Nine
“Tad,” Gordon snapped.
The dog flipped over as if stunned to be caught and scrambled to his feet. He cowered, certain he was in trouble.
And he was.
Gordon snapped his fingers, pointing to his side. Tad slinked over to him, but actually had the audacity to give Constance a look of regret.
“A minute more and I would have been gone,” Constance said confidently. Her braid was over one shoulder and, dressed as she was in the dancing gown of the night before and her bare feet, she looked for all the world like a renegade debutante.
“He’s a bloody traitor,” Gordon grumbled. He put the stew on the table before bringing in his saddle and her moccasin. He tossed the shoe into her lap, realizing his lamp had been lit. “Was someone here?”
She shook her head. “Why…?” and then answered her own question by following his gaze to the lantern. “You didn’t expect me to sit in the dark, did you?”
He hadn’t expected to be gone so long. But it was a sign of Constance’s resourcefulness that she had made herself completely at home. “I’m glad I took my weapons with me.”
Constance smiled her response, and Gordon knew he’d best be on his guard. “Are you going to tie me up again?” she wondered, reading his mind.
“I’ll truss you up like a deer if you give me good cause,” he assured her. To his surprise, she laughed, completely without fear. He knew she didn’t doubt his words. It was just that she had courage. Whatever life gave her, she’d make the best of it.
He wished his sister had even a touch of Constance’s spirit.
He pulled three china plates and two spoons from his tack chest. The plates were pieces of a set his father had owned. He ladled the stew into one and set it down for the dog, saying, “Here. Don’t forget whose side you are on.”
Tad dove into his food without remorse.
Gordon ladled two more plates and offered one to Constance. She took it, helping herself to a spoon and attacking her stew with enthusiasm. He had been just as hungry…except his appetite disappeared at the sight of the cleavage she displayed as she bent over her food.
Her ball gown had not been fashioned for travel. For most of the trip, she’d worn his tartan. Now, he couldn’t help but notice the swell of breast over the lace at her bodice, the hollow at the base of her throat, the way she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips as she savored the stew.
Perhaps Fiona was right. Perhaps they shouldn’t be alone—
“It’s good,” she said. “You should eat…” Her voice died off as she realized he was staring.
Gordon looked away, embarrassed to have been caught gaping like a schoolboy.
Thomas would have laughed.
He sat on the ground next to Tad and focused on his own plate, all too aware of the moments when her gaze had drifted toward him. He’d thought he was bone tired, but suddenly parts of him were wide-awake. He shifted, not wanting her to notice, silently cursing his male nature, and her female one.
They ate in silence. When he finished, he gave the plate to Tad to clean off. Constance made a horrified sound.
“Please don’t tell me you clean all your plates that way?” she said.
Gordon frowned. “I wash them.” He could have added, Sometimes, but thought it best to keep that to himself.
She curled her lip in disgust. “I suppose men don’t worry about those things.”
“We do.”
The lift of her eyebrow said she didn’t believe him.
A moment of silence stretched between them. From his position on the ground, he couldn’t help but notice how trim her ankles were. He liked slender legs, and he already knew she was muscular and strong—
She cleared her throat. “I need a private moment.”
It stood to reason. It had been a while. And the fresh night air would cool overheated thoughts. “Come along, then.”
Darkness had completely fallen. The moon was full and golden. A good number of people had already gone to bed.
This was usually his favorite time of night. He walked her toward the latrines. “Here,” he said at the door to one of the privies.
Constance held back. “This place doesn’t smell good.”
That was an understatement. A party of men, all too old to fight, were responsible for the latrines and other areas of the camp.
He’d noticed that they had been slack in their responsibilities.
He didn’t want to admit that to her. “Consider what it is and be happy we have one,” he said.
“Go on, Constance, see to your business.”
The corners of her mouth turned down, the expression almost comical. Gingerly, she went inside. He stood guard.
The smell seemed more pronounced now that she had pointed it out to him, and he was relieved when she came running out, so that they could both find some fresh air.
“May I wash my hands?” she asked.
He led her to the loch’s edge. They passed a few couples who nodded to Gordon but watched them with curiosity.
“We will be the talk of the camp,” she whispered to him.
“I always am,” he assured her. He stopped at an outcropping of rocks everyone used for washing. “There’s soap right there.”
“This is soap?” she said with distaste, holding up the gray, mushy mass. She tossed it to the ground and then washed her face and hands.
He did the same. “The women in the camp make it,” he answered in his defense. “It’s fine enough.”
“They didn’t let it cure long enough.” She made an impatient sound as she rose to her feet. “Your latrines are disgusting and your soap too soft to be of use, and that is just the beginning of the problems here.”
She was right, except he didn’t want to hear this from her. Not now. He was too damn tired. He needed six hours sleep and then he’d solve all the problems of the world. “I suppose you know better?”
“I do,” she said without flinching. “I’ve lived my life out-of-doors. I know what is important. These are everyday matters, but they must be attended to or you will find your people losing their will to go on.”
Which was what had been happening.
Gordon scowled, angry at her for no other reason than because she was so capable. “Why couldn’t you have been an empty-headed debutante?” He turned and started walking to the tent, knowing she would follow.
And she did.
“I’m going to have the latrines moved,” he said. “We weren’t going to stay here that long anyway.”
“With this many people, it doesn’t take long,” she answered, her voice as stiff as his.
He didn’t reply because he saw the stew pot on its side in the doorway of his tent. Tad was nowhere to be seen. He had been so focused on Constance, he’d not secured his quarters before he left. “Damn dog,” he muttered.
He picked up the pot and set it upright by his door. Tad hadn’t left a lick behind. There was nothing that would attract a wild animal. Whoever had gifted him with the stew would collect the pot in the morning.
Indicating for Constance to enter the tent first, he followed, dropping the flap over his door. He didn’t waste time, but brought out the rolled quilted pallet and blanket he stored behind his tack chest. He made quick work of making his bed on the hard dirt floor.
Constance stacked the dishes—Tad had licked those clean as well—and picked up his tartan from the chair where she’d left it. She wrapped it around her shoulders. “Am I sleeping there?” she asked.
“We’re both sleeping here,” he answered, daring her to raise a complaint.
She bit her bottom lip but remained standing.
That was fine. She could stand all night. He was going to sleep, although he had planned on Tad keeping guard.
“You’ll have to use the tartan for your cover,” he told her as he sat in the chair and began pulling off his boots. He set them aside and stood, pulling his shirt from his breeches. “You don’t need to worry that I’m going to ravish you,” he said.
Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and he knew that had been on her mind.
Good. She should be uncomfortable around him. For that reason—and because she’d been right about the latrines and the state of his camp—he stood and started to take off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.
He paused, savoring the moment, and then pulled the shirt off over his head.
She stood as far away as she could from him in the narrow confines of the tent, a distance of only a foot or two, his tartan protectively pulled against her.
If he had not been standing in front of the door, he had no doubt that she would have run right out it.
Gordon smiled, feeling wolfish. It was about time she saw him as a man.
“I’m undressing for bed,” he said.
Her eyes widened with alarm and she whirled around, giving him her back. Dear Lord, had he ever been that innocent?
“How far do you expect to go undressing?” she asked.
“This far,” he said. He dropped the shirt on the chair close by her. She gave a little jump, as if the cloth was alive.
Pleased to finally have the upper hand, Gordon said, “Come, Constance, you’ve seen a man’s chest before, and probably more, out in your wilderness. Why, I hear the Indians run around naked.”
“They wear clothes,” she assured him.
He stretched out on his side of the pallet.
His bed took up most of the floor space.
His leg was close to her moccasined foot.
There would be enough room for her on the pallet but it would be close between them.
“What’s this? Bold, fearless Constance Cameron blushing?
If I’d known I could subdue you by taking off my clothes, lass, I would have removed them sooner. ”
“I don’t think the Duke of Colster would approve,” she responded primly.
Gordon yawned. “Then we’ll keep it our secret.
After all, I want the Sword of the MacKenna, not to be run through by it.
But don’t worry, I’m too tired to think about anything but sleep.
Although,” he added quickly, “I’m a light sleeper.
You won’t be able to move without my knowing it.
” He didn’t want to tie her up again. Not with her wrists as bad as they were.
“Wait,” she said, her suspicions aroused. “You are teasing me, aren’t you? You haven’t taken off your clothes.”
Constance whipped around so quickly to accuse him, her foot tripped on his leg.
She came crashing down on top of him just as he closed his eyes.
Gordon acted on reflex. He caught her and rolled over, his body settling on hers. They were leg-to-leg, hip-to-hip, chest-to-breasts…nose-to-nose.
Her eyes rounded.
He’d wager his were, too.
“You are naked,” she whispered. Her hands rested on his shoulders. She didn’t move them.
He could have corrected her impression, told her she was only half right—except right now all he could think about was how well they fit together. How warm and welcoming she was.
How hard he was.
Other men weren’t alone. They lay beside their wives and their sweethearts. They had someone to share the burdens of the day, salving them with the sweet release that could only be had in a lover’s arms.
Gordon knew he had nothing to offer a woman. His sister had already paid a very dear price. He chose to be alone.
And yet, right now, all he wanted was another kiss. One kiss.
Was that so much to ask?