Chapter 10
Hunter stepped inside the room she had once called her own. It remained unchanged but for the dust that lay on the place. MacGowan followed her in, and though she focused on her surroundings, she could feel his presence like a looming sentry.
The arrow she’d won at the Braemar Gathering remained in its place on the wall.
The plaid she’d received from the Munros lay slanted across her old bed.
She lifted the candle and swept her gaze across the room to the narrow window.
A bed, a desk, a copper tub. Aye, the place remained the same, as if she had just stepped out for a moment.
But years had passed and she stood now in a warrior’s garb with this vociferous mute looming in the darkness behind her.
The silence weighed like a firkin of barley against the back of her neck.
“What is it?” she asked and, setting her candle upon the narrow writing desk, faced him finally.
He stared at her, his brows slightly raised. “I’ve no idea what you speak of,” he said.
“Have you a problem you’d like to vent?”
“Me?” He chuckled a little. “Nay.”
She told herself to let it be, but she could not. “And what is it you mean by that, MacGowan?”
He said nothing for a long moment, then, “Your uncle . . .” He paused as if he could not quite believe his own words. “He acts as if you are a man.”
“Aye.” She clenched one fist. Her patience was short this night. “That he does.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what I chose for him to believe.”
He scowled at her, as if she must have mistook his meaning. “Your uncle,” he repeated and stepped closer. “He acts as though you are a man.”
She gritted her teeth. “Aye,” she said. “And why not? He had no use for me as a lass. I have made a capable man.”
“But surely he knows the truth.”
She barked a laugh. “Laird Barnett?” she asked and laughed again, though it hurt her chest somehow. “Did he look the sort to know anything? Nay,” she said before he answered. “He had no use for the truth.”
He was scowling at her. She scowled back.
“Then who is privy to your secrets?”
She removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her hair.
“And what secrets might those be?” she asked and swung the cape from her shoulders.
“Who knows you are a maid?”
Hanging her cape on a peg beside the door, she turned to him with a shrug. “As I have told you afore, champion, I am a man in every way that matters.”
Behind her, the candlelight flickered in an errant draft.
“I beg to differ,” he said.
She faced him, arms akimbo. “Do you threaten to expose me?”
He shook his head. “I but ask who knows the truth.”
“It seems that you are the only one who doubts the truth, MacGowan.”
“What of your mother? She must have known.”
Her heart twisted. “You talk a great deal for a daft mute.”
“Who is she?”
She shrugged. “No one you would know.”
“Then you’ve no reason not to tell me.”
“And less reason to spill her name.”
“Surely she knew she bore a girl child.”
Her chest ached. “My mother is long dead and past the cares of this world.”
“Then your uncle is your guardian?”
She said nothing, but watched him in silence.
“He is not your uncle,” MacGowan said, his voice low.
She tried to look casual, removed, uncaring. “Is he not?”
“Nay.”
“Then pray tell, who is he, champion?”
“That is what I would know. That and much more.”
She turned toward the window. Against her breast, her tiny shell felt small and fragile. “Leave me be, MacGowan. I did not ask for your company.”
“How is it that you took this guise as a man? Surely there are those who know the truth.”
She said nothing.
“So you have none to return to but this old man and his servant. I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” She turned to stare at him. “There is no need for that, champion.”
“You do not mourn your family?”
“I did not even—” She paused.
“You did not even what?”
“I am hungry,” she said and, pulling off her gauntlets, tossed them on the bed.
“You did not what?” he asked. “Know them?”
“No.” She stared up at him. “In truth, I did not.”
“Why? Did they die at your birth?”
“Fetch me some supper.”
He remained perfectly still, watching her for a long moment before he spoke. “They sent you away,” he said finally.
Her throat tightened up, but she did not break eye contact. Indeed, she dared not change her expression.
“’Tis the truth,” he said. His voice was quiet now. “They sent you to another. Why?”
Her heart was pounding in her chest.
“Was it here that you were sent? Did they tell the baron that you were a lad and—”
She snatched her dirk from its sheath. “I did not invite you here, MacGowan, but since you have come, you will do as I command.”
He said nothing. Neither did he back away. “And what do you command, laddie?” He was as big as a wall, powerful and hard and alluring. She swallowed.
“Fetch me a meal,” she said.
“And what then, laddie? Shall I share your room?” He said the words as a challenge.
The tension cranked up a notch, but she shrugged, attempting to dispel her breathlessness. “And why not?”
“For all the most obvious reasons.”
“I’ve no more interest in you than you have in me, MacGowan,” she said.
He laughed out loud, throwing back his head slightly, so that the taut cords in his neck stood out hard and rigid against his tanned throat. “’Tis a good thing to know,” he said finally, and took another step toward her.
The room seemed strangely narrow. She swallowed and raised her chin. “You needn’t pretend with me,” she said. “I know where your desires lie.”
He clenched one fist and remained where he stood. “With men,” he said.
“Aye.”
“Then by your admission alone I should be interested in you.”
It was a convoluted truth. Still, she opened her mouth to deny it, but he stepped up close and spoke before she could. “But I tell you this, laddie, I am not what you think I am.”
She shrugged as if unconcerned. “And neither am I what you think.”
“Nay?”
“Nay. I am a warrior and naught else.”
“A warrior,” he said.
She canted her head. “Just so.”
“And what if I forget meself?”
“What?”
“Whilst I sleep,” he said. “What if I forget your sex and force meself on you?”
“Force yourself?” she said, and laughed as she lifted her dirk. “I think not.”
“For you fight like a man.”
“Aye,” she said.
“And you live like a man.”
“Aye.”
“And you think like a man. Therefore . . .” He shrugged. “You are a man.”
She nodded.
“So why should I not share your chamber?”
The room felt airless.
“And fetch your water?”
She managed a shrug.
“And tell me, Master Hunter, shall I bathe you too?”
“And why not?” She swung toward him. “No matter what you think of me, I’ve no interest whatsoever in you.”
The room fell into silence.
“And I am your servant.” His voice was quiet, and if she didn’t know better she would almost think she heard humor in the tone.
“Aye,” she said, and raised her chin slightly. “Aye, you are me servant.”
He nodded perfunctorily. “Very well then, I shall fetch your meal and tote your water.”
“Water?”
He grinned. “For your bath?”
She swallowed. “Oh. Aye. Of course.”
“Very well,” he said and, nodding once, left the room.
She closed her eyes and let her mind spin wildly away.
How had she gotten herself into such a tangle?
Many years since she had taken this guise as a man, and in all that time she’d not yet been discovered.
Never had another guessed her true identity.
Even the fierce Munro had accepted her as a man.
His sisters and all their warriors had done the same.
But all had gone amiss now, spilling out a myriad of wild feelings she had not thought she possessed. Even now—
The door swung open, stopping her thoughts short.
MacGowan entered, pushed the door shut with his foot, and bore his burden toward the bed.
“I fear the baron may have been imaging when he spoke of the pigeon pie and almond fitters, for I found none, but there is this,” he said and, depositing a board set with dark bread and cheese, handed her a horn of ale.
“You are quick when the mood strikes you,” she said, and he laughed as if she’d said something terribly witty.
“I did not wish to incur your lordship’s wrath with my tardiness,” he said.
She snorted.
He lifted one brow at her derisive sound. “You do not believe me?”
“Usually.”
“Perhaps I was in a rush because I did not wish to miss anything then,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Anything?”
He caught her with his gaze. His eyes were dark, full of challenge and promise and a million other things she could not identify and dared not consider. “I am certain you are impatient. Indeed, patience is not me own greatest virtue, and it has been a long while for you.”
She felt a bit breathless. Perhaps it was fatigue. “A long while since what?”
“Since you’ve bathed,” he explained.
“Oh.” She licked her lips and remembered to breathe. “Aye.”
“Well then . . .” A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “I’d best fetch the water.”
She swallowed. “You must be hungry,” she said, and indicated the board that held the impromptu meal, but he only stared at her, his eyes boring into hers.
“Aye,” he said. “I am indeed.”
Heat smote her like the blast of a smithy’s furnace.
“Enjoy the ale,” he said, and turned away.
It seemed but a moment before he returned with his arms full of wood.
He said nothing as he set the faggots into the fireplace and nurtured a small flame.
When it was doing well, he left again only to return but a few moments later.
Each fist was wrapped about the rope of a wooden bucket. Both buckets steamed.
He emptied the first into the copper tub that occupied the corner of the room, then did the same with the second.
“I shall return shortly.” She heard his words clearly, but whether they were a threat or a promise, she could not tell.
She wrung her hands until he stepped through the door once again. A few additional trips and the tub was all but full.
“There you be,” he said, and indicated the bath with an open palm. His eyes seemed to smolder in the firelight. “Will me laird need help disrobing?” There was challenge in his voice. Challenge and anger and some other dark emotion that she dare not question too closely.
Her legs felt shaky and her mouth dry, but she raised her chin in response. “Why not?”