Beloved Beast #3
She scowled a little. “I meant … in the …” She glanced towards the boxes, but when she turned back, he was just lifting his gaze from the floor.
Had he noticed her shoes? Tipped on to the edge of panic, she stood very still, not deigning to draw her feet beneath her skirts.
Surely that would do nothing but signify guilt.
And who was he to judge her attire? He was garbed in a wee skirt, for God’s sake.
Though, in truth, he wore it well. And the tiny, leather-wrapped braid beside his left ear did even less to decrease his manhood.
“I meant in one of them confessional …” She caught herself just before spinning into her native tongue.
The inhabitants of Old Town’s Canongate were not known for their elegant speech.
She cleared her throat and lifted her chin a little.
“I was hoping to be seated in one of the confessional boxes.”
“But the confessionals are to hide one’s identity,” he said and for an instant something flickered in his eyes. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. “And I’ve already seen your face, lass.”
“Well …” Was there interest in his expression? Was he attracted to her? Because she sure as hell could work with that. “Perhaps you could forget,” she said and glanced coyly through her lashes.
His lips twitched with humour. “I fear the Lord has blessed me with a long and faithful memory, lassie. I shan’t forget features such as yours.”
So he was attracted. Praise God! “You’ve a distinctive visage yourself, Father.
” She was desperately digging for information regarding his reason for being there.
Did priests go about in Highlander garb now and again?
She had no way of knowing. It wasn’t as if she spent her days in the company of clergy, but her words concerning his features were true nevertheless.
Although he was by no means a pretty man, his jaw was chiseled and broad, his chin well nicked by a scar that ran out of sight towards his throat.
“Distinctive,” he said and chuckled a little.
The sound was deep and soothing. She smiled, allowing herself a moment of pleasure at the sound. “Did I use the wrong term?”
He shrugged his shoulders. Even through the voluminous tunic they looked heavy with muscle. “I suspect distinctive is well suited,” he said. “’Tis the word ‘father’ that failed the test.”
“You’re not …” She raised her brows, searching for words that wouldn’t make her sound like an uneducated guttersnipe, though the description would be apt. “Not ordained?”
“Nay. I am but a postulant hopeful.”
So he could copulate without guilt. Or at least he could hope to copulate with less guilt.
God was gracious. “Well,” she said, and took a step forward.
She wasn’t above using the heady aura of attraction that lay like opium smoke between them.
“Humility looks good on you. But surely postulant hopefuls can hear confessions as well as any.”
They were very close now, forcing him to bend his broad neck to look down at her. Just a few more inches and she would be within striking distance.
“And what grievous sins has such a wee lass as ye committed?”
The question caught her off-guard, for there was no flirtation in his tone. Indeed there seemed to be earnest concern. Concern she wanted no part of. “I thought all sins equal in the eyes of the Lord.”
His brows rose slightly. “You know the scriptures, lass?”
She shrugged modestly. Blind Pete had taught her to read even before he’d trained her to lift a brooch.
Thievery had proven to be the more valuable of the two, but quoting biblical passages had come in handy at times.
She hadn’t foreseen a use for it on this particular occasion, but she had learned long ago to roll with the punches, literally and otherwise.
He took a seemingly unconscious step closer.
Perhaps she would be wise to leap for the door, but she doubted her ability to best him in a footrace.
Surely it was not his masculine allure that kept her there.
Nay, she stayed only to incapacitate him.
And for that she needed proximity, which she now had.
They were inches apart, their bodies all but touching.
She gazed up at him. He looked down at her. Neither breathed.
“I know scriptures well enough to realize I’ll sin again,” she said, and gripping the belt that encircled his waist, rose on her toes as if to kiss him. His eyes seemed to darken as she drew nearer.
Their lips almost met. His parted.
“By kneeing a postulant hopeful in the stones?” he asked.
“What?” Startled, she tried to step back, but he had already caught her wrist.
“Or were you about to confess for stealing the alms, lass?”
She tugged at her arm. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Alms that are meant to aid the city’s impoverished youth.”
“You’re mistaken. I put coins in the box just for that reason.”
“Ah, so you’re concerned with the wee ones that land in the gutters and brothels of this dark city?”
“Of course.”
He watched her, eyes as steady as stone. “Then we’d best check to make certain your donation got safe to its destination,” he said and began tugging her towards the mite box.
“Release me!” she insisted, but the air had all but abandoned her lungs, leaving her voice weak.
She drew a deep breath, remembering the image she had so carefully erected.
She would play it till the end, professing her innocence.
’Twas the only way to win the day. “Loose me this instant!” she demanded. “Or I shall scream for the constable.”
He turned towards her, one brow raised over stormy eyes. “That I doubt,” he said.
There was challenge in his face. And try as she might, she had not yet learned to resist a challenge.
“Help. Help me!” she shrieked.
She expected him to release her, or at the least, to jerk in surprise, perhaps allowing her a chance to escape, but he barely shifted a muscle.
She caught his gaze with hers, meeting the challenge full on. “Rape!”
The iron-bound door at the end of the ancient kirk thudded open. A constable raced into the sanctuary.
“You there, unhand … Mr Mackay?” He slowed to a walk, his tone uncertain. “I thought I heard someone scream.”
“Aye,” said the Highlander, his gaze never shifting from hers. “’Twas the wee lass here.”
“Oh?” He lowered his gaze to hers. ’Twas the baby-faced constable she’d seen but minutes earlier by the alcove where she’d handed off her chapeau.
Her heart was beating like a hammer in her chest. Had he seen her pass her bonnet off to the gawky lad?
Had he guessed her intent? “Is something amiss, lass?”
“Yes. This man …” Her mind spun. She hadn’t a leg to stand on. She’d gambled and lost, but surely it was better to deal with a man of the church, no matter how damnably unflappable, than a constable paid to bring in her sort. “This man startled me.”
“Startled you?”
“I shouldn’t be so fidgety. Everett tells me so time out of count. But my mind had wandered. You see, my poor father is so dreadfully ill, and I’ve been caring for him endlessly. I don’t think he’s going to last much …” she began, and sniffling softly, buried her face in her free hand.
“Oh.” The constable shuffled his feet uncomfortably, suddenly eager to be off. “Is that what happened, Mr Mackay?”
The Highlander was silent for several tense seconds. She prayed for divine intervention.
“’Twas sommat like that,” he rumbled.
There was a moment of silence. “Well then, I’ll leave you to comfort her,” said the constable, and hurried away.
When the door closed, Swift lifted her head and scowled. Mackay raised one brow and stared a question.
“I had no wish to find trouble for you,” she said.
“Is it me that should be worried?” he rumbled.
“What would the good constable think if he found you accosting a perfectly innocent woman?”
“Innocent are ye, lass? And here I thought ye had sinned.”
“In the past,” she said. “Minor offences. I certainly did not take the church’s money. I would do no such thing.”
“Me own mistake then, lass. Let us fetch your wee bag. I believe ye dropped it beneath the front pew,” he said and began dragging her in that direction.
“I don’t have a …” she began, but he was already bending to retrieve her little purse. Frantic, she kicked at his face, but he twisted abruptly. The blow struck his shoulder. He grunted slightly but didn’t loosen his grip on her arm.
“Sir?”
Swift jerked her gaze to the right. A boy of nine or so stood twenty feet away. A red stain marred his cheek, but his eyes were bright.
“Is something amiss, sir.”
“Nay, Rye, all is well.”
The boy’s brows rose above mischievous eyes. “I thought fisticuffs were forbidden, sir.”
The Highlander’s brows lower slightly. “We’re not fighting, lad.”
The boy’s lips twitched in uncertainty.
“We’re not fighting are we, lassie?” the Highlander rumbled.
Although Swift would never be certain why, she straightened her back and shook her head. “Certainly not. That would be wrong.”
“There now, go back to your bread and jam,” Mackay ordered.
The boy skimmed his quick gaze from him to her. “And you’ll join me?”
“As soon as I’m able,” he vowed, and the lad disappeared.
Mackay sighed, straightened, and tugged Swift back to the front of the sanctuary.
Their gazes met, and then, with one callused hand, he opened the draw string top of her reticule and dropped the contents on to the baptismal font.
A wallet, a diamond bracelet, a ruby ring and a mixed handful of coins clattered on to the stone font, spraying against the solid, ceramic pitcher that stood in the exact centre.
She made her eyes go wide. “How dare you rummage through my private possessions like a wild boar on a rampage?”
“Your possessions, lass?”
She almost winced as she noticed the name stamped into the wallet’s fine leather.
“So you’re … Sir Edgar Templeton?”