Mad for the Plaid (16 page)

In the process of rolling out her bed, she rocked back on her heels and frowned. “Pardon me, but dinnae you have something to do?”

“Do you need help?”

“Nae, but there are plenty of chores to be done. You should pick one and see to it.”

Tending the fire nearby, Stewart turned a bark of laughter into a cough.

Nik sent him a scathing look under his lashes and then turned back to Ailsa. “I am free to do whatever you suggest.” Truthfully, he hadn't thought about helping, but as he looked about the camp where everyone scurried to complete various chores before dark, it
dawned on him that perhaps he should indeed be assisting. “Should I get more firewood?”

She nodded. “It's going to be verrah cold tonight.”

“Verrah,” Stewart agreed.

Nik got back to his feet. “Then I'll fetch some.” He had started to walk into the woods when Stewart cleared his throat.

Nik looked back to see the huntsman holding up a small ax.

“You might need this.”

“So I might.” He returned for the ax, and then left to fetch the wood, a bit chagrined he hadn't thought to help without being chided. Was Ailsa right when she'd suggested that his position had given him certain expectations? Had he become spoiled? It was an uncomfortable thought, but he was soothed by the realization that he didn't mind assisting; he rather enjoyed it, in fact. It just hadn't dawned on him that he should do so.

As he chopped some fallen branches into more manageable pieces, the fresh scent of partially dried wood tickling his nose, he realized that the few times he traveled in the wild, he'd never been without a retinue of servants. They'd cared for the horses, set out the pallets, prepared food, set up watch—they did everything. He rarely thought of it—but now, ax in hand, firewood in a growing pile at his side, he couldn't help but do so.

Perhaps it was good in more ways than one that he'd undertaken this endeavor by himself. He finished chopping the final branch and straightened, enjoying the smell of the fresh wood chips fanned across the ground, and grinning to think what his brothers would
say to see him so engaged. Nik hung the ax on his belt, collected the wood, and carried it back to camp.

Ailsa had finished rolling out the pallets and was heating a kettle on Stewart's hook, a small tin of tea sitting nearby.

Nik stacked the wood beside the fire. It took him two trips, and he was rather proud of the healthy stack by the time he finished.

He returned the ax to Stewart and then looked at Ailsa. “Is there anything more to be done?”

She looked as if she wished she could think of something, but finally she said in a rather disappointed tone, “I dinnae believe so.”

“Good.” Nik took a seat nearby. “I'll have some tea, too, if you've enough.”

“I'm making some for everyone.” She said the words as if she couldn't imagine not doing just that.

It dawned on him that her approach to leading her men was as opposite his own as it could be. In a way, she saw herself as an equal, but one with responsibilities, rather than their superior. She rarely issued orders, and he had the impression that were one of her men to disagree with her, she would listen and perhaps even change her mind, if the argument to do so were strong enough.

The kettle tapped loudly as the water began to boil, and, wrapping her hand in her cloak, she lifted the kettle and poured steaming water into the waiting cups. He watched as she made the tea, and soon she held a cup his way.

He took it, wincing a little at the hot cup, before he wrapped it in his muffler and settled back with it. Rurik
and Gregor came to join them, and even MacKean made a brief stop to fetch himself a cup before returning to his post.

The tea was weak compared to the type Nik and his countrymen typically drank. In the morning, he'd make them some of his grandmother's tea; he doubted they'd ever be satisfied with this tepid stuff again.
Tata Natasha would be proud of that.

From across the fire, Ailsa saw the prince's face tighten as he stared into his cup, his expression growing as dark as the encroaching night.

She shouldn't care what he thought. She barely knew him, and he'd done nothing to endear himself to her. He wouldn't have done one single chore if she hadn't chided him. Yet she couldn't ignore his seemingly genuine concern. “What is it?” The words slipped over her lips before she realized she was going to say them.

Nik looked up from his cup, irritation crossing his face.

She thought it wasn't with her, but with himself, for allowing his thoughts to show.

He shrugged. “It is nothing.”

She raised her brows and waited, but he didn't offer another word.

Gregor asked Rurik about winters in Oxenburg and how they compared to those in Scotland, a topic that gained Stewart's attention. Ailsa noted this left Nik alone with his thoughts. From his expression, she thought perhaps his worries were growing with the darkness.

Worry was like that; it gnawed upon one in the quiet. She should know; she spent a lot of her time worrying. Was she doing enough? Too much? Had she thought of everything? Should she ask for advice more often, and if so, from whom? She worried more than she should, and yet it was because she cared—she didn't just want to do well with Castle Leod, she was determined to do so, no matter the cost.

Thus, she recognized the worry now settled on Nik's face. Ailsa moved a little closer to him. “You are thinking aboot your grandmother.”

His jaw tightened. “Perhaps.”

She raised her eyebrows.

He grimaced. “Fine.
Da
. I was. But I do not like that you know what I am thinking.”

“I worry aboot the captives, too. All the time.”

His gaze met hers. “We must rescue them.”

She managed a smile, and for a moment, she didn't feel quite so alone. “So we must.”

The prince murmured his agreement, and they fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. The night darkened and the men continued to talk, moving closer to the other side of the fire. Stewart reheated the leftover stew, the fragrant smell lifting over the camp.

“I hope she is safe.”

Nik's words were so quiet, Ailsa thought for a moment that she hadn't heard them.

He set his empty cup on a rock. “She is very old, though she does not like that mentioned.”

“My grandmother cannae stand us to mention that, either.”

Nik nodded, his gaze flickering past her to the forest. “I cannot imagine her traversing such rough country. I assume Lord Hamilton is the same age?”

“Aye, though he is verrah healthy. He rides almost every day, but this would be difficult for him, too. Fortunately, the prisoners dinnae use this trail.”

Nik's gaze locked on her face. “Didn't they?”

“They took a gentler trail through two long valleys, most likely because the abductors knew two elderly prisoners would nae make it on this path, which is steeper.”

“So we take a more direct route. Good. I do not like thinking of her suffering.” He picked up a piece of wood and fed it into the fire, sparks crackling and then lifting with the ash in a curl of gray smoke that rose overhead and disappeared in the trees. “Our conversation last night . . . It was unsatisfactory on many levels.”

“I would nae call it a conversation, but a regular mill.” At his confused look, she explained, “A fistfight.”

A faint smile curved his mouth. “
Da
. Neither of us were at our best. We have lost sight of why we are here: to help Lord Hamilton and my Tata Natasha. On that, we agree.”

She couldn't argue with that.

“Ailsa.” He faced her, his green eyes almost black in the rapidly growing darkness. “We must work together. If in any way our assisting one another helps, then we should—we
must
—do so.”

He is right.
And yet she found herself hesitating.
Could she trust him? Was this the real prince? Or the charming man who was only saying what he must to get his way? She'd seen both sides of this man—the arrogant, no-nonsense prince who ordered his men about without care, and the feckless charmer who tried to win information from her. She'd be wise to remember that first meeting.

Not that she could forget it; every time he spoke, she remembered that blasted kiss. It had been only one kiss. Just one not-that-long-of-a-kiss, but it was still so fresh in her memory that her lips still tingled from it, and her heart still raced at the mere thought.

She was surprised he couldn't hear her heartbeat; it pounded so loudly in her own ears.

Perhaps it is good we'll be in one another's company for the next week or so; being exposed to him will kill every reaction but annoyance.
Last night, he'd been every inch an arrogant do-as-I-say prince. He'd attempted to take over her rescue expedition as if
he
had more of a say in it than
she
.

Ha! She was the daughter of the Earl of Cromartie; she was no one's servant to be ordered about. She could only hope their argument had disabused him of his misconceptions concerning his role in this expedition. No matter how genuine his concern for his grandmother might be, she couldn't allow his preemptory, arbitrary approach to their situation win the day.

He sighed now. “You are still angry. I see it in your eyes.”

The last thing she'd wanted was for him to know
how she felt. “I'm considering your proposition. What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Something simple. We will share our information and do what we can to reach the captives.”

“And then?”

“Once we have located them, then we will decide which tactic to pursue.”

“And how will we decide that? I am nae guid at arm wrestling, if that's what you're thinking.”

He shot her a warm, amused look. “If pressed, I could think of several better ways than mere arm wrestling to resolve an argument with you.”

She dropped her gaze to the safety of her cup of tea, her face heating even in the cold. Just a few words from this man sent her imagination racing in directions she didn't even know existed. It was a dangerous power, one she hoped he never realized he held.

She cleared her throat. “And if we cannae resolve our difference of opinions?”

“We can do this,
krasavitsa.
We must at least try.”

She couldn't argue with trying, could she? “Fine. But we must have a joint plan by the time we reach Kylestrome. We cannae be arguing all the way to the door.”

“Agreed.” He rocked back on his heels. “We will make good partners, I think.”

We might, at that—providing we keep both our lips and our opinions away from one another.
She would make certain they were never close enough for their lips, knees, or any other part of them to so much as brush. The opinions might take a bit more work. “We are partners, then. For now.”

“Good.” He leaned back, his expression still sober, although less dark. “Who do you think is behind this abduction?”

“I dinnae know.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “At first I thought someone took Lord Hamilton to stir oop trouble for my family, but now I'm nae so certain.”

Nik's brows rose, surprise plain on his face. “You think he is the primary target of this abduction, not my grandmother?”

“Hamilton's carriage was the one attacked. Besides, why would someone steal away with Her Grace?”

“She's a grand duchess, and extremely wealthy.” He seemed about to add something else, but then shrugged. “That is enough.”

“But the ransom note was nae for a verrah large sum,” Ailsa pointed out. “Both Lord Hamilton and Her Grace are worth far more.”

“I agree.” His brows knit as he considered this. “Interesting.”

“If money is nae the object, what benefit is there to be had from taking Her Grace? And why ask for a ransom at all?”

His lashes lowered until she could no longer see his eyes. “I'm sure there are reasons.”

“There must be—but you dinnae seem as if you're aboot to share your ideas.” She eyed him over her cup of tea. “We are partners, and yet you are already hiding something. I see how you want it: I tell you all, and you tell me nothing.”

“
Nyet.
That's not how I wish it. I just—” He scowled, his gaze still on her face. “If I thought I knew something
that would help us recover my grandmother and Lord Hamilton, I would share it. But I do not.”

“You clearly have a theory of some sort.”

“I have nothing but empty suppositions. I will tell you this: I believe there is more to this abduction than meets the eye. I just don't know what.”

Whatever he was hiding, she'd find out.
Perhaps I will charm something from you, my kissable prince, and not the other way around.
The thought intrigued her more than she could say.

He raked a hand through his hair, his green eyes resting on her face. “I have a question for you.”

“Aye?”

“If you thought there'd be a ransom note, why did you send Greer to track the abductors?”

“I dinnae expect a ransom. Lord Hamilton's brother is the Earl of Arran. He and my father have never been friendly. At one time, tensions were so high it seemed as if we might end oop in a clan war, which would nae be the first time for our families.”

“There's a rivalry there, eh?”

“Centuries of it. It was only through Lord Hamilton's friendship with my grandmother that the conflict had cooled off a wee bit. Arran loves his brother dearly, as does anyone who meets him. Hamilton's a charmer, he is.”
Much like you.

He toyed with his teacup. “If you don't mind, can you explain what a clan is? I've heard the term, but I'm not familiar with it.”

“Every family in Scotland has pledged to one of the auld families. Those are the clans.”