Like Ladies #2
The food was tasty and the ale weak, just as she liked it, and she ate her fill, huddling under the dry wool plaid.
But with each passing moment, she became increasingly distracted by Alec’s nearness, his thigh resting lightly against hers, and the deep rumble of his voice as he engaged in conversation with their fellow diners.
“But, he built the ships as the king demanded, did he not?” Alec asked the man seated across the table, next to Taran.
“Aye, the king’s a fool to listen to him,” the man replied, stroking his dark, full beard.
“Ye canna build a ship with naught but a handful of gold. Yon master shipwright refused, he did, and lost his place for it.” He lifted his tankard in the direction of the angry shipwrights still conversing near the fire.
“Yet the ships were built,” Alec’s deep voice insisted as he helped himself to a goose leg.
“Three. I saw them myself, readying in the harbor. They sail for where the queen is stranded in Norway, in less than a month, I’m told.
The king himself is sailing to fetch her as the Danes willna cross the North Sea themselves now. ‘Tis too dangerous, they say.”
“Aye,” Taran remarked.
“But the ships are nae seaworthy, mark my words!” the man swore, pounding his tankard on the table. Most of his ale slopped out onto the table, but he scarcely noticed. “Only a fool would sail them in these seas. The weather’s rough this year, and curiously so.”
“Aye,” Taran commented.
“The Danes built fine ships and even they refuse to set sail,” The man turned on the highlander. “Playing with our new queen’s life, that’s what. ‘Twould be best to wait for spring.”
“Aye,” Taran agreed, clearly not a man to waste words.
“But the king thinks to sail these tawdry rafts that mask themselves as ships, and ‘twill be a miracle they dinna sink afore they’re even set off,” the dark-bearded man railed on.
For a time, Sorcha listened to him expound upon just how many ways a ship could sink, but by the tenth postulation, she stifled a yawn.
Apparently, Alec had the eyes of a hawk.
“There’s a pallet for both ye and Gellie in the kitchen,” he leaned down, murmuring into her ear.
The warmth of his breath against her skin made her shiver.
“’Twill be safe there with the other lasses.
And we’ll not be far away now. We’re sleeping here.
” He slapped the table with the palm of his hand.
His lips were close, only inches away. And his eyes, compelling. There was kindness in them, a kindness she’d instinctively known to be there from the start.
This time, he was the one to draw back. But a moment later, a playful grin raised his lip. “A kiss for my troubles, aye?” he suggested, turning his lean jaw her way as he tapped his cheek with a finger.
A kiss.
‘Twas tempting. The man was an attractive one, to be sure, from the dimple in his chin to the lithe line of his thigh and his long-muscled calves.
But then sanity restored itself, and she abruptly rose to her feet.
The next moment, she stood with Gellie in the kitchen, peeling off her wet gown. She frowned, unable to recall just precisely how she’d gotten there.
Ach, she’d been thinking of Alec Montgomery.
She sighed.
‘Twas a shame he was a Montgomery.
The majority of the women in the kitchen had already settled for the night, and with another deep yawn, she tiredly crawled beside Gellie to huddle under the soft, dry plaid.
Aye, Alec Montgomery. She might have fallen for him had he belonged to any other clan. It was fortunate that they would soon part ways in Lainshaw, or she just might fall for him anyway. The man’s soft voice and the emotions he’d revealed in his teasing green eyes were hard to forget.
Listening to the soothing sound of the rain pinging against the slate tiles, she thought of Alec’s infectious grin, reliving the day, until she fell into a deep, mercifully dreamless, sleep.
* * *
The Queen’s Arms stirred to life before dawn.
And as Sorcha drifted between the states of sleep and wakefulness, she heard the lad poke the fire as several women squabbled over just who should draw the water.
Somewhere in the background, a man shouted for his horse as the ever-growing stream of guests tromped down the stairs.
Finally, consciousness chased the sleep away, and she sat up with a yawn.
“I’m sore,” Gellie groaned, covering her face with her plaid. “I dinna care for horses.”
Inclined to agree, Sorcha rose stiffly from the pallet. A quick check revealed her gown only slightly damp and her plaid fully dry, but with the rain still drumming on the tiles above, she knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
She dressed quickly, and after ousting Gellie from the bed, waited patiently for her to be ready before they both left in search of the others.
The common room was just as packed as the night before, but markedly more subdued. Most of the occupants were either yawning or staring grimly at the cloudy skies outside. Alec, Taran, and the others sat at the edge of the same table, picking at their bowls of sop.
This time, it was to the terse highlander that Sorcha handed a neatly folded plaid, along with a quick curtsey of thanks. He responded with a barely perceptible nod, but she was almost certain his hard face softened as she sat by his side, across from Alec.
Alec graced her arrival with a nod of his own, but his thoughts were clearly far away, and after only a few minutes, he rose and excused himself to ready the horses.
She watched him go from under her lashes.
This distant Alec was a different man from the Alec of the night before.
Ach, he was mystifying—and annoyingly so.
His kindness from the night before was hard to forget—as was his broad muscular back and narrow waist this morning.
She’d scarcely thought it before becoming self-conscious to be thinking of a Montgomery so, and quickly dropped her gaze to concentrate on her food.
It didn’t take long to eat, and shortly after she’d pushed her bowl away, Taran rose, announcing it time to leave, and shooed them all outside with a wave of his arm.
Sorcha stepped out into the gray, hazy morning, slipping her red plaid over her shoulders as she walked.
The rain had stopped, leaving a heavy mist hanging over the village, creeping through the nearby trees, and shrouding the roaring river from view.
The air was crisp, chill. Altogether, more pleasant than the day before.
She cast a surreptitious glance around the inn’s bustling courtyard, but to her disappointment, Alec was nowhere in sight.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she headed to where her mountain pony stood tied to the railing.
Someone had folded a thick blanket over the saddle.
Curious, she ran a hand over the soft wool.
Strong hands caught her by surprise. Alec’s hands, clasping her waist from behind. “The blanket will help with the soreness. Shall I toss ye in the saddle now?” he asked, making no move to actually do so.
A gust of wind blew against them, furling his plaid around her red one.
She felt his chest rise and fall, provoking an unfamiliar yet pleasurable longing.
She didn’t move, he didn’t either—not until somewhere in the background, she heard a man’s deep laugh.
Sweet Mary. She’d forgotten the place was thriving with people, readying to leave.
She jerked away, but as was his wont, Alec twirled her lightly in his arms.
His expression was solemn, thoughtful. “When the roads are rough, stand in the saddle, lass,” he advised in a low rumble, his hands firmly anchored about her waist. “‘Twill prevent the aching later. And dinna fear to show this beastie a firm hand, aye? Dinna be timid with a horse. To them, you’re naught but a hefty flea.”
She nodded, paying more attention to his hard, bulging muscles under her fingers.
One of his hands slipped low, outlining the curve of her hip to rest there. The touch evoked a wealth of sensations, and foremost amongst them, guilt. Aye. He was a Montgomery.
Suddenly, he heaved her into the saddle.
He waited until she’d righted herself, and then dropped a hand upon her knee.
It felt like fire. Truly, such a simple touch, but the man’s braw looks combined with his kindness threatened to undo her.
She looked down upon his face, trailing a gaze over his chestnut, sun-burnished hair, the distinctive cleft outlined in the center of his chin, his charmingly handsome grin, and up to his jade-green eyes—enthralling eyes that had already drawn her into dangerous territory.
He boldly met her gaze, raising a curious brow. “Do ye have something to say, lass?”
Really, did it matter what clan names they carried? Should it?
“Then speak,” he urged when she didn’t reply.
She could scarcely admit her thoughts. Expelling a breath, she murmured, “I fear I’m a fool.”
She turned away, straight into Gellie’s sly smile.
Sorcha stared at the apple-cheeked girl.
Aye, they were no different. Was it the fate of chambermaids, to pick unsuitable men?
Tossing her auburn curls over her shoulder, she kicked her pony’s flank and trotted out of the courtyard, and this time, it was her turn to trot along the road, waiting impatiently for the others.