Chapter 18
Lachlan awoke from a dream. Every muscle felt as limp as a steed’s forelock, every thought was as rosy as dawn.
Master seducer? Him? Of course, there was some pain that accompanied the title. He moved his leg. The muscles in his thighs ached and when he rolled his shoulders, the scratches on his back burned.
He smiled. Aye, she was a lioness, but he should have expected no less. Could have wanted no more, and if he were lucky, mayhap she was also insatiable. Turning, he reached for her.
The other half of the mattress was empty. He sat up with a scowl. His balls bunched between his thighs. They were, he realized, the only part of his body that didn’t hurt.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he rolled his shoulders forward and back and rose to his feet. Finding the hose he’d purchased was no great difficulty. Pulling his tunic over his head gave him a bit of pause, but in a moment he was striding down the hall.
The house felt empty and quiet. Lachlan snagged a chunk of dark bread from the table as he passed and hurried outside, but once there he stopped short as he gazed toward the cobbled lane.
There, seated behind a pair of matched bays, was Rhona, but she was not the woman he had loved the night before. Nay, this morn she was the warrior, solemn of face and dark of clothes as she glanced down at Shanks who stood beside the looming carriage.
Lachlan swore in murderous silence as he strode down the steps and approached the heavy vehicle.
“You should not go alone, me laird,” said Shanks.
She replied, but Lachlan failed to hear her words.
The old man’s fingers looked gnarled and white where they gripped the carriage seat. “But surely you will let me fetch your lad at least.”
“Nay, Shanks. Fare thee well now. See to my Knight.”
The ancient servant’s grip tightened even more upon the edge of the seat. “But how long will you be gone? Me master will not last much longer, and then the manor will fall to you. Surely you will wish—”
“Where are you off to then?” Lachlan asked.
Rhona tensed, but he received little pleasure from her surprise. Indeed, no pleasure would ever seem so great after last night’s.
“’Tis about bloody time,” Shanks muttered.
Lachlan ignored him, keeping his attention on the girl. “Where are you off to so early?”
She straightened slightly, though her hands remained steady on the lines. “I have but a few errands to run. ’Tis naught to concern yourself with.”
“Errands.” He glanced behind the wooden seat. “With your trunks in tow.”
Her expression hardened. “Aye,” she said, and turned her attention back to the old man. “Take care of yourself, Master Longshanks.”
“But won’t you be taking your lad here with you?” asked the old man, and gave Lachlan a concealed jab in the ribs.
“’Tis not for you to concern yourself with,” she said, and her face softened a mite as she placed a gloved hand over the old man’s. “You’ve worries enough.”
“I will miss you,” he murmured. “As will me laird.”
“He is much blessed to have you.”
“And you,” he said. Were there tears in the old bastard’s eyes? “He knows that now if he did not before.”
For a moment Lachlan thought she might say more, but instead she lifted the reins and the steeds moved out.
Shanks hissed something, but Lachlan was beyond hearing for he was already swinging up beside her.
She kept her attention on the rutted lane in front of them. “You are not invited, MacGowan.”
“Truly?” Anger crowded in on the pleasure that still haunted him. “And where am I not invited to?”
“As I have said, ’tis none of your concern.”
He settled back. Rage made his body tight. Fatigue made it ache. “I thought I made it me own concern last night, lassie.”
They passed a tanner with a fresh hide slung over his shoulder. The old man glanced up at the sound of the endearment, but Rhona kept her attention strictly on the road ahead.
“You got what you wanted,” she said, “’tis time to be on your way.”
“What I wanted!” he rasped. Her expression changed not a mite, so he shifted his attention to the uneven road in an effort to refrain from throttling her.
“What I wanted!” His words were louder now.
She shifted uncomfortably on the wooden seat and carefully avoided the gaze of a passing blacksmith.
“It seems to me ’tis what you wanted too, lass, unless I be mistaken about the knife wound in me side. ”
“Do you say you did not want it?” she asked, and glanced at him from below the broad brim of her hat.
Desire rekindled in him, for despite everything there was something about her manner that made him remember every moment of the night just past.
“I wanted it,” he said.
She nodded once. “Then you should be well satisfied. ’Tis time we parted ways.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me and you understand me, MacGowan. I will be gone for some time.”
“So you are going to him,” Lachlan intoned.
She said nothing. Neither did she glance his way as they rattled out of the village and onto the well worn path of the common thoroughfare.
Anger stirred with a dozen other emotions, twisting Lachlan’s stomach. “So you are on your way to the fat marquis without so much as a thank you.”
She did look at him now, but her gaze was disdainful, her eyes cool. “You are a vain cockerel, aren’t you, MacGowan?”
“Vain! Me?”
“I may not be as desirable as some, but I am capable of attracting others to me bed if I so wish. Do not think I cannot. Aye, you are gifted, champion. That much I admit, but do not think I will come begging for your attention.”
He sat in absolute silence for several seconds, then, “You think I expect you to thank me for last night?”
She went stiff. Her eyes shifted rapidly toward him and away. Her gloved fingers tightened on the lines. “Nay.”
He continued to stare. “Aye. You did. You entirely forgot to be grateful that I saved your life and—”
“Nay, ’twas what I was referring to.” She glanced nervously toward him. “That and the fact that—”
He roared with laughter. Her brows lowered like a hand beaten portcullis.
“What the devil are you chortling about, MacGowan?” Her voice was low and her expression angry, but the world looked utterly rosy again, as bright as a fresh tomorrow.
Lachlan chuckled to himself. Life was good. She continued to glower.
“Truly,” he said finally. “I cannot think of a single other instance when I have been so flattered.”
“I’m certain there’s a reason for that.”
“There must be,” he agreed, grinning widely.
“I meant . . .” Her teeth were gritted. “There is probably naught else you do as well.”
“Better still!” he said.
She stopped the team abruptly. “Get out.”
“What’s that?” he asked, and struggled to control his grin.
“Get out before I kick your arse off of here.”
“’Tis not that I think you frail, lass,” he said, and refrained from doing cartwheels.
“In fact, I have scratches from me shoulders to me arse to prove the opposite, but ’tis not likely that you can best me in hand to hand combat.
” Not that she wouldn’t give it a go, and what a thrill that would be.
“So . . .” She leaned back slightly and studied him, her eyes narrowed. “You enjoyed last night, did you?”
He leaned closer. “Would you like me to show you how much?”
She glanced up at him and drew a breath through her lips.
They were parted and waiting, and despite the attire, the attitude, the threats of physical violence, she looked like naught more than a bashful maid.
“Mayhap later,” she said, and though he knew it best to talk things through he could not help but move in for a kiss. “If you leave now.”
He drew back with a start. “What’s that?”
The shy maid was gone, replaced with a steely warrior who glared at him with battle-hardened eyes. “Leave me now, MacGowan, and you may feel again the burn of last night, but I tell you this . . . if you do not leave I will never bed you again.”
Emotions stirred like a witch’s brew inside him. “So that’s the way of it, lass? You go to your marquis and perhaps, if I am tractable, you shall return to me bed some day.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
He swore in silence and ground his hands to fists. “And meanwhile what will you be doing?”
For a moment she was silent, but finally she spoke. “I am not the spoiled son of a doting nobleman, MacGowan. Therefore, I do what I must.”
“And you must seduce Turpin?”
“Mayhap.”
For a brief second he wanted to shake her until she promised otherwise, but he conquered the urge with a hard effort and nodded. “Then I must accompany you.”
“Nay!”
“Aye.”
“Damn you, MacGowan! This is not some game I play for boredom’s sake. This is life and this is death!”
He studied her closely. “Whose life?” he asked. “Whose death?”
She paused for a moment, looking breathless. “Mine,” she said finally.
He nodded once. “Then I shall go with you, and perhaps better your odds.”
“You cannot—”
“I go!” He gritted the words into her face. “And there is naught you can do about it, unless you hope to end me life here and now.”
For a moment she looked angry enough to do just that, but finally she fell silent. Slapping the lines against the team’s broad haunches, she moved them down the road toward Claronfell.
Shortly before dusk, Rhona stopped the team and handed Lachlan the reins. Not a word was spoken as she slipped from the driver’s seat and into the interior of the carriage.
It was not much later that they reached a village and when Lachlan opened the door of the vehicle he could not help but be shocked by the transformation.
Gone were her muddied boots and manly attire.
She wore now a flowing lilac gown that laced up the front, displaying her breasts to her best advantage.
He wondered momentarily if she had managed the stays he’d purchased for her, but with one additional glance he saw that her form was too soft, too feminine, too tempting to be wrapped in whalebone.
Nay, beneath the gown, she was unfettered. He pushed the image from his mind as he reached for her hand.