A Perfect Knight For Love (3 page)

She hadn’t made it easy. That helped with the guilt. She’d been wearing so many petticoats it was nearly impossible to find and secure her legs. The lass dressed for a fit of winter blizzom and it was but late spring. Foolish. What would she do if the weather turned harsh? At the time, he’d thought mayhap she wore so much to cut down on baggage. That wasn’t abnormal. She wouldn’t be the first one to wear her wardrobe on her.

One look at the trunk swaying behind Sean atop the lead horse manifested that falsehood. It wasn’t her lone one. They’d had to fetch all three trunks in order to make her sudden disappearance look like a usual event. Such a foolish, naïve, untaught wench. Traveling alone with three leather tooled trunks cast with silver-smelted fastenings was an open invitation to perfidy.

Thayne shook his head slightly, rolling his chin atop her head. That earned a slight sting from where she’d hit him. He supposed he’d earned it, but that was more of her foolishness. It’s what got her hands bound. Then he’d slashed most of her undergarments away with his dirk, just to find her legs and stop the kicking. Thayne huffed another breath and watched it fog before his face. His chin bruise wasn’t the lone one she’d landed. He had more than one blow to his legs from those pointed boots of hers. For that, she’d lost them as well.

All of which was odd. For such a tiny thing, this particular wench fought like a griffin. Which was strange. She didn’t look strong. Or fight-filled. She was small. And she was all woman. She felt it, for certain. Smelled it, too.

Thayne eased out another breath at the thought. He wasn’t immune to this forced proximity. That was more oddity he’d have to face. But, not yet. He had enough to manage at the moment with keeping them alive. It would take four days to reach Castle Gowan. If they avoided Dunn-Fyne. The path was also beset with thieves and clanless scoundrels, threatening trouble and dealing death. Aside from all that, Thayne’s group reeked of weakness. Five fully armed and mounted MacGowan clansmen would normally be given a far swath, but five Clydesdales that looked spent invited trouble. The continual sound of Sean’s coughing only added to it.

None of it could be helped. Thayne had spent every bit of horseflesh just to reach Mary in this abused notion of chivalry; without one thought to the consequences, and even less time to doubt or change the plan. In consequence, all five mounts were road-weary and carrying a clansman or a burden of a trunk having the same heft. They moved at a walk pace. With bowed heads and slow strides. He’d put the bairn and her nursemaid in the center, right behind him. He’d hoped any sounds they made might get muted that way.

Thayne straightened, lifting his head from the sweet-smelling mass of hair. The MacKennah governess had locks as dark as a shadow-filled section of Castle Gowan’s tower and as slick and shiny as a moonbeam. He’d been wrapped within it before he’d finally gotten her subdued. He hadn’t known hairpins could hold such volume when she’d been finally quieted, spread on her back beneath him, glaring with spark-filled amber-shaded eyes. Eyes that color should’ve been warm and welcoming . . . but not from this lass. The golden hue of her eyes was nothing but cold-cast and hard; akin to metal. Slick. Inanimate. They’d looked as welcoming as a witch’s teat in winter. And just as cold.

Thayne stretched, using that to wrench his mind from further thought of the woman in his arms. He had enough to worry over, without adding the English lass he’d been forced to steal.

Sean coughed again, putting frail sound into the air. Thayne moved his glance. He really should’ve sent Iain to the front. Perhaps then they could hide weakness. The infant cries were hushed when they came, but to Thayne’s ear, just as frail-sounding. Even the light was against him as it glimmered on a stark treeless hill, rain-washed and covered with opaque fog, making the ground look off-kilter and indistinct.

He’d breathe easier if they could reach the forest at the end of this particular drum. He might even allow a bit of rest and a fire. Among trees and deadfall they could shelter and cover over what an easy mark they were. It would also provide the perfect ambush spot . . . if one were so inclined. Thayne considered it and tossed it aside. He knew they’d have to take the chance. Staying out in the open was foolhardy.

He’d been right about the ambush.

The form of Mary’s husband loomed out from the fog the moment they reached the tree line. Without a bit of warning, men on horseback swarmed from right in front of Sean’s horse, Laird Dunn-Fyne at the fore, sword at ready. He was accompanied by countless men that all looked the same.

Sean’s mount stopped, too tired to even give a lurch at the surprise. He was followed by the others. Thayne’s stallion, Placer, needed subduing. Thayne had to pull the reins to halt the Clydesdale. Around him, he felt Iain, Pellin, and Gavin working to get all five horses flanked, facing outward. For defense. It wouldn’t have mattered. Death was being dealt. And he’d earned it.

That’s when Thayne knew exactly what chivalry reaped: absolutely nothing.

The horde closed in silently, threat and menace on each face. Thayne reached for his claymore and that’s when he got the first clue the lass wasn’t sleeping. Her fingers gripped about his thigh. That was accompanied by the lurch of her entire form up and against him, sealing her head beneath his chin and forcing his head back.

“Halt, MacGowan!”

Thayne didn’t answer at first. Nobody did, although those about them started closing in, adding restless horse noise to the night. Then even more men came from behind Dunn-Fyne, bearing torches.

“You’ve nae answer?” Dunn-Fyne was yelling it despite the absolute stillness.

“Nae need,” Thayne answered easily.

“What?” The man was still shouting. It didn’t do much except make the lass in front of Thayne tremble.

“You requested a halt. ’Tis needless. We’ve halted.”

There was a bit of stillness following his words before Dunn-Fyne lifted his sword higher. He raised his volume as well. “Now unhand my wife or face your maker!”

Thayne sighed heavily. “I’ve na’ got your wife,” he answered.

“Unhand the wife or I’ll take her from your dead frame! And that’ll save me the trouble of drawing and quartering your sorry arse!”

Thayne reached up and pulled the plaid from the top of the lass’s hair. Even in the torchlight it was obvious she had dark brown hair, not the light reddish locks Mary had been noted for. And pursued over. And had poems written about. Some of them from Thayne.

“That is na’ my wife!” Dunn-Fyne yelled.

Thayne smirked. “I just said as much.”

“Who is she, then?”

Thayne shrugged, large enough to move the lass with it. And then swallowed, although it resembled a gulp. Chivalry was a decided blasted curse.

“Well?”

“A wench of little renown and less frame. Now allow us to pass. We’ve naught you want.”

He felt the woman stiffen and moved his sword hand from the hilt of his claymore to wrap it about her waist. He passed it along his kilt as he went, drying the moistness from his palm. She wasn’t just trembling anymore. It was a full-out shake. Thayne tried for a reassuring grip, pulling her against his chest to lift her slightly above the saddle with the hold.

And just then, the hours-old bairn decided to wail and everything in the world halted to listen. Any gap between horses was eliminated as Dunn-Fyne moved, pushing into the defensive huddle Thayne’s band made. The infant’s wailing increased, punctuating the night with sharp heart-stirring cries.

“Where is my wife, MacGowan? I’m in complete earnest now. I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders and split you in so many pieces, they won’t find enough of you to bury!”

Thayne cleared his throat. “I have na’ seen your wife. Lately.”

“Then whose bairn is that?”

It was useless to disclaim it. The babe had been seen to, but there were still the sounds of suckling.

“Hers.” Thayne moved his chin, sliding it against perfumed strands of hair with the gesture and ignoring the sting from his bruise.

“Lad or lass?” Dunn-Fyne asked.

“’Tis clear she’s a lass, mon.” Someone else answered it.

“I meant the bairn! Is the bairn a lad or lass?”

Thayne narrowed his eyes. Every Highlander knew Dunn-Fyne wished a male heir since he’d produced but three daughters from his first two wives.
Make that four daughters and three wives now
, Thayne amended. Perhaps if the man ceased to beat and starve his women they’d gift him with more than girl bairns.

“Lass,” he answered finally.

Dunn-Fyne wasn’t fooled. He knew the babe was his. It felt as if he knew the entire story of how it happened. It was in his eyes and on his face. As was the complete disgust and bitterness. And then the cunning. That put Thayne’s entire frame into one hard and ready state even before the man spoke again.

“Unveil the woman.”

“You’ve held us enough for one meet, Dunn-Fyne.”

“Unveil the woman . . . now.”

“We’ve a camp to set up. And rest to be had.”

“I’ll na’ ask it again, MacGowan. I’ll be forcing the issue.”

Dunn-Fyne moved his horse alongside Thayne’s, pushing the steed’s shoulder into Thayne’s right leg and pinning his claymore in place. There was nothing for it. His left hand pulled the plaid to the girl’s shoulders, showing the piece of cloth he’d gagged her with. As well as how bonny she was.
Curse women and their beauty!
Thayne watched the man absorb all of it.

“Unbind her.”

Thayne shook his head.

“I’ve tired of your play, MacGowan, and I’ve a wench to rescue. From the looks of her, she may even appreciate the rescue. She might even appreciate a real man when she has one a-tween her legs. Unlike your sorry hide.”

“Dunn-Fyne—”

As a threat, it didn’t work although the lass had gone stiff. Thayne didn’t know if it was the shock or the idea of a rescue from him. The laird of Dunn-Fyne leaned forward in his saddle, slipped his blade beneath the gag-cloth and without much movement slit it open. Then he leaned back, folded his arms across a lapful of table-girth and waited, his brows lifted and a smirk on his lips.

It felt like they all waited. Even the babe had quieted to a whiff of sound as it hiccoughed slightly. Thayne felt the lass’s efforts to free her mouth, using her tongue since he still had her arms bound. There wasn’t a quiver to be felt anywhere on her.

“For shame, MacGowan.” Dunn-Fyne was clicking his tongue as he spoke. Then he grinned enough to show rotted teeth. “You resort to stealing wenches now?”

“She was na’ stolen. Exactly.”

“I wonder whose clan will be seeking justice this time?”

Dunn-Fyne’s men chuckled at the last. It was added as a reminder that it was usually Jamie with this problem.

Everything was going wrong. Worse wrong than when he’d lowered Mary from her tower into the skiff and rowed from Fyne Castle’s black sides. Bad luck had been his companion as they’d ridden away, begging the saints to allow them to reach MacGowan land before Mary’s birth-labor made it an impossibility. Even worse luck and just as vivid was this particular girl falling into his arms. The absolute worst had to be what this lass was about to say. And there was nothing Thayne could do to stop any of it.

The lass had her mouth freed. She pushed the spit-soaked cloth out with a tongue that was probably gaining strength for the mix of hatred she was going to spew about him and everyone attached to this mission. Struggling was futile. Fighting the same. The lass had his fate in her hands and Thayne had little doubt what she’d say and what would ensue. It was strange how fully free he felt as he realized it.

“Well, lass? You need a sip of whiskey for speech?”

She shook her head at Dunn-Fyne’s booming words. She also turned imperceptibly closer to Thayne. He tipped his head slightly and raised a brow.

“You failed to speak . . . sufficiently.”

It took a moment to realize she was addressing him. The only indication was how angered Dunn-Fyne looked of a sudden.

“I did?” Thayne asked. The words growled. It felt like his throat was closed off with cotton wool.

She nodded.

“I’ll be doing the speaking, MacGowan!”

Laird Dunn-Fyne’s threat came with the blade of his claymore at Thayne’s chin, forcing his head upright again. The move used her head as a fulcrum to make the slant more vicious. Thayne swallowed and felt the blade scrape his throat.

“Then speak,” she said.

The woman he’d stolen had a sweet voice, calm and collected and holding just a hint of reproof. As if she faced a bevy of admirers that had gotten out of control and not a bunch of Highlanders dealing death. All of which was gut-clenching strange given the circumstances. It served to get the sword moved from atop her head, as Dunn-Fyne pulled it back, placed it across his knees and considered her.

“Well?” she continued, adding a lilt of humor that bounced off Dunn-Fyne’s dumfounded look.

“Your name?”

“Amalie . . . uh . . . MacGowan. Of course.”

“MacGowan?”

Dunn-Fyne’s look was probably the match to Thayne’s, if not the entire grouping of men about them.

“A woman usually takes the name of her husband upon wedding with him,” she replied with a slight condescending inflection to the words.

Dunn-Fyne pulled back. Thayne attempted the same although a nerve pinched his middle-back, wrenching him into a stiffer stance. He already knew what she was going to say and was powerless to stop it.

“You’re wed to MacGowan?”

“If you’re referring to the man holding me, then yes. I am. And he knows it.”

The lass put every bit of affronted dignity in her speech. It was an amazement to listen. Thayne’s jaw dropped slightly. He had to turn aside to cover it.

Dunn-Fyne shifted atop his saddle, or the horse moved restlessly with a pinch from his knees. Whichever, it jostled the claymore against Thayne’s thigh, reminding of the consequences of chivalry. He set his jaw and turned back to Dunn-Fyne.

“Is this truth, Thayne MacGowan?”

Thayne sucked in a huge breath, eased it out, and then made the reply. “Aye.” He was actually surprised it came out as full and calm as it did.