Chapter 6
Hunter watched him back away.
“Me apologies.” His voice was low and a muscle jumped once in his lean jaw.
She scowled. Although she had belittled his abilities at first, she had since learned he was not the kind to retreat.
Indeed, in the past he had all but begged for battle.
Why not now? He outweighed her by a good four stone.
True, many men did and found their size gave them little advantage, but with MacGowan it would be different.
His additional weight was not wasted on fat.
Instead, it was formed of naught but muscle, and much of that was packed into his chest and arms. Aye, he had the grip of a bear, and yet he was as silent as a cat when he wished to be.
It was a strange meld of capabilities, and she could not deny that it intrigued her somewhat.
Had she time for a man in her life, she would not be adverse to making him that man.
“I did not mean to . . . That is . . .” He motioned toward the bed where they had been seated. “Me apologies,” he said again and nodded brusquely as he backed away. “I will go inquire about the—”
But at that moment a knock sounded at the door. Hunter tightened her grip on her dirk and shifted her gaze to the portal. Lachlan did not so much as turn. Instead, he set his hand to his own knife, as if welcoming a challenge, so long as it did not come from her.
“Who comes?” he asked. His voice was as deep as the night outside their lead-paned window.
“’Tis your dinner, me lord.” A young woman answered. She was probably not the type he’d care to challenge either, Hunter mused, but his tone was no lighter when he spoke again.
“A moment,” he said and, keeping his gaze pinned to Hunter’s, motioned for her to get into bed.
She raised her chin and her dirk at his imperious manner, but he only lowered his brows as if mildly irritated.
“They might not be as enlightened as you,” he murmured. “Indeed, if they see you thus, they might mistake you for a woman.”
She considered a half dozen appropriate rejoinders, but the maid spoke again, and Hunter finally stepped toward the bed. Lachlan swept the blankets aside, allowing her to slip beneath the woolens. In an instant he had covered her nearly to the top of her head.
“Enter,” he called.
The door creaked open.
“Good eventide, me lord. I was told to bring this meal to you and your . . .” She paused for a moment. Hunter could imagine her skimming the room, seeing the helmet, the jerkin, the gauntlets—spread upon the chamber floor. “Companion.”
“Me thanks,” said MacGowan, but his voice was little more than a feral growl.
Being bested by a woman surely made him contentious. But in truth, she had hardly bested him, though if she tried it would be a battle to remember, for she was not some frivolous wench ready to simper at his merest scowl, and the sooner he realized that the better.
On the other hand, she had not meant to scare him off. Indeed, perhaps she would have almost welcomed a bit of a tussle. Perhaps it would not be so hideous to feel his hard body against . . .
But nay. She was being foolish and there was no place for foolishness in the life she had made for herself.
“I hope the meal be to your liking.” The maid’s voice was dulcet and ultimately feminine.
“’Twill be acceptable I am sure.” His response was little more than a grunt.
“’Tis a fine bit of mutton stew and barley bread I’ve brought. It seemed like a good bit of food, until now when I lay eyes on ye. Master Crighton did not say you were such a braw one.”
Beneath the blankets, Hunter stiffened, then, tugging the woolens a half inch lower, she gazed through the tangle of sheets toward the speaker. She was small and soft and buxom with a pink bow of a mouth and fluttery, lily-white hands.
“Me name is Grace,” she said and paused. No response came. “And what might I call you, me lord?”
He delayed a moment as if distracted, then, “I am Lachlan, of the MacGowans.”
“And your . . . companion?”
“Your pardon,” he said gruffly, “but me friend is in need of me attention.”
“He is wounded?” Her mouth made a sympathetic circle as if she could not bear the thought.
“Only slightly.”
“Then I must assist you.”
Beneath the stifling blankets, Hunter tightened her grip on her dirk.
“Nay.” MacGowan’s voice was firm and a far cry from flirtatious.
“Then there is naught you want from me?” Grace drew out the word naught slightly as if he might be too daft to realize what she offered.
Not that the flirtations bothered Hunter.
Nay, ’twould not matter to her in the least if the little tart ripped off her clothes and began humping his leg, but ’twas a sorry way for a woman to act.
“Nay,” said MacGowan. “This will do nicely. Me thanks.”
Hunter scowled. ’Twas not often that men turned down such obvious invitations. Why would he?
The maid paused for a moment, and in the silence Hunter could hear the girl’s irritation. “It’s certain you are then?”
“Aye.”
“Well, if you change your mind you’ve but to ask for Grace.”
Hunter could almost hear his scowl. “Very well.”
There was a moment of silence, followed by a few quick footfalls and the sound of the closing door.
“Odd lass,” he muttered.
Hunter left her dirk on the chaff-filled mattress and pulled the blankets from her head. With an effort, she pushed herself to her elbow. Pain skittered through her and she failed to hide a wince.
“Here.” His voice was still gruff though he hustled to her side. “Let me assist you.”
She kept her tunic pressed against her breasts as she allowed him to help her sit up. Why was he all but rude to the maid and so strangely solicitous to her? What did he hope to gain?
“She is gone?” Hunter asked, and although the answer was obvious, it only prompted more questions.
“Aye.”
She scowled at the door for a moment, then returned her attention to him. “Did you not find her . . . comely?”
He shrugged. “Nay. Not to me own way of thinking, but . . .” His scowl deepened. “Mayhap you would find her so.”
She raised her brows. “I would find her comely?”
“Mayhap. I’ve no way of knowing.”
How very strange. If he did not think the maid bonny, what was he attracted to? It didn’t matter, of course, and yet she was curious. “How did she look?”
“Look?” He glanced up, not as if baffled, but more as if he were irritated.
“Aye. Was she slim, fair, tall, bonny?” Why the devil had he turned the girl aside? She’d all but crawled into his sporran and spent the night.
“She was bonny enough, I suspect. Though she didn’t—” His hands lingered for a moment as he shifted the pillows behind her.
“Didn’t what?” she asked, but in an instant he’d pulled his hands abruptly away.
“’Tis naught. We’d best bind your wound.”
She skimmed her gaze to the tray and saw the bandages there. “She brought them?”
“Aye. I told the gaffer you’d sustained a slight injury.”
She nodded, too intrigued by the conversation just past to bother with her wound. “And it does not concern you that you . . . missed your opportunity with her?” she asked, still watching his face.
He’d retrieved the flagon of spirits. “This will sting,” he warned, and sat on the bed behind her.
“So you don’t care?”
“Are you ready?”
“Aye,” she said, still distracted, but in a moment pain burned like lightning across her back. She hissed through her teeth and tightened her grip on her shirt, but it was over soon enough.
“Me apologies.” His hand felt warm and unutterably strong against her arm.
She glanced at it, then his face. It was the face of a warrior tested in battle and found to be strong. His eyes were solemn, his expression troubled. “Why did you turn her away, MacGowan?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The maid,” she said, exasperated. “If the bed hadn’t been occupied, you’d have had to burn it down to be rid of her.”
“The maid what brought the meal?”
“Aye. Grace, I believe her name was.”
He shrugged as if that answered everything. His face was utterly sober, sculpted and square and a long way from pretty. But the power there and the ferocity! Emotion skittered up her spine, and her face felt flushed.
“Are you well?” he asked. “You look a bit feverish.”
“Nay. I—am well.”
He nodded and reached for the bindings. “I’ll see you bandaged then.”
She turned away with some relief, for the sight of him did naught to clear her mind.
He sat behind her, silent and motionless for a moment, then, “You’ll have to shift the tunic a bit.”
“Oh, aye,” she said and drawing a breath, gathered the garment into a smaller bundle and clasped her right arm across her chest. Beneath her fingers, she felt the rough path of the scar she’d sustained from the Munro’s blade.
It was long and curved, slanting around the outside of her left breast, but it had been a small price to pay for the privilege of Knight’s company.
Lachlan sat unmoving behind her. She tightened her grip on the tunic, covering the scar, and in a moment his hands brushed her back.
His fingers stroked the side of her ribs, and she held her breath as the same hand skimmed, light as moonlight, against the underside of her breast. Reaching across, he retrieved the bandage with his left hand and began the process again.
Still, he never crossed her bosom, but stayed well beneath it, only brushing it now and then with his knuckles or thumbs.