A Perfect Knight For Love (4 page)

“Without banns posted? And without clan approval?”

Thayne nodded.

“And without one word of the happenings to Clan MacKennah and your betrothed?”

The lass in front of him jerked slightly at that information, bumping her head into Thayne’s jaw. The way he’d clenched his teeth prevented the clack of them giving away any of it, although he reaped a painful jar against his bruise.

Thayne nodded again.

“I believe I’ll need your words. Loudly. As if proclaiming to all.”

“Why?” Thayne asked.

“For the fate that’s being dealt. And to make certain of our hearing.”

Thayne pulled in another long breath. Let it out. Did it again. Words came with it. “I’m wed to this woman. And she is wed to me.” His voice had a croak running it, but it was the best he could do.

“And you, lass?” The chieftain of the Dunn-Fyne clan boomed the question out, unnecessarily loud and abrasive. The humor in his voice was easy to spot.

“I don’t understand all the nonsense. You heard me already.”

Dunn-Fyne’s face shifted to a frown as he leaned closer. “I wish to hear it again. Or he faces the consequences.”

That was stupid. Thayne was already facing them. They were pounding one after another through his head until an ache formed right at the top of his nose behind his eyes.

“Very well. I’m wed to Thayne MacGowan. There! You heard it. Again.”

“And just when did this wedding take place?” Dunn-Fyne inquired.

“About nine months ago. Or I wouldn’t have a child, now would I?” The lass had regained her superior-sounding voice, almost as if she lectured a servant. But that was ridiculous. Thayne knew her status. He’d checked when he filched her room. He had to admit she possessed bravery and a tongue skilled at lying. He almost believed her.

“Ah . . . that’s right . . . the wee bairn. You claiming it, are you?”

“Of course,” she replied with that superiority-stained tone.

“And you, MacGowan? You claiming the bairn as well?”

Thayne nodded and the pounding behind his eyes accompanied it.

“I see.”

He did indeed. Dunn-Fyne saw all of it and enjoyed it immensely, if the grin splitting his beard was any indication. Thayne felt like a salmon: hooked, netted, and then lifted nakedly to be appraised for delectation. He concentrated on the thud of ache in his head, coming with each rapidly increased heartbeat.

“I doona’ ken the kidnap, though.”

“Ken? What is this word
ken
?” the lass asked.

“You were gagged. Bound. I’ve decided the why of the gag. With your sharp tongue, I’d have silenced you, too. After beating you senseless.”

Her gasp was impossible to hide. As was her jerk backward. Thayne tipped his head sideways to avoid another bruising, while tightening his grip on her waist to keep her seated.

“Your wife needs a heavy hand, MacGowan,” Dunn-Fyne informed him.

“Why do you think she’s bound?” Thayne replied.

“Foolish wench.” Dunn-Fyne was amused again. “Now that I find difficult to believe.”

“How so?” he inquired.

“You? Wedded? Fair enough . . . although ’tis powerful odd to do it like this. Unlike your brother, you’re levelheaded. Honorable. Trustworthy. Leastways you’ve that reputation . . . until now.”

Thayne didn’t answer. No one said anything. So the man started filling the space with more words as if they were needed. “I’ve been surmising some things as we’ve talked, though. And after a bit of viewing of your bride, I believe I do accept it. Even if she is one of
them
.”

They all knew what he meant, except maybe the lass. Thayne would have to start thinking of her with her given name. He didn’t recollect it, though. He’d have to ask her for it again. The bairn started another bit of wailing, high-pitched and weak-sounding through the mist. Dunn-Fyne turned to listen. Everyone watched.

“Your offspring does na’ sound to have much strength.” Dunn-Fyne had a sneer to his mouth when he turned back.

Thayne lowered his eyelids to regard the man, ignoring the ache behind his eyes that came with each heartbeat. “So?” he finally asked.

“This must come from mingling Highland blood with Sassenach.” The man spit after the last word, making it sound even more insulting.

“Lowlander,” Thayne replied. It sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth because he was. There wasn’t any way to hide it.

“Lowlander? Borderlands, then?”

“Aye.”

“My condolences.”

Dunn-Fyne burst into a large guffaw of laughter that echoed weirdly in the fog once he finished. Nobody joined him. They might as well all be stone.

“Accepted,” Thayne replied.

Chapter 3

What a wretched turn of fate. As well as being completely and totally outside her control or realm of experience . . . or even her imagination, vast as that was. She’d never believe any of this if she wasn’t living it.

Amalie had often engaged in wordplays and playacts with her brother Edmund. They’d spent hours together pretending to be explorers, or warriors, or anything other than what they were. Not only did the hours pass quicker, but it was the lone way to escape the sickbed into which Edmund had been born. He’d probably find this entire debacle amusing, if he’d lived. But if he’d lived, none of this would have happened. She’d never have been ordered to accept the Duke of Rochester’s heir’s hand in wedlock and put on bread and water until Father thought she’d acquiesced. Foolish man. He should know his only surviving offspring wasn’t the fainthearted sort. Nor was she one to sit back and let fate deal her a losing hand. Oh no. She was in charge of her destiny. All she had to do was pretend at being cowed and beaten, do the best acting of her life, and then follow her escape when it appeared.

Such self-reliance, imagination, and courage were her saviors more than once. And she’d have done anything to escape Rochester. Amalie shivered again at the thought. Anything. Being safely ensconced in a Scot schoolroom, teaching two young ladies had seemed the perfect hiding spot, too. She’d have time to think of her next move and wait for Father to reconsider his edict. It hadn’t sounded as mad then as it undoubtedly was now. She hadn’t had time to evaluate and ponder, however. Why . . . being on that particular corner when the real governess-to-be had been mowed over by a carriage right in front of Amalie—and then seeing the poor woman into a lane where she poured out her story—had been pure luck; heaven-sent and fated.

If only Amalie had the sense to keep her footing at that carriage step, none of this would be happening. She wouldn’t be sitting with her back against a tree, wrapped in not one, but two of their plaid blanket-things, smelling like wet scratchy wool. She wouldn’t be wearing her hair in a huge twist between her chemise and gown where it too itched. She’d never be outside in a copse of trees while a stretched animal skin of some kind kept rain from her, although it did nothing for the damp wet ground-mist that permeated everything else. It even crept up through the thick weave of blanket she lay atop. And she’d never be regarding the man she’d actually declared her husband as he whittled away at a piece of wood when he wasn’t looking across their fire at her for no known reason she could decipher.

It was enough to make the only daughter of the Earl of Ellincourt grit her teeth to stay the screams. Or the faint. Or seizure. Or whatever response gently-bred young ladies were expected to suffer when being held captive by a small group of barbarians named Clan MacGowan who’d gotten themselves a dangerous escort of more barbarians named Clan Dunn-Fyne. And all of it under threat of death.

Of course, any reaction would only work if the lady in question allowed herself that sort of idiocy. And if it would actually do any good.

Amalie looked down at the bundle of sleeping babe the wet-nurse had placed in her arms and sighed slightly. Such a tiny thing! In need of loving and nurturing. It was a mistake to cuddle it close and feel any stirring of emotion. Any fool would know that. Not only was the babe nearly too weak to survive but there wasn’t any way Amalie Ellin was staying about to see to the mothering of her. She suspected that loving this baby girl and then giving her up might be worse even than losing Edmund. She wasn’t staying to find out; deathbed promise or not. And if that barbarian Thayne thought differently, he could just join the list of other men without a thought to their skulls.

As if he called, Amalie looked across at him again and got another of his dark, enigmatic looks containing what looked like anger. If he wanted to hide emotion, he should probably grow a beard like the others, or he shouldn’t clench his teeth. Such a stance did little except define and shape a sharp jaw. Or the flickers of fire were lying. He had nothing to be angered over.
Nothing!
Besides . . . he’d started it. He’d practically authored it. She couldn’t claim a child and no husband! Not when facing this Dunn-Fyne horde.

All of which was probably hidden in the look she gave Thayne, trying her best to remain unblinking and just as expressionless. She sighed heavily, moving the child with it and then worked at ignoring the little sucking motion the babe made as it snuggled closer to her. It didn’t do any good to trade looks with him. He looked immune to it, and her eyes started to smart. She had to resort to looking aside to keep from betraying anything.

Amalie blinked against the sudden sting. She wasn’t used to going without sleep for so many hours. They’d put a large piece of stretched skin atop their bonfire, but it was so low it sent smoke into the clearing before it could get obliterated by rainfall. That could be the reason for tears. It wasn’t emotion. Oh no. Never. She didn’t cry and wasn’t about to start. Besides which, she’d chosen this . . . or something like it. She’d already decided that no matter what awaited her, any fate away from Rochester was better than wedding him.

The space glimmering in front of her eyes got shadowed and then filled with the huge frame of Thayne MacGowan, crawling onto the ground beside her. He then compounded that surprise by spinning onto his back, showing one tanned and naked upper leg that didn’t get covered as his plaid cloth settled into place. It was vaguely threatening with a view of muscle and strength. She had no need of the reminder. She’d already been held against more male than she knew existed and a lot more than she could handle. He should wear more. And he should wear it properly. Not just tossed on like an afterthought. They all should, although every other man in the makeshift camp paled if compared to this one.

Thayne acted like he knew the bent of her thinking as he just reclined there, breathing slowly and with deep breaths that raised and lowered the broad span of his chest. He hadn’t shed his shirt but since it was fashioned of thin muslin and was now soaked with rain, it wouldn’t have made any difference. The fabric was useless as a cover. It filmed every shadow and bump and rope of a muscled physique few claimed. Edmund certainly hadn’t. Nor Rochester. Nor had her father. Or any other male she’d ever seen. Thayne MacGowan looked primal and uncouth and menacing even as he portrayed complete lassitude. He kept his head atop bent arms, looking at the tanned skin above him as if he lay atop feathers and not the blanket-covered decaying deadfall of shed leaves.

Amalie held her breath through countless heartbeats, waiting for the moisture atop her eyes to dry. She cursed silently as more tears joined in, making it inevitable what would happen if she blinked. She thanked the tears at the same time for making him indistinct and blurred.

“I’ve come to ask you something,” he finally said. He was using a soft low tone with a hint of brogue. “Actually . . . I’ve come to ask you several things.”

Amalie would’ve answered if her voice worked and if she wasn’t fighting what couldn’t possibly be full-out sobs. She refused the emotion. The rivulet of shivers up and down her back and climbing her shoulders were hard to endure. They’d be worse if she had a witness to it. She knew it instinctively.

She nodded and looked away into the dark mass of plaid-covered lumps of men. Although the view was firelit, rain-washed, and then tear-blurred, it was still easy to spot the large quantity of Dunn-Fyne men sleeping just on the other side of a fallen log. She tipped her head to send one tear trail into her temple while the other one went down her nose and then she righted her chin again, giving him her profile.

“I’ll na’ have it bandied about that I’d nae interest in my family. Either my new bairn . . . or the wife.”

He was worried about gossip?

“You ken?”

She’d decided the word ken took the place of ‘understand’ most of the time. It seemed to stand in for ‘know’ as well. And for what should be ‘easily apparent.’ Or whatever else they wanted to use it for. She nodded.

“I also need you to cease the invite you’ve proffered me all eve. I’m na’ immune. You ken that as well?”

“In . . . vite?” Her voice was missing. It didn’t seem to matter.

“Aye. Invite. To enjoy you. All eve. Just as I said.”

“I never—!” Her exclamation had a hint of sound attached to it this time. It carried every bit of her shock, too.

“I’ve nae wish to consummate our marriage. Well . . . actually I do, but ’twould go better if I weren’t surrounded by Dunn-Fyne men at the time.”

Amalie sucked in a gasp, pulled in tears with it, and choked. That started a coughing spasm that filled her eyes worse than before, dislodged the infant into a berth at Amalie’s’s far side, engendered several grunts and snorts from all the humanity about them, and got a fit of whispered swearing from the man beside her. It also got her hauled down onto her back beside him, while a leg went over her thighs and his hand covered her mouth. The move scraped her legs. She could feel the minute sting of it as well as the caress of air atop her knees and if she thought of it, higher still. All of which formed a lump in her throat where it thumped with every heartbeat while the babe kicked and squirmed against the grip she’d put on it. She was surprised it wasn’t screaming.

“Life or death, lass! Doona’ you ken anything?”

He hissed it in her ear, sending heat that created shivers. And threat of more. The clamp of his fingers indicated how much more. As did how he’d shifted to an elbow, putting himself above her and in a position to make certain she understood. That was before she factored in where he’d put his leg, holding her in place with a limb so heavy the pulse thumping through her had moved to her upper thighs.