A Perfect Knight For Love (6 page)

“You certain?”

“Aye.”

“Any wench gave me that much issue, I’d see her whipped.”

Amalie’s eyes were huge and unblinking, probably reflecting absolute horror at the man’s words.

“My thanks for the advice,” Thayne replied.

“Some wenches react best to a whip.”

Amalie tried to shut off her hearing. She wasn’t listening to such things. Not in this lifetime. And not about her.

“She worries over the bairn.”

“Sounds and looks more like she worries over your lusts. And perhaps . . . their nearness to the bairn’s birth.”

Thayne swallowed. Amalie felt the motion. “That, too,” he finally replied.

“Well! Doona’ let me stop you.”

“All in good time, Dunn-Fyne. The wife’s barely left the birth-bed. As you just brought out.”

Dunn-Fyne chuckled. He was still laughing as he moved away, taking his snide words with him as well as the shuffling noises of his men. Amalie shut her eyes.

“You believe me now?” Thayne whispered.

She nodded.

“You’ll keep quiet?”

She nodded again.

He sent a breath across her nose and released her mouth. Then he moved his head to continue his whispering, this time at her ear. More than his head moved. It felt like shoulders, chest, belly, groin, and legs all undulated along and atop her.

“He kens the truth about us. You hear me? And what he does na’ ken, he suspects!”

She waited, listening to every single heartbeat as they raced through her ears, revealing her fright. Waited some more.

“The man is na’ stup’t. He kens the wee bairn is his, as well.”

“Why doesn’t he do anything about it, then?”

“Why should he? Think, lass. He’s got me hooked, netted, and fileted. He’s fain satisfied with the turn of events. Can you na’ see it?”

“You’re heavy,” Amalie told him.

Thayne pulled in a huge breath, if the amount of weight pushing against her was any indication. And then he let it out. Loudly and with a large sigh sound. He lifted his upper body onto his elbows to regard her with unblinking earnest aqua-shaded eyes. Amalie felt her heart flutter slightly before she could prevent it. She could only hope he didn’t note it.

“We move, we do it together. As one. In reach of one another. You ken?”

Amalie waited a moment before nodding.

“You cleave exactly to me. Always. ’Tis the lone safe place. And the lone place to keep everything else safe as well! Including Mary’s bairn. You ken that, too?”

Amalie puzzled that before shaking her head.

“I’ve noted how he looks at you. If he gets close enough, he’ll grab you. And then he’ll ravish you, and then—! Are you still a maid?”

She put every bit of anger that question deserved in the look she gave him. It worked. He understood the answer.

“I’ll remedy it as soon as I dare.”

“What?” The word squealed.

“Softly, lass! Soft! Jesu’!”

He continued with more whispered curse words, shifting his body with the intensity of it and putting weight atop her that had a crushing value to it. About the only thing he wasn’t doing was holding her mouth.

“Can you na’ listen through anything afore reacting?”

“You’re . . . too . . . heavy,” she managed to reply. He lifted onto his elbows again, and this time, he even shifted his hips to one side of her.

“We’ll try again. Pray, listen fully this time. Dunn-Fyne’s a wife-beating, heartless son-of-a-banshee. He’s na’ above taking another man’s wife. ’Twould be a fitting revenge against me. If he so chooses.”

“Revenge?”

“For the stealing of his wife. He’d consider taking you a just and fair act. And righteous. He’d probably rape you in full sight of all. Brutally. You saw how he treated Mary?”

Amalie choked, held the scorch of reaction until she had it under control and breathed with the slightest cough accompanying it. It still burned every bit of her chest. He took it for an answer.

“This is the Highlands, lass. Up here, if a man canna’ hold what’s his, he’s nae right to claim it in the first place.”

“You-you’d allow it?”

“How am I to stop him?”

“But—”

“Doona’ fret. There’d be nae allowance. I’d die fighting. ’Tis better.”

“Better?”

“Dunn-Fyne finds your maiden wall, he’ll put light on our lie . . . and then I’m a dead man. As are the others about us. Except . . . perhaps you. But you’d most like be wishing for death.”

“You just told me . . . he already knows.” Shock altered her voice.

“I did. And he does.”

“I don’t understand this at all.”

“You doona’ need to! Trust me. And another thing—I need to ken your name. Uh . . . your given one.”

“Amalie,” she replied automatically.

“You’re na’ the governess?”

“Y-yes,” Amalie stammered on it. She knew what was coming next, too.

“That does na’ sound right. I canna’ recollect the name, but . . . you’re certain-sure it’s Amalie?”

“Of course.” She’d forgotten one of the rules of lying. Always keep the story straight. Amalie nearly groaned.

“Fair enough. Amalie. I’ll work at remembering it. You’re to stay at my side. Leastways ’til we reach MacGowan land. Or Dunn-Fyne ceases this humiliation of me.”

“Humiliation?”

“Our declaration is all that’s standing between us and death. And I include the wee bairn in that.”

“You expect me to believe he’d hurt his own babe?”

“She’s his fourth daughter. Unwanted. Another mouth to feed and drain his coffers for dowry. I doona’ ken if he’d harm her for certain, but whether she lives or dies means little to him.”

“Now I really hate him,” Amalie replied. Thayne’s lips curved slightly.

“Enough to obey? As a proper wife to me?”

“Very well. I agree. I’ll act the part. For now.”

“I doona’ ken if you listen proper but I’m beginning to doubt it. You
are
my wife. ’Tis of an unbreakable nature, and . . . brace yourself. There’s more.”

“More?”

“I’m betrothed to the MacKennah lass. This marriage will restart the feud.”

“Feud? Did you say . . . feud?” It just kept getting worse and there didn’t seem any way to stop it.

“MacGowan Clan’s rich. Settled. We hold a castle, three lochs, and a seaport. Na’ so MacKennah Clan. They march right alongside the sea, but on rock-strewn cliff attached to naught save bog. They’ve leagues of worthless land and bloodthirsty clan. Little in wealth. A betrothal was arranged in exchange for ransom over a score ago.”

“Ran . . . som?” Sweet heavens! Were her ears deceiving her?
Ransom?

“You ken now why he’s allowing me to live? Dunn-Fyne has full vengeance for any slight. We
gave
it to him.”

Her voice was missing. Her mouth just kept opening, then closing, and nothing came out.

“You also ken how things could change should you get . . . seized? And a maiden wall discovered?”

She gulped. Blinked against moisture that accompanied what felt like absolute frost invading her limbs. Gulped again.

“You’ll stay at my side? Without argue?”

She nodded. The next moment he was on his knees and backing out from their shelter. He took her with him.

Things looked little improved as dawn lengthened into mid-morn, the day awash with rainfall that shaded everything to gray. Thayne lifted his face to the drops and then shoved fingers through his hair, pushing it back onto his shoulders before resuming a hold about the woman before him. It might be worse. They could be facing a cloudburst of huge strength and duration, turning every bit of land to hoof-sucking bog and stopping travel. He wondered if the lass guessed that particular spate of luck.

Or even if she cared.

The woman was amenable to whatever he asked; without argue, comment, or delay. She’d have a difficult time running from him without boots, but she gingerly tiptoed about, staying at his side. She was with him to fetch a tin of water, watched him drink it before refilling it for her. He could see once she returned—following the length of rope he’d looped about her waist—that she’d used the water to wash her face and attempt to braid all that hair of hers. She hadn’t seen his frown. She should’ve left her hair as it was, pulled back and hidden. He’d probably been a little rough when making certain a MacGowan plaid covered her, but she hadn’t balked.
Women!
She already knew Dunn-Fyne lusted for her. Showing womanly attributes was adding unneeded complication. Especially with the extent of attributes this lass claimed.

If Thayne believed in luck, he’d have to count himself in it with the woman he’d claimed. Fully. As the morn lengthened he felt even luckier.

She’d stayed at his side while he set Iain to saddling horses and Pellin to cooking. Pellin was a great cook. Could usually create sup with little in supplies and less in equipment. Dunn-Fyne couldn’t fault the aroma of fried gruel cakes, even as it blended with fresh rain smell. The lass had been at Thayne’s left side the entire time as he shoved three cakes into his mouth, one after the other, quickly chewing and swallowing, while never moving his hand from the hilt of his claymore. They all did the same. Such a manner of eating was usual when accompanying enemy clan. They all ate in silence without cutlery or even plates.

His wife wasn’t used to such. It was obvious as she tore her cake into pieces to fit into the cup, barely touching and then blowing at her fingers from the heat. Then she nibbled on one little piece at a time. Thayne glanced at her as she did it and waited but she hadn’t made one act of argument over any of it.

She’d kept her head bowed and rarely raised her eyes. Twice, in fact. Thayne sucked in on his cheeks and considered it. No . . . it had been three times. This Amalie had glanced up at him thrice, showing spirit and fire and how well hidden it all was. That was fine with him. As long as they kept the charade long enough to reach MacGowan land, he’d be well satisfied.

Thayne shifted and resettled on the hard leather of his saddle, brushing his groin against the woman’s thigh with the motion. She’d settled into the spot in front of him with one glance, telling him wordlessly how much she disliked their closeness. Thayne hadn’t cared. Much. The lass was formed too well, with bonny features, slender waist, lush thighs and woman-area, while her breasts tempted him with every upward move of his arm. She seemed fashioned for pleasure. Those reminders added to the satisfied part. If Dunn-Fyne saw fit to see them bedded down in a reasonably private way, regardless of whether they’d reached MacGowan land, Thayne wouldn’t fight off consummating this marriage of his.

His mind wandered where his body couldn’t and he let it, clenching deep in his lower back, feeling the heavy pronounced thump of heartbeat as it started and then heightened, elongating and thickening him. Thayne tilted forward slightly, so he could fit where he wanted, tightening his thighs against the horse at the same time he drew back, bringing her into place. He barely kept the groan from sounding. This woman was perfectly formed. Lush. Even sideways atop him and covered with skirts and plaid, he could sense her haven. Beckoning. Enwrapping. Undulating.

She didn’t help him, but she wasn’t fighting either. At first. Thayne stifled the chivalrous instinct the moment it surfaced. This woman was made for pleasure. And they were wed. It was his right to be and do exactly as he was. She stiffened and made a strange gurgling sound before tightening her buttocks to move. Thayne hardened the arm looped about her until she ceased. He should’ve known not to trust her. There wasn’t a woman birthed that did anything without argue. Nor one that didn’t know how to tease and tempt. And annoy. But he couldn’t stay annoyed long. She was too womanly and had such a luscious smell about her that he bent his head and inhaled, filling his lungs with her smell before sending the gust of it with enough force it ruffled what material the rain hadn’t weighed down.

“Thayne . . . I—”

He shushed her with a warning at her ear, at the exact moment he fitted her atop him again, twisting her forward-facing to slide against her. He held her in position, his left hand atop her belly, enjoying pulsing motions he didn’t bother controlling. Despite her gasp and how her hands hooked about his arm like claws.

He chuckled at her antics, and then the voice of Dunn-Fyne interrupted, waking Thayne to reality and danger. And making him acknowledge it.

“More trouble with the wife, MacGowan?”

Thayne pulled in a lungful of air, lifted his head, and turned toward the man. His wife had ceased breathing, if the form in his arms was any indication. She was in a full tremble, though.

“Nothing I canna’ handle,” he replied, on the released breath.

“She acts more like a maid than a wife.”

“Because she prefers privacy?”

“Because she fights you so. I’ve been watching. And pondering.”

“She likes a good argue, Dunn-Fyne. As do I. I doona’ like my women cowed. Or beaten.”

“Hmm. Pity.”

Thayne looked at Laird Dunn-Fyne, astride a like-size Clydesdale, but due to the man’s smaller stature there was little choice but to look down. He watched as the man acknowledged it and then hated him for it. And started evaluating and deciding his options again, without one word being exchanged.

Dunn-Fyne had full lust for this Sassenach governess. Thayne couldn’t alter it, even swaddled as she was in a thick bundling of green, red, and black plaid. Dunn-Fyne also lusted for revenge. He spent some time looking at Amalie, debating which one suited him best. All of it was easy to spot. Thayne’s mind whirled but nothing else moved except the horse beneath him. To portray marital discord of the wife might work in their favor. But Dunn-Fyne may find it more enjoyable to take the lass’s maidenhood and break her spirit, exactly as he’d done with Mary. Thayne gulped and felt the resultant pop in his ears as he waited and watched.

“I’ve been thinking, MacGowan. I may have need of another wife. Should Mary na’ be located. Or found to have died. A man canna’ be without a wife and son. I’m thinking on the lines of a feisty one this time. Bonny. Young. I also like them . . . maidenly.”

The man drew out each word to get a reaction. The lass went deadly still in Thayne’s arms, making a deadweight. He would’ve suspected a faint except for each catch of breath she made, pushing her breasts against where he held her upright. He cleared his throat.