A Perfect Knight For Love (2 page)

“ ’Tis nae whim, lass! You ken? You need to quiet and assist. ’Tis life or death!”

Light whooshed from the fireplace, flaring with the influx of air from an opening door. Amalie didn’t see it. She was suffering too many impressions at once. All of them strange. Odd. Foreign. Hard, heavy heartbeats at her nose. The odor of rain-wet wool. Huffs of breath touching her cheeks. The sensations combined to bombard her, making her tremble slightly within his embrace. All of it was unwarranted. Unladylike. Unbelievable. His arms tightened, pulling at her pinned hair, crushing her bonnet out of his way as he lifted her. She heard a whisper and then everything went to absolute shock as his lips came down on hers.

Amalie fancied her first kiss a chaste one, delivered upon promise of a betrothal. A quick meeting of her lips with those of a shadowy suitor, with her hands upon his shoulders while her breasts heaved toward him. She’d relived it often in her mind. She knew the pose by rote. Yet the moment this Thayne’s lips touched hers, it obliterated absolutely everything.

Her hands were trapped between them, branding her palms with heat. A thunder of heartbeats tapped at her palms. He was rock hard, and his chest wasn’t the only portion exhibiting that. Everything felt hard. Unyielding. Even his lips. They weren’t soft, romantic, or remotely shadowy. They were rigid, bruising, and hot enough to scorch. Pings of sensation hit at her nose. Breathing was especially difficult as it mingled with the force of his.

Then she felt something so horrid, she was grateful her eyes were tightly shut as something completely illicit and totally alien happened, exacerbating the blur of hummed sound in her ears. An odd flurry of thrills ran over her head, down her spine, and all the way to her toes, before racing back. From there the shiver went right to center at each breast tip, making them tight and sensitive. There wasn’t any way to stop it or control it. Amalie didn’t know what the reaction was. She’d never felt such a thing before. And worse! The man holding her somehow knew. The instant flinch in his frame and his quick intake of breath told her.

Amalie heard the thudding of boots, then angry words, all of it coming in disjointed snippets of sound. It was akin to eavesdropping on a party from the nursery—back when that’s all she’d known. The words carried threat and then she heard a clank of sound that could very well be a sword leaving its scabbard. And she didn’t even know what that sounded like.

“MacGowan!”

More sounds of metal filled the space between heartbeats in her ears, more footsteps, and then more words, angrier and more threatening in tone.

“I’ll have your head!”

There was a bit of quick grunts, sounds that could mean blows, and Amalie stiffened. The man holding her did the same. Cold invaded, stealing her breath, and muting the warmth. Even his lips felt cold. Then someone behind him spoke loudly and with a bit of amusement coloring the words.

“’Tis clearly a mistake, lads. We’ve got the wrong MacGowan.”

Sounds of a scuffle died. With it, the ability to stand. Amalie sagged into Thayne.

“Someone should put a leash to your laird.”

The man holding her gave the slightest reaction to the conversation behind him, grasping her even tighter somehow.

“Well . . . you ken how our Jamie is.”

“Keep him from my daughters. Or I’ll send him to hell. You hear?”

“Aye.”

More words got exchanged in the room behind her, blending with the noise in her ears, before she heard footsteps leaving and a door close. That’s when Thayne finally pulled his lips from her, lifted his head, and lowered her to her feet. He didn’t release her. His continued touch was horrid and yet heaven-sent. Her entire frame was trembling and her knees didn’t feel like they’d hold.

Her captor went in a twist to look out at the room, granting her a perfect view of thick muscled neck with a grosgrain ribbon attached to a bit of stubble on his chin. Amalie blinked. Her bonnet had come untied? It was one of her plainest, without any lace, bows, or feathers, but she couldn’t afford to lose it. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated on the mundane misplacement of her hat. As if it mattered.

She hadn’t lost anything. She could feel the bonnet trailing from her shoulders.

“That was close.” Somebody said it from behind MacGowan’s bulk.

“’Twas Dunn-Fyne?”

The words rumbled through the chest she was still pressed to, making her gasp, which made him harden even further. And all of it even worse as she could swear she felt thighs against hers. Even through her skirts.

“Nae. Ammon.”

Thayne swore. Amalie held that gasp, yet still he hardened somewhere as if she’d reacted, sending prickles of annoyance through each palm where they still pressed against his chest. The man was worse than she’d been warned.

“And Glen-Gorrick.”

“They doona’ suspect anything?”

Thayne answered again, with another resultant tightening of something in his frame. Amalie’s fingers got cursed with every nuance of him. And his shirt wasn’t helpful in the slightest.

“You heard. They think you Jamie. Out for a bit of rape and pillage. As usual.”

“’Tis a foul night, lads. Full of accursed deeds.”

This time his arms moved, pulling her closer, and that just wasn’t fair. Or reasonable. And it was making everything spin.

There was a chorus of ‘ayes.’

“Nae sign of Dunn-Fyne?”

If he said one more thing, she was going to open her mouth and scream. It would be better than swooning.

“He’ll na’ be far. Ammon’s his mon.”

“Christ. And his Mother Mary.”

He spit the curses out, moving her with them. He followed with more words, said in a language she couldn’t possibly comprehend. And then he took a deep breath, held it for long heart-thumping moments before releasing it.

“That was close. And my actions are totally unforgivable. I doona’ even ken why I’d ask, but I should still try. Lass?”

Amalie turned her head and shut her eyes the moment he’d moved back to her. He probably gave her a bit of smile to match the cajoling tone in his brogue. As if handsome looks and charm would grant him forgiveness. It had probably worked before, though. Not today. And not with her. She wasn’t listening, and for certain she wasn’t looking.

“You believe me, doona’ you, lass? ’Tis a matter of life or death. I swear.”

He whispered it to the area above her ear. The spot instantly tingled. She lifted her shoulder against it, opened her eyes, and felt her jaw drop at the sight of drawn swords and what looked to be mallets his men held at the ready.

“Thayne! Quick! There’s nae time! She’s
dying
!”

Everyone pivoted to face the speaker who’d opened a door on the opposite side of the room. His hissed words got an immediate response. Amalie wasn’t given a choice. Thayne simply lifted her and followed, running up the two flights of steps that should’ve echoed with the volume of boots.

If he’d just give her a moment, she’d tell him. She believed him. She did. This much intensity and action had to have life and death at its core. She no longer cared about the stolen room or the outrage of her first kiss. She was overcome. Shocked. Scared. She needed to be alone to work through it. Amalie’s known world was structured, soft spoken, rarely disturbing, closely organized, and scripted. There wasn’t anything dramatic about it.

The room they’d purloined was in the attic, small and sparsely furnished, as a second-class paying passenger deserved, and it was crowded. It reeked of poorly washed linens and sweat, while grassy-smelling smoke came from a fireplace that hadn’t had the flue opened enough. Or they were using wet wood. Or something. Amalie’s eyes smarted the moment they’d arrived. Then, she was blinking against the sting. Through a candlelit haze she heard the sound of whispered voices and the soft sound of weeping. And the muted sounds of what had to be an infant getting suckled.

An infant?

“How . . . is she?”

Thayne’s voice was soft but it was the only soft thing about him. The words echoed through where he’d pressed Amalie; close . . . like a shield. Both his arms were about her torso, just beneath her breasts, pressing immodestly where they shouldn’t. Which was another stupid mundane thought. None of this was modest.

“She’s dying! Dinna’ Pellin say?”

“Save her, damn you! ’Tis why I brought you!”

“You canna’ change fate, Thayne MacGowan. Regardless of how oft you try.”

“Shut up.”

The words were ground out. Thayne moved forward, toward a small sagging mattress on an equally sagging bed frame. He went to a knee, folding Amalie into a kneeled stance with it, and reached with his free hand toward the woman propped against ecru-shaded linens that matched the color of her skin.

“Mary?”

He touched her cheek, moving Amalie forward with the pressure of his chest against her head. The move connected too much male to where her bonnet should have been protecting, which was just another stupid worry in a world of new ones.

The woman rolled her head toward them. She didn’t look to qualify as a woman yet. She was little more than a girl. And she’d been severely beaten; often and recently. Her blackened swollen eyes and the myriad scabbing and bruising couldn’t hide it.

“You . . . see . . . the bairn?” The wraith whispered it.

“In time,” Thayne replied.

“She’s . . . perfect.”

“You were na’ to have it until we reached the castle.”

The girl smiled in such a slight gesture, it hurt to watch. “Pro . . . tect her, Thayne.”

He nodded.

The girl pulled in a shallow breath. Two words came out with the exhalation of it. “From . . . him.”

“Aye.”

He cleared his throat, showing what this meant to him. Amalie’s eyes pricked with unbidden emotion and she blinked rapidly against it.

“You . . . promise?”

The words were a hint of whisper, followed by another shallow, barely discernible breath.

“Aye.”

This time his voice did crack.

“And you?”

The girl moved her gaze to Amalie.

Me?

Thayne’s arm tightened, squeezing. The man was worse than a barbarian. He was a brute.

“Promise it!”

Thayne’s hissed warning was barely audible. Amalie nodded. The girl on the bed sighed softly, rolled her head back to look toward the ceiling and closed her eyes. They watched her take another breath and let it out. Then there was nothing but silence. Cursed, complete silence. Then sobbing started again from somewhere in the room behind them.

“Somebody handle the wet-nurse! Jesu’! Easy, though. We need her. And fetch Grant. Gannett. Michael. Alex. And Rory.” Thayne stood and turned away, barking orders with a gruff voice.

“Present.”

“Done.”

“Ready.”

Thayne held Amalie as voices punctuated the space, forcing her to continue the unforeseen and unwarranted insertion into private matters. Dreadful matters that she didn’t want to comprehend or address. Amalie was certain whatever she’d interrupted was sordid and scandalous, even before they’d gotten an innocent Englishwoman involved . . . through no fault of her own other than a careless step on the feeling of complete freedom. Or what was freedom if she could just escape. That was the most important. She had to get loose and then she’d run. Far and fast. She didn’t know what else this Thayne might be capable of.

His arms tightened as if he second-guessed her thoughts. He spoke again, filling the room with low-voiced orders. Only now there wasn’t a hint of weakness or emotion to his tone.

“Get Mary’s body to Castle Gowan. Afore another minute passes. We’ve nightfall for the assist and na’ much else. Dunn-Fyne’s on our heels. Already.”

“So many? ’Tis too risky.”

“Nae option. They’ve eleven leagues, four burns, and Caryndale to cross. I’ll na’ trust her to anything less. Wrap her and go! Quickly!”

“That’ll leave you with just four men, Thayne!”

“Aye. But I’ve got this for a ploy.”

Thayne stood, lifting her to show what he meant. That’s when she knew exactly what he was capable of.

Chapter 2

He must’ve forgotten what chivalry felt like but couldn’t imagine why. Or how. Or when.

It seemed like his entire life Thayne took responsibility and punishment for Jamie’s escapades. That was the lone way to keep their sire from guessing the truth about his favored son. That, in turn, kept the laird of MacGowan from brutality and drink. And that bit of chivalry kept their mother from her bouts of melancholy. At least until the old laird passed on and the dowager duchess followed him into the crypt less than a season later. It hadn’t even been a year since Thayne had suffered every curse of chivalry when he’d watched Mary leave him . . . without a word of the cost. Or the heart-burnings. Or the betrayal.

All of which were old issues and even older secrets. Thayne had ever kept secrets, practiced chivalry without a murmur, and taken blame without one word of defense. He’d also reaped the punishment . . . and then the pain. He should be used to it.

Thayne shifted atop his horse, lifted his head, and blinked on dry eyes that hadn’t time for grief. Chivalry was cold. Lonely. Friendless. It always had been. And now it was guilt-ridden as well.

He bowed his back, rested his chin atop the wench’s head and looked unseeingly at the gloom-cast path. The air was heavy, filling each breath with cold and wet and the promise of more. Inhalation brought moistness that tugged at his chest before he released it. Such ague-spiked mist was the cause of Sean’s coughs as they came ever closer together and louder. Thayne could also blame the inclement weather for Mary’s early labor and subsequent death. He didn’t. It was his fault, and his burden to bear. That was the curse of chivalry.

The lass in his arms whimpered slightly at the beginning of every breath, reminding him of barbarity and guilt. She wasn’t doing it consciously. She’d been asleep since they’d entered this forest and well before rain hampered their progress. Or she was an expert at relaxing her frame in a parody of sleep. Thayne smirked. He truly wasn’t caring one way or the other and it was a large improvement to the thrashing and closed-mouth screaming she’d done when he’d first subdued, gagged, and then trussed her up in bonds like a holiday game hen. He hadn’t meant to but she didn’t give him the choice. She either didn’t understand the dire reality of their situation, or life meant little to her.