Chapter 14
It took Lachlan some time before he got his emotions under control. Longer still to cool his ardor.
A nobleman? What noble? And why? If not for lust’s sake, what did she seek? Fortune? She didn’t seem the type. So why had she donned that blood-stopping garment? Did it have some connection with the mission she had mentioned before?
He had no answers and a host of questions. Thus he finally sought her out again. But she was not in the house. Neither was she in the stable.
Letting Mathan rest, he strode down the muddy path toward the village.
The day was warm, the clouds high and scattered.
A chandler gave him a dark look from beneath a droopy cloth cap, and a wee lass skittered aside as he approached.
’Twas fairly clear they did not see a host of plaids down here in the lowlands.
They were a different sort of Scotsman in the southern reaches, if they were Scots at all.
Perhaps their loyalties lay with the English king instead of with James. Perhaps . . .
But in that moment a thought seized him.
The Black Douglas was an earl. He was also condemned to death for his part in the young king’s abduction, but perhaps that was not a deterrent for some.
Perhaps it was seen as a badge of honor for those who sided with the English king. Perhaps this Rhona felt the same.
Up ahead, a cobbler hammered a nail into the sole of a shoe, and beyond that a shingle hung askew above an arched door. Etched into the wood was the picture of a woman’s gown, pinched in at the waist and flared dramatically at the hips.
Lachlan glanced down the street. Rhona was nowhere to be seen. He looked behind him, then down at his plaid. He was not one to be ashamed of his Highland garb, but if Rhona was plotting some mischief he would be the one to learn of it, and fitting in with these lowlanders would only make it easier.
By the time Lachlan returned to Nettlepath, Rhona was standing outside the ancient manor house, but she was not alone. She was staring up at the roof, speaking to a man dressed in laborer’s garb, but before Lachlan even reached the house, he had been sent on his way.
She had taken the guise of a man once again, wearing the broad-brimmed hat and leather gauntlets that belied her feminine form.
“Who was that?” he asked when he approached her.
She scowled at him, and he wondered suddenly if there had been an odd tone in his voice. Not jealousy, of course, but something else.
“If you insist on staying, champion, you might just as well do some good,” she said.
And so his labor began. Nettlepath, it seemed, was in ill repair. Stones were loosening at the northwest corner, the thatch needed replacing, and the stable was crumbling.
They started with the loose stone. It was not a simple task, for mortar had to be mixed. The sand was heavy, the lime needed to be hauled a goodly distance, and even the water was not easy to come by. But finally the rocks were once more secured.
Darkness was falling fast by the time they ceased their labors and found their way up the winding path into the house. Rhona and Lachlan ate cockaleekie soup while the hound roamed cautiously about the table, and Shanks fed Barnett in the adjoining room.
They could hear his chatter as he served the old man.
“Your Giles is doing a fine job at the stonework. Labored all day with his hireling at his side.”
The old man coughed and said naught.
“Aye. Aye, me laird,” agreed Shanks as if the other had spoken. “He is hale and hearty. Strong as a pair of oxen, if a bit slow-witted.”
Another cough.
“Ahh, you speak of your nephew,” said Shanks. “He is well too. Healthy and bright of eye.”
There was the sound of labored breathing and perhaps the hiss of a question almost formulated.
“He helped with the repairs, me laird. Worked well and long, he did.” There were no more words for a long while, then, “Aye,” Shanks said. “He may be the one.”
Lachlan shifted his gaze to Rhona. “What one?” he asked, his voice low in the deepening darkness.
She drank the last of her ale and rose to her feet. “I’ve no more idea than you, champion.”
Lachlan watched her walk to the hearth and stretch her hands toward the fire, but he noticed that her attention was tilted toward the two old men not far away.
“Me laird Giles . . .” Shanks’s voice quaked when he spoke, but there was none of the scathing derision reserved for Lachlan.
Nay, for Rhona, he had naught but respect .
. . and barely hidden adoration. “I have changed the rushes on the floor of your chamber and opened the window to freshen the air.”
“You are kind, Master Shanks.”
It may have been a smile that stretched the old man’s thin lips, Lachlan realized. But perhaps he was only experiencing a bit of gastric discomfort.
“And I have warmed water for your bath. Mayhap your lad could carry it hither for you.”
“Certainly,” she said and turned rapidly away from the two. “Champion.”
He rose slowly to his feet. “I tell you,” Lachlan said, passing her and speaking low. “This game gets old.”
She shrugged. “There is none to make you play.”
He grunted a response, wrapped his hand in a towel and, grabbing the metal arm that held the pot, swung the thing out of the fire.
In a matter of moments, he had dumped the boiling water into the metal tub and not much later he had added additional water to cool it.
It steamed with friendly repose into the air around him, filling the room with warmth.
“You’ll sleep in the stable this night,” she said, approaching from behind.
He glanced at her. She had removed her hat, but nothing else, and in the fading light, she looked as imperious as a queen, or perhaps a king.
“Mayhap,” he said. “After I bathe.”
She raised her brows at him. “Insolent for a servant.”
“Or even for a nobleman,” he said.
“Very well then. I shall wait elsewhere, but fetch a change of garments from the anteroom adjoining this. You smell like a draught horse,” she said, and turned to leave the room.
He took a whiff of his shirt, refrained from passing out and went in search of the clothes she had mentioned.
The anteroom was filled with trunks, leather, oaken, and iron.
He opened them, rummaged through the contents, and came up with two tunics and a pair of hose that would suffice until his commissioned garments were complete.
Padding back to the bedchamber, he put his hand to the latch . . . and found it locked. He swore in silence, thought for a handful of seconds, then set the garments on the floor and exited the house.
Rhona’s window was no more than twelve feet above the ground, and it was no great task to scale the wall.
He did so without making a sound. In fact, she didn’t even turn when he slipped into the room and crossed the floor.
Instead, she sat in her tub, her back to him, her shoulders gleaming wet and luscious in the candlelight.
“The poor gentleman.”
She jumped as if she’d been shot from a cannon. “Damn you, MacGowan!”
He could not quite help but grin, though he thought it might be poor judgment on his part. The girl had a fondness for her dirk.
“Rather jumpy this eve, aren’t you, Rhona? Mayhap ’tis your guilt getting the better of you.”
She raised her chin, but he noticed that her arms were crossed tightly against her chest. Lucky arms.
“And why should I feel guilty?” she asked.
Loosening his belt, he slipped his tunic over his head. “Probably for many reasons,” he said. “But most recently for being too selfish to share your bath.”
“If you dislike playing the servant you can run home to your mother, champion.” Her tone was still disdainful, but her expression was not so certain. She gazed at him narrowly as he dumped his shirt onto the floor.
He approached the tub, not because he could trust himself there, but simply to see her eyes go round. “Does he know, sweet Rhona?” he asked and retrieved the soap from its place on the nearby stool.
She neither reached for it nor tried to catch it when he dropped it into the water. Instead, she let it sink along her leg and settle beside her bottom. Lucky soap. “Does who know what?” she asked.
“Your nobleman,” he explained. “Does he know you are too selfish to share your bath?”
“He’s not the sort to encourage sharing.”
His mind buzzed. “I have heard the same of the Douglas from others.”
She watched him for a long second. “The Douglas?”
Was she toying with him or did she truly not realize what he was referring to? “Is he not a bit long in the tooth for you, lass?”
“The Douglas,” she said again.
“Aye. Archibald, the sixth earl of Angus. The queen’s husband, divorced these many years.” He watched her. She said nothing. “The king’s abductor?” he explained.
“I know who he is,” she said.
“And yet you go to him?” He could feel his anger rise, despite himself. Perhaps it was because the man was a traitor to the crown of Scotland. Or perhaps not.
“This I tell you, MacGowan,” she said. “I would sooner kill the Douglas with me own hand than go to him now.”
There was passion in her voice. Was it feigned? “Then the gown was not for him.”
“Ahh, you are a hard one to fool,” she said. “Even for a Highlander.”
He let the insult wash over him. “Then who?” he asked.
“’Tis not for you to know.”
Emotion welled up in him. Merciful saints, she was a handsome maid.
The candlelight glistened on her alabaster skin and her eyes were as bright as heaven’s own stars.
Aye, she’d labored like a slave this day, and yet, tonight, she looked like nothing more than a nobleman’s pampered daughter.
Why that stirred him he didn’t know, but perhaps it was his own upbringing that made it so, for his parents had been careful not to allow him to get above his station.
He drew a deep breath and steadied his thoughts. “I will know,” he said, and she smiled.
“That I doubt.”
“Then move over, lass,” he said and reached for his belt.
It came away in his hands.