Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) (24 page)

"Ye'd best put Kelvin to bed," Rachel said.

"Aye." Relief flooded Shona as she turned toward the boy. Rachel had always been good at cleaning up her messes.

"I'll see to Dugald's wound," Rachel added.

Shona stopped in her tracks.

"Tis little more than a scratch," Dugald said.

"Aye, just a scratch," Shona echoed.

All eyes turned to her. What the hell was wrong with her? She remained immobilized with her hand on Kelvin's shoulder.

"Ahh... Boden's old leg wound is bedeviling him," Shona lied, knowing she was a fool, but not quite able to leave Dugald to Rachel's tender touch.

"Sara's Boden asked for me?" Rachel questioned.

"Nay." Shona cleared her throat. "Nay. But ye know how he is. Tis like him to suffer in silence." Twas a foolish thing to say, for Boden was wont to be quite vociferous about his injuries.

Rachel stared at her. Her eyes were the eeriest things. They could look right through a person to her soul. And hardly had Shona found a way to prevent the penetration.

"Then I'd best seek him out," Rachel said, and stepped forward. “Would it be too much if I saw Dugald to the infirmary?" Her voice was soft, the words meant for Shona's ears alone.

Shona felt herself blush and nearly squirmed beneath Rachel's rapt attention. "Tis not what ye think, cousin," she murmured.

"Truly?" Rachel asked. Her brows lifted and her lips twitched. "Then ye will have to tell me what it is."

"Dugald," she said, turning back toward the men, "if ye will follow me, I will show ye to the infirmary."

"Tis not necessary, I assure ye."

"I assure ye it is," she countered, looking back at Shona. "For I canna imagine my cousin with a one-armed lover."

"What?" Dugald said.

Rachel turned back, her expression angelic. "Tis dark out here, I said, I canna see well, like my cousin whom I love so."

Shona's face burned.

"That's not what she said," Kelvin countered.

Shona tightened her grip on the lad's shoulder and leaned near to his ear. "Nay, but if ye dunna want another drenching, ye will pretend it was," she said, and marched him up to his room.

Dugald glanced up from his spot on the pallet. Shona stood like a scarlet angel in the doorway of the infirmary. Her hair was loose and flowed about her shoulders in gossamer waves. The light from the sconce set it aglow like crimson flames. Her hands, slim and pale, were clasped before her.

She wore the same gown as before, and the high portions of her breasts looked no less enticing, no less alluring. But it was her eyes that drew him in. They were typically wide, tremendously green. An unwary man could get lost in those eyes.

Luckily, he was not unwary. He was trained to withstand every temptation, to overcome any impediment that stood in his way. Still, he would feel more secure if he had at least kept his tunic and doublet on. For without them he lost a bit more of his carefully groomed veneer.

He pulled his gaze away from her with a determined effort and focused on his wound. It was slight, perhaps an inch long, and not deep. It seemed a safe thing to concentrate on until she was gone.

Of course, it would have been safer still if he hadn't gotten himself wounded. But after his foolishness at archery, he felt a need to reestablish himself as inept, accomplished at nothing but seducing women.

Mother of God, he should never have become involved in this mission. He should have stayed on Isle Fois, where there were no flame-haired vixens to disrupt his peace. But if he were foolish enough to agree with Tremayne's plans, at least he could have done the job without calling attention to himself, without acting the fool. What had come over him? he wondered. But one glance at Shona reminded him.
She
had come over him. And suddenly he could no longer bear for her to think him entirely incompetent—especially in a field where she excelled.

"Your cousin Rachel washed and treated my arm," he said, searching for some conversation to keep his lust at bay.

She seemed to find her voice with some difficulty. "She did?"

"Aye, but she did not have time to bind it. Thus she said I should wait for you here."

"Oh." She cleared her throat. Twas not like her to be at a loss for words, he thought, but she had said she felt guilty for his wound, which also was out of character. Surely she was more the type to wound him than to bind him.

The change in her intrigued him. After all, he would be a fool not to understand his adversary, her moods, her capabilities, he told himself. But somewhere inside him a more honest man laughed.

She did not intrigue him because of the task that had been set before him. She intrigued him because of what she was, the way she laughed, the way her eyes danced with mischief and her...

Dugald gave himself a mental shake. There were a thousand reasons he could not get involved with this woman. A thousand and one, counting the fact that her father had forbidden him from seeing her. In fact, if Roderic knew they were together now, Dugald would probably be nursing far worse than a wounded arm.

He turned his eyes away from her and tried to concentrate on the gathering of information. "A strange place, this," he said.

"The infirmary? Aye." She took a single step into the room. "My aunt Fiona is a renowned healer." She touched the lavender petals of a bundle of dried flowers that hung on the wall. "Glen Creag is her home, but she has done her best to make certain Dun Ard, too, has all the necessary elements for healing."

"Fiona." He thought for a moment. "Laird Leith's wife."

"Aye."

"So your cousin, Rachel, has inherited her mother's skill?"

Shona skirted the walls, as if avoiding him as long as possible. "Aye, Rachel is also a gifted healer."

He watched her. Never had he seen her look so skittish—even while pretending to be a peasant maid in naught but a drenched tunic. "And you, Damsel Shona, have you gained that skill also?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him as if considering her answer. "Not a smidgen," she admitted.

That honesty, like everything about her, fascinated him. "Then why am I here?"

She stared at him for a second, but finally turned abruptly away to fiddle with a leather bottle set upon a nearby shelf. "Have I not told ye that I felt guilty? Twas my fault that ye were wounded. It only seems right I should have a hand in the healing."

He thought about that for a moment. "So you told the lad to strike me down?"

She scowled at him. "Dunna be absurd."

"Then you must have, at least, insisted that he practice his skills on me?"

"Hardly."

He rose restlessly to his feet. Her nearness made him restive, but her distance made him even more so. "Tis as I thought, then. You are a witch, and you somehow caused young Kelvin to wound me. But why? Oh. I remember—twas because I threatened to give my archery award to your cousin."

She glared at him. The fire in her eyes sent a thrill sparking through him.

"Truly, your vanity far exceeds your charms," she said.

"You think so? The duchess of Hanover thought otherwise. In fact, she—"

"Sit down!" she ordered. "I'll bandage your arm."

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"I told ye, because I feel guilty."

"Why?"

She looked away as she gathered a roll of fabric from a trunk near the pallet. "I should have been supervising Kelvin more carefully."

"Why?"

She looked up from her knees to scowl at him. "He is my responsibility."

"Why?"

"Are ye always this irritating?"

"Not according to the emperor's concubines. Each agreed that I am the most alluring of men.

Why is he your responsibility? Is he some relation?"

"Nay."

"Then why must the burden fall on you?"

She rose from her knees to approach the bed, a scowl on her face and a bandage in her hands.

"Why this sudden interest in Kelvin?"

Memories fell softly around him in the darkness, memories of a young boy whose eyes were too pale, whose legs were too long.

Dugald shrugged. "In truth, he is not unlike a thousand other orphaned lads. Naught but a burden on those—"

"Is that how ye see him? As a burden?" she interrupted.

"There have been other young maids who have seen it in just that way," he said. "You can take my word on this."

She stared at him for a moment, but he was careful to keep his emotions hidden. He was here to learn about
her,
not the other way around.

She shrugged as she settled on the mattress next to him. He watched her, but she refused to raise her gaze to his. "Someone has to care for the lad." Lifting the bandage, she placed the end against his upper arm. Her fingers brushed his biceps. Lightning sparked at impact, shocking him.

She jerked her hand away and dropped the bandage. Their gazes fused, their breathing escalated. Mother of God, she was stunning, with skin as fair as frothy milk. He could not fight her allure, he thought, and reached for her. But good sense smote him suddenly. Drawing his hand back, he pulled himself together. She seemed to do the same. Her cheeks were pink as she turned her gaze quickly downward.

"Shona?" He breathed her name.

She refused to answer, refused to look up.

"Shona?" he repeated.

She raised her gaze abruptly. "Could I have my bandage back?"

He scowled at the question. She nodded toward his lap. His gaze followed hers. The bandage rested between his dark-hosed thighs, nestled with comfortable familiarity against his crotch.

He lifted his eyes to look into hers. The room suddenly seemed very hot and still and airless.

She cleared her throat and snapped her gaze away. "May I have my bandage back?"

If he had a modicum of good sense, he'd snatch it off his lap and run like hell. It wouldn't be the first time he refused a mission. Some years ago he'd been hired to return the runaway wife of a young baron. But it turned out the nobleman had a nasty way with horses. In the end, Eagle had been Dugald's only reward. Twas obvious that no one could accuse him of learning from his mistakes.

"The bandage is yours to take," he said, but made no move to fetch it for her.

She reached out then drew her hand abruptly back.

"You are a strange lass, Shona," he murmured. "Sometimes as bold as a warrior, sometimes as shy as a babe. Which are you, I wonder?"

"I am neither," she said, her cheeks pink.

"Then what are you?"

"I am just what I seem to be."

He shook his head. It was imperative to figure her out, if not for
his
continued survival— certainly for hers. "I do not think so, lass."

"What do ye mean by that?"

Her tone sounded tense. Why? What did she have to hide?

"I think there is more to you than you are telling."

"I am nothing but a humble maid. The daughter of the Rogue and the—"

He laughed aloud. "Already I doubt your words, for no one could call you humble."

"I
am
a humble maid," she said, but her tone was irritable and her brows lowered over her stone sharp eyes.

"A humble maid who can best the men at archery."

"Twas no great feat."

"Who befriends Scotland's king."

"I can only assume that kings need friends, too."

"Who wears breeches when the mood suits her. Who scales towers. Who chooses her own spouse. Who spends months alone at court. Who fosters a boy without the aid of a husband. Why are you so arrogant? What makes you so self-assured?"

She watched him with wide eyes. There was nervousness there, perhaps even fear, though it was well hidden. Why? What did she fear? Here at Dun Ard she was as good as a princess. Nothing could harm her within the safety of these walls. Or at least, that was what she should believe. He rose to his feet, needing to put space between them in order to think. The bandage rolled onto the floor, unraveling as it went, and seeming to open his mind with it.

"What is the lad to you, Shona?" he asked.

She lifted her gaze from the bandage, her eyes as wide as a doe's. "He is but a lad—in need of a home."

"He looks rather like—our king." The resemblance struck him like a bolt of lightning.

She shot to her feet. "What?"

"When were you first at court?" he rasped.

"I...what?"

He took a step toward her. The truth was so close, on the tip of his tongue. "Did you know James the Fourth?"

"James? Aye. We...met."

"When?"

She stumbled back a pace. "Why do ye wish to know?"

"The child is yours, isn't he? Yours and the old king's," Dugald declared abruptly. "Tis the lad you hope to put on the throne."

Her jaw dropped in amazement, but her shock was no greater than Dugald's. His theory was ingenious. But what the hell was he doing blurting it out to her?

"Ye're accusing me of dallying with the king?" she asked, her tone breathless.

"Is the child yours?" He knew he shouldn't ask, knew he should use subterfuge to learn the truth.

But he could not wait, for suddenly the thought of her with another man,
any
man, was beyond bearing.

"You're insane," she whispered.

"Is he yours?"

"Nay!"

Dugald scowled. Her denial sounded more than honest—enraged, even—putting his theory on shaky ground. Still, he was not ready to give it up for there was something here she was hiding. “I have met the old king," he said slowly. "Your Kelvin bears a striking resemblance."

"As does half the population of Scotland."

"That's because half the population is his get," he argued, stepping nearer. "He was not a man known for his fidelity to the queen."

She gaped at him. "And thus ye assumed that I, too, had birthed one of his bairns?"

"You are not exactly loathsome to look at, Shona. Twas well known that James had a weakness for a bonny face. Why were you keeping his heritage a secret? Someone was bound to figure out the truth. Tis a logical conclusion. Think on it. Your close ties to the throne, the boy's features, his demeanor, his hair color..."

"Logical!" she gasped. "I would have been no more than... twelve when the babe was conceived."