“Shall I just loosen one side?” Leland’s hands inched to the side of her gown. Tearloch, with his own hands occupied with holding the lass upright, could only bark out his order.
“Stay those hands or lose them!” It was bad enough they were all staring at her bosom. He’d be damned if anyone would touch her but him. “Duncan, I could use a little advice here? Is this a fit? Is she daft?”
Duncan laid a hand on Tearloch’s shoulder and leaned forward, sniffing. “She’s not been drinkin’.”
“What’s she starin’ at?” Kincaid stepped directly behind the woman’s head and looked in the same direction.
Trust the quiet Kincaid to reason out a situation.
The man was the sober type, even when drunk, and Tearloch had never seen anyone else go from sleeping to fully alert in the blink of an eye like Kincaid could. “Is that blood on Monroe’ horse?”
Duncan slapped Tearloch on the back. “That’s it then. Battle fever. She’ll be fine in a bit.”
“But Duncan,” Leland protested, “battle fever drives a man to fight and then to rut. Yer not suggestin’…”
“Leland. Watch yer tongue,” the old man growled. “She may be dazed, but she can likely hear ye. Even I ken ye don’t speak so to a—”
Her shivering distracted Tearloch.
“Lay her down, lad.”
“I dare not.”
Duncan chuckled. “Lay her down. The shock of what she has seen this day has become too much. Aye, ‘tis battle fever. A woman’s fever.”
Tearloch sank slowly, cradling the lass as he lowered her to the ground. He sat to her side and supported her back with one raised knee, a tentative arm around her shoulders. With the bloody horse taken out of her line of sight, her eyes closed but her tremors increased.
A wool plaid was handed over his shoulder and he wrapped it clumsily around her. Then they waited.
“Can ye hold her a bit closer?” Jamie asked. “Perhaps ye can lend her yer warmth.”
“Nay, Jamie. I’m too bloody.” Even the bits of his garb that had not been covered by mail had smatterings of blood caked with dust.
“Then take it off, lad. You need no armor. She’s only a wee lass.”
“Aye, the worst ye’ll get is a scratch, or a bite if ye’re lucky.” Leland’s jest got no acknowledgment from the concerned circle. He wisely left off.
Tearloch realized that whatever he did she would likely not notice, so he released her shoulder long enough for his armor and padded jack to be removed.
One quick look ensured there was no blood on the thin linen he wore against his skin, so he edged in closer.
He knew this would be the meat of ribald jokes in the future, but for now, he had to try anything reasonable.
How could he face Malcolm and say, “Weel, ye see, yer sister started shakin’ and we knew not what to do for her. ”
He eased his arms around her, but felt no warmth.
He pulled back and worked his arms under the plaid.
That was better. He wrapped the one arm around her shoulders once more and wrapped his hot hand around her neck.
It was cold to the touch. With his other hand, he pulled her tighter into his embrace.
There were pauses in the violent shaking now.
“I think it’s working,” he said, smiling up at his captains. The apples were back in Leland’s cheeks. Duncan ruffled Jamie’s hair. Kincaid nodded, but continued to watch.
Tearloch turned back to the woman in his arms, and suddenly realized there was a woman in his arms! How long had it been? He couldn’t recall. Before Macbeth’s defeat? No, just after. A year ago, then. He vaguely remembered the impish grin of an innkeeper’s daughter.
The woman’s breathing was calmer, almost normal.
Her head tipped back to rest on his arm.
His hand lingered on the side of her neck and his fingers itched to stroke the smooth skin there.
He slid it forward, feeling the pulse at the base of her throat.
Her lips parted. Her neck lay exposed. His arm that crossed in front of her registered the feel of her bosom.
This was no imposition. He’d hold her through the night if necessary…
Ever so slightly, she sighed but still didn’t wake.
He bent over her. No longer concerned with spectators or who she was, he lowered his mouth onto her perfectly sculpted lips.
It was the most natural movement he’d ever made.
She tasted even better than he had imagined she could, sweet and warm with a flavor that appeased a long-denied hunger—a flavor made for him alone.
He sipped lightly, savoring, coming to his senses only when a hand stopped his progress across her chest, and he realized…
…the hand was hers.
A voice over his shoulder. “By the Rood, he’s kissed her!”
Tearloch put off opening his eyes as long as possible, then slowly lifted his lids. To his relief, the eyes he gazed into were not filled with outrage, but with wonder. And yet again, he was lost to all coherent thought.
“He was just tryin’ to warm ye, my lady. I wanted to loosen yer clothes—so ye could breathe easier, mind ye—” Leland’s explanation ended on a grunt, thankfully.
The cursing had come from Duncan and Tearloch looked up to see the older man had discreetly turned his back.
Jamie and Kincaid watched avidly, their mouths hanging like their lower jaws were made of gold, far too heavy to hold up.
Leland was rubbing his side and exchanging disgruntled stares with Monroe, a promise of a skirmish to come.
Duncan turned back around, his face reflecting the orange of the lowering sun as it fought to stay afloat in a heather-tinged horizon.
Just when he thought he could find his tongue to apologize, Tearloch turned his head back to the lass, only to find her eyes closed once more. With slight hesitation, he gave in to the urge to kiss her again and leaned down.
“Now dinnae start that again, laddie.” Only Duncan called him laddie, or lad, addressing him as Commander outside their small company. “I ken she’s a bonnie thing, but ‘tis not proper to take advantage.”
“Aye, Sir. Wait until she wakes so she can kiss ye back. I’ve found it much more pleasant that way.” Leland, too helpful by half.
“I thought it quite pleasant already,” Tearloch murmured quietly to the sleeping maid, only to catch the slightest twitch of a smile that disappeared so quickly he may have imagined it. To test her, he added, “but I may as well have my fill. What she does not ken cannae harm her.”
Outraged brown eyes flashed open and she pulled from his embrace, the plaid slipping from her shoulders. Every eye fell to her breast where she still held Tearloch’s arm against her.
She threw the limb aside and cleared her throat.
Eyes darted away and faces flushed.
She lifted a fist to wipe her knuckles across her lips, feigning fury. Her pose would have been much more effective, though, had she not been sitting in the middle of the road, her legs straight in front of her. She resembled more of an angry hen, refusing to surrender her egg.
Her eyes once more narrowed on Tearloch. “Aye, but what you do not ken may well harm you, sir.”
“Ouch. The lady bites, Commander.” Leland said with a laugh. “Lucky bastard.”
With no expression at all on his face, the towering Kincaid gave one smooth shove to the short, square man’s shoulder, and Leland went flying into a stationery horse. Both man and animal grunted, stamped their feet, and moved further away from the sober captain.
A fight with Monroe was one thing. Fighting Kincaid was quite another.
Tearloch stood, pulling the spitfire up with him.
He turned her and brushed the dust from the back of her rump with two hard swipes that were more of a spanking.
He released her when she would have pulled away from him, and she spun freely in a circle, her fists flailing without purchase, then landing on her hips.
“How dare you!”
He sought an immediate remedy for his suddenly mute tongue. Touching her had worked before, he had to try it again. He wanted desperately to speak normally with all eyes on him.
Ever so casually, he closed the distance and dropped a hand on her shoulder. The usual stone tongue in his mouth softened instantly. “I, my lady? I dare anything I like.” He moved a menacing inch closer, but she stood her ground. “Until I hand ye to the king, ye’re mine.”
Her hand came up and whisked his hand off her shoulder when he’d been prepared for a slap to the face. She was not intimidated in the least! But since intimidation was his best weapon, he was lost. He had no clever words, no pretty phrases that might soften her toward him.
Why could she not cower like a reasonable prisoner?
Yes! She was a prisoner. Just a prisoner.
“Rabbie!” he bellowed, his eyes still locked on hers, their faces only inches apart.
The woman had yet to flinch, damn her.
He turned his voice sweet and mocking. “Are ye recovered, my lady? May we continue?”
“Continue what? My beating? I think not.”
Tearloch could not help it. He smiled. His hand still remembered the shape of her bottom as he brushed her skirts.
He had been rough enough to press through the fabric, down and up again.
Twice. Her rump was firm and enticingly rounded.
At least he thought it was. One day soon, he would know for certain.
“A beating is a fine suggestion, but my taste for a fight has been sated today.”
Big Rabbie appeared at his elbow, and only then did the woman’s brave facade falter. She looked between Rabbie and him a time or two, then back to him. Her eyebrows rose as she waited to learn her fate.
“Rabbie, keep track of this one. Dinnae let her out of yer sight.” When he turned away, she reached out and touched his arm, briefly. He was grateful this time not to be shaking. Perhaps that kiss had relaxed him.
“Wait. Please. I need a bit of privacy.” Shuffling a toe in the dirt, she moved both hands behind her and waited for his response.
Tearloch was relieved that at least he wasn’t the only man blushing. She was blushing, too, but she stuck her chin out in any case.
“Done. Give her only a few minutes, Rabbie, then go after her. We shan’t wait long and will march until we find water.” And with that, he and his captains moved off to the north side of the dusty road, expecting the woman would behave.
Silly them.