A Perfect Knight For Love (12 page)

The lass was crouched at his side, bent down to peer up at him. Thayne averted his eyes and blinked through moisture that made the grass swim and blur. He put his attention on that, since breathing was difficult, and then gradually, it changed. He had his wind back. And that just made the remembered pain start up in his buttock again. It was accompanied by a sense of damp. He didn’t need to check. He knew he’d broken the wound open. But he was the only one who knew.

Thayne pushed with both arms to gain a crouched position, stiffening the moment his raw open flesh came in contact with kilt.

“Whiskey.”

He ground the word out and lifted a hand, got a sporran delivered, and took a mouth-filling gulp. Then he took another, and swished it about before swallowing. He didn’t look toward Amalie. He didn’t want to see the expression that was probably on her face.

“Where’s . . . the bairn?” he asked once he’d swallowed the third gulp. The whiskey hadn’t helped his voice much. It was choked and rough-sounding.

“With the nurse. Getting suckled. Comforted.”

Thayne nodded. Took another deep swallow, welcoming how it took the edge from everything. “My brother?”

“Having the same issue,” one of them replied. The men about him chuckled again.

“He’s with the nurse?” Thayne took another long swallow, more to prepare for the agony of standing than anything else. It wasn’t working, but he didn’t truly think it would.

“Nae. Just wishing so.”

“His shoulder pain that much?”

“Nae. ’Tis more the injury the wife gave him.”

“Amalie?” Thayne looked over at her. She returned his look, giving him nothing.

“He’s groaning and moaning and saying she’s gone and reived his manhood. With a hearty blow. The man canna’ stand. Only crawl.”

Thayne felt the amusement bubbling through his veins. His lips twitched but he held the smile.

“He’s asking for time. Afore he has to sit his horse.”

Thayne shook his head. “If I can ride . . . he rides. Give the order.”

He pushed back with his arms, filling his lungs and then sucking in more air in order to prepare; controlling the shake and readying his legs. It took every muscle in his right side to get to his feet, where he wobbled with the effort. Amalie did the same move and stood beside him; silently questioning. With clear amber-shaded eyes that could easily belong to another of Castle Gowan’s angels. Thayne shook his head to clear it. This little spit of a woman had protected herself from Jamie, and done fine work of it. There wasn’t anything angelic about that.

He swiveled on his good leg to face where his stallion stood, placidly pulling on early spring grass while it waited. All Thayne had to do was get there. On his own power. He didn’t let one oath or moan pass his lips as he took a step and then another, dragging his left leg along. He blanked everything until he reached the horse and just stood there, a full fist about horse mane, willing strength where there wasn’t much. This was worse than a full day of challenge on the list. Draining. Humiliating. He didn’t know how he was going to get into the saddle. And get his wife in front of him.

“You’re . . . bleeding,” Amalie whispered from somewhere on his right. Thayne hadn’t known she’d moved with him, but he’d been so focused he wouldn’t have heard had she stomped. He turned his head and caught her glance back from where the kilt was sticking to his backside.

“Aye,” he replied.

“Bad?”

Thayne licked his lips and looked over the horse at the meadow edge. He shrugged. He didn’t truly know and didn’t want to know. Not yet. It wasn’t a flesh wound. This was affecting movement and muscle. And Thayne wasn’t giving it time to heal.

“We should rest.”

“We’re na’ safe, lass.”

“Dunn-Fyne?”

Thayne shook his head. “Nae. The mon’s dead. But we’re near MacKennah land at present.”

“Mac . . . Kennah?” She split the name strangely. “Of the broken betrothal MacKennah?”

Thayne nodded. “Come.”

He turned, put his hands along her waist and lifted her, giving a silent prayer his arms handled the effort and she weighed little.

“What will happen if . . . we meet them?”

“Castle Gowan is two days’ ride. If we doona’ waste time.”

He was harsh, but she’d just have to allow it. He had to mount, using his arms more than his legs and getting his injured leg to swing into position behind her. And somehow he managed it. There wasn’t but a shadow of shake attached to the entire move. That, and a groan he bit off.

She didn’t understand these men.

The pace wasn’t much above a walk, but each step had to be punishment and agony for the man holding her. Yet he never said a word. He needed rest. They all did. She knew his exhaustion due to the burden of his head atop hers once another man took the lead. And the steady rhythmic breaths that accompanied it. She’d have suspected he slept, but she knew different. Every time she shifted, he caught his breath, tightened his arm, and waited before settling again.

Other men sported bruises and cuts, while one looked to have gotten a severe whipping. They were all stoic. Not so their laird. Amalie heard Jamie’s groans and curses sporadically throughout a day that lengthened into eve. Those were the other times she knew Thayne wasn’t sleeping. Every time Jamie made a sound, Thayne would make a grunt-like response deep in his throat, vibrating against her cheek where she snuggled. It was as if the brothers had some unspoken contest of strength and stamina, and a woman wasn’t granted knowledge of the rules. Only men.

It was stupid. More than once one of them had ridden beside them for a bit and looked down at the horse’s side. She knew they were checking a blood trail. She’d seen it as well, the one time they’d stopped. Past mid-day, everything on her was aching, including her empty belly. Thayne had given her into MacPherson’s keeping since he didn’t get off the horse. He didn’t look to have moved once she returned and was lifted back to him, given two of their dry griddle cakes and resettled. Thayne had a white line about his mouth that forbade conversation even if she’d wanted it.

And a line of blood staining the stallion’s side.

Nobody mentioned it. They simply remounted their horses and continued. She’d watched three of them ride faster, outdistancing the line. Amalie didn’t know it was to get a camp set, fire going, and an animal roasting until they neared it. The sun was setting as they topped a rise and started down into a little valley. Amalie lifted her head and sniffed at the delicious smoke and food smell of the air. And then she tensed at the sound of running water.

It wasn’t until they’d reached bottom that she saw why. A river split the valley floor, looking wide and quick-moving if the ripples splicing the surface were an indicator. It separated them from where she could see and smell fire, and that meant dinner. Her belly reacted as well as her mouth, salivating at the sound. She just couldn’t see a bridge. She didn’t realize they intended swimming the horses across until the lead one walked in. He was a MacGowan man, followed by a man in Dunn-Fyne plaid, and then MacPherson was at Thayne’s side, grabbing their horse’s bit and taking them in with him without one word of warning.

Amalie hugged into Thayne, burying her nose between the twin humps of his chest and desperately tried to keep from crying aloud with the fear.

“’Tis na’ that deep, lass,” Thayne whispered in her ear.

“I don’t know how to . . . swim!” she told his chest.

“Hold to me, then.”

She had just enough time to gasp before something shifted in the horse beneath them, everything on Thayne went taut and hard, and then they were both plunged over the side. Amalie’s heart was thundering and her lungs ached and she’d already faced enough. She wasn’t going to die! Not like this! Dark tendrils of death came for her and she fought them, kicking viciously where they held her. Heavy volumes of cold weight wrapped all about her and she pummeled at them, thrashing and twisting and fighting.

And then she was free, scrambling for footing, and standing in chest-high water, gasping for air that was filled with Thayne’s’s cursing, while all about them was laughter. But before she could give him a good screeching, she slipped, going beneath dark coldness again. This time she didn’t fight as Thayne found her and pulled her back to her feet. She didn’t struggle as he held her in place when she kept slipping on slickness her toes couldn’t grasp, either.

“Jesu’!”

Amalie put both hands to her face to shove her wet hair and just-as-wet plaid covering off to look across and up at him. Everything reacted the moment she did. It didn’t help that he was glimmering in the reflection of water and that every bit of his clothing was plastered to him, delineating everything. Nor did it help that she was cold, and getting colder the longer he held her in place.

“You’re na’ much . . . for water . . . are you?” he asked, with a catch to each section.

“You did that on purpose!”

He tipped his head to one side, brought it back. “Na’ true . . . although it does solve one issue.”

“What?”

“I needed a dunk. For cleansing. As did the horse.”

“You’ve never heard of a bath?”

“Aye. Just took one,” he replied.

“We could’ve drowned.”

Horses were passing on both sides of them, with men following: sodden men, walking through water that dissolved her argument. It wasn’t easy, as more than once, a man slipped or went under; but it didn’t look deep. They all looked to be grinning if she checked. She didn’t. She did her best to ignore them.

Thayne looked like he was struggling with his own smile. “You finished?”

“With what?”

“Your fight.”

“This isn’t a fight, Thayne MacGowan. I haven’t even shown you a fight yet.”

It was a full grin he gave her now, and if he weren’t so handsome and she wasn’t standing in bone-chilling water she’d have an easier time staying angry.

“You two planning on staying there all eve, Thayne?” Someone yelled it from behind her.

“You just get those skeans hot!” Thayne shouted back at them.

“Skeans?” she repeated.

She slid. He caught her with tight hands on her shoulders. Then he huffed a breath all over her that chilled and annoyed. He spun her to face the same direction he was, pulled her sharply against his chest, and then took her with him for a step. He limped the next one.

“You could ask first,” Amalie told him.

“What?”

“If I needed help. I didn’t say, and you didn’t ask.”

He opened his hands, her foot slipped, and she’d have gone under again if he hadn’t gripped her and hauled her back. This time he hooked an arm fully beneath her bosom. From that position, he couldn’t miss the reaction as her heart hammered into him.

“You need help?” he asked, but he was laughing at her through it.

“Just get me out of this water.” Her command would’ve had more substance if her teeth weren’t chattering and her nose wasn’t blocked.

He grunted a reply. She sneezed.

“You need to get those clothes off. Change.”

“I am not taking my clothing off. I refuse!”

“Up here wet and cold . . . means death. You’ll change . . . if I have to force it.”

“I am not—”

Thayne took a step, stopping her words with how it dropped them into more water as well as the groan-touched breath he sent over her shoulder. She could tell he felt for footing before taking the next step. And then the following one, each one accompanied by the slightest hint of sound in his breath. She’d forgotten his injury, and what their accidental dunking may have cost. Amalie sent a glance up at him, over her shoulder. He had his face set in grim lines and nothing looked amused.

They reached shore and Amalie quickly turned her face, averting her eyes from how much bare skin was getting displayed as men donned fresh plaid things pulled from bags. Her action probably amused Thayne, but she was past caring.

“MacPherson?”

Thayne’s voice hadn’t much substance, but MacPherson must have been waiting for it. Amalie knew the man appeared before them from how he blocked the firelight with his bulk.

“Take the . . . wife. Get her . . . into dry clothing.”

“Aye,” the man replied.

“Thayne, I—”

“Go . . . with him.”

“But—”

“Doona’ make . . . me force it. Please?”

The whisper was touched with something indefinable, almost like a sob. With it, he diffused all her anger and argument. That was just cheating. Amalie stepped away from him, got lifted by MacPherson and then carried into the dark beyond the fire, and then he set her into a tight patch of stunted trees.

“Doona’ move.” He ordered it before he turned and walked away.

He didn’t see her nod. As if there was need of it. Thayne was right. She was chilled, and the wet clothing sapped the fight right out of her. But her jailor was gone for what felt hours. Amalie wrapped her arms about herself and when that didn’t work, went to a crouch. She was in a solid shake before MacPherson returned, carrying one of the governess’s trunks, and carrying a lit branch for light.

She craned her neck to watch as he shoved the improvised torch into a crook of limbs, and unfurled a large, fringed plaid. Then he stepped out of the enclosure, lifted the blanket up, giving her walls that helped block the elements and any prying eyes.

She dropped the wet blanket cloaking her with frozen fingers that had trouble. It was easier to peel her clothing from her in rolls of fabric due to the sodden nature. It was probably more luck that the buttons hadn’t been refastened since Thayne had opened them last night when they’d . . .

. . . last night?
Oh, heavens. She’d almost given herself to a Highlander last night! And in a filthy hovel that no respectable lady would ever—!

She stopped the thoughts. They weren’t helpful, although the blush muted some of the chill. Amalie sat atop the discarded garments to roll stockings off, clucking her tongue at the huge holes in the soles and brushing at the grit. She didn’t take off the chemise. Not yet. Despite its dampness, it gave her one layer of protection from the encroaching night air. It did nothing to warm her, though.