A Perfect Knight For Love Page 2

  If he’d just give her a moment, she’d tell him. She believed him. She did. This much intensity and action had to have life and death at its core. She no longer cared about the stolen room or the outrage of her first kiss. She was overcome. Shocked. Scared. She needed to be alone to work through it. Amalie’s known world was structured, soft spoken, rarely disturbing, closely organized, and scripted. There wasn’t anything dramatic about it.

  The room they’d purloined was in the attic, small and sparsely furnished, as a second-class paying passenger deserved, and it was crowded. It reeked of poorly washed linens and sweat, while grassy-smelling smoke came from a fireplace that hadn’t had the flue opened enough. Or they were using wet wood. Or something. Amalie’s eyes smarted the moment they’d arrived. Then, she was blinking against the sting. Through a candlelit haze she heard the sound of whispered voices and the soft sound of weeping. And the muted sounds of what had to be an infant getting suckled.

  An infant?

  “How . . . is she?”

  Thayne’s voice was soft but it was the only soft thing about him. The words echoed through where he’d pressed Amalie; close . . . like a shield. Both his arms were about her torso, just beneath her breasts, pressing immodestly where they shouldn’t. Which was another stupid mundane thought. None of this was modest.

  “She’s dying! Dinna’ Pellin say?”

  “Save her, damn you! ’Tis why I brought you!”

  “You canna’ change fate, Thayne MacGowan. Regardless of how oft you try.”

  “Shut up.”

  The words were ground out. Thayne moved forward, toward a small sagging mattress on an equally sagging bed frame. He went to a knee, folding Amalie into a kneeled stance with it, and reached with his free hand toward the woman propped against ecru-shaded linens that matched the color of her skin.

  “Mary?”

  He touched her cheek, moving Amalie forward with the pressure of his chest against her head. The move connected too much male to where her bonnet should have been protecting, which was just another stupid worry in a world of new ones.

  The woman rolled her head toward them. She didn’t look to qualify as a woman yet. She was little more than a girl. And she’d been severely beaten; often and recently. Her blackened swollen eyes and the myriad scabbing and bruising couldn’t hide it.

  “You . . . see . . . the bairn?” The wraith whispered it.

  “In time,” Thayne replied.

  “She’s . . . perfect.”

  “You were na’ to have it until we reached the castle.”

  The girl smiled in such a slight gesture, it hurt to watch. “Pro . . . tect her, Thayne.”

  He nodded.

  The girl pulled in a shallow breath. Two words came out with the exhalation of it. “From . . . him.”

  “Aye.”

  He cleared his throat, showing what this meant to him. Amalie’s eyes pricked with unbidden emotion and she blinked rapidly against it.

  “You . . . promise?”

  The words were a hint of whisper, followed by another shallow, barely discernible breath.

  “Aye.”

  This time his voice did crack.

  “And you?”

  The girl moved her gaze to Amalie.

  Me?

  Thayne’s arm tightened, squeezing. The man was worse than a barbarian. He was a brute.

  “Promise it!”

  Thayne’s hissed warning was barely audible. Amalie nodded. The girl on the bed sighed softly, rolled her head back to look toward the ceiling and closed her eyes. They watched her take another breath and let it out. Then there was nothing but silence. Cursed, complete silence. Then sobbing started again from somewhere in the room behind them.

  “Somebody handle the wet-nurse! Jesu’! Easy, though. We need her. And fetch Grant. Gannett. Michael. Alex. And Rory.” Thayne stood and turned away, barking orders with a gruff voice.

  “Present.”

  “Done.”

  “Ready.”

  Thayne held Amalie as voices punctuated the space, forcing her to continue the unforeseen and unwarranted insertion into private matters. Dreadful matters that she didn’t want to comprehend or address. Amalie was certain whatever she’d interrupted was sordid and scandalous, even before they’d gotten an innocent Englishwoman involved . . . through no fault of her own other than a careless step on the feeling of complete freedom. Or what was freedom if she could just escape. That was the most important. She had to get loose and then she’d run. Far and fast. She didn’t know what else this Thayne might be capable of.

  His arms tightened as if he second-guessed her thoughts. He spoke again, filling the room with low-voiced orders. Only now there wasn’t a hint of weakness or emotion to his tone.

  “Get Mary’s body to Castle Gowan. Afore another minute passes. We’ve nightfall for the assist and na’ much else. Dunn-Fyne’s on our heels. Already.”

  “So many? ’Tis too risky.”

  “Nae option. They’ve eleven leagues, four burns, and Caryndale to cross. I’ll na’ trust her to anything less. Wrap her and go! Quickly!”

  “That’ll leave you with just four men, Thayne!”

  “Aye. But I’ve got this for a ploy.”

  Thayne stood, lifting her to show what he meant. That’s when she knew exactly what he was capable of.

  Chapter 2

  He must’ve forgotten what chivalry felt like but couldn’t imagine why. Or how. Or when.

  It seemed like his entire life Thayne took responsibility and punishment for Jamie’s escapades. That was the lone way to keep their sire from guessing the truth about his favored son. That, in turn, kept the laird of MacGowan from brutality and drink. And that bit of chivalry kept their mother from her bouts of melancholy. At least until the old laird passed on and the dowager duchess followed him into the crypt less than a season later. It hadn’t even been a year since Thayne had suffered every curse of chivalry when he’d watched Mary leave him . . . without a word of the cost. Or the heart-burnings. Or the betrayal.

  All of which were old issues and even older secrets. Thayne had ever kept secrets, practiced chivalry without a murmur, and taken blame without one word of defense. He’d also reaped the punishment . . . and then the pain. He should be used to it.

  Thayne shifted atop his horse, lifted his head, and blinked on dry eyes that hadn’t time for grief. Chivalry was cold. Lonely. Friendless. It always had been. And now it was guilt-ridden as well.

  He bowed his back, rested his chin atop the wench’s head and looked unseeingly at the gloom-cast path. The air was heavy, filling each breath with cold and wet and the promise of more. Inhalation brought moistness that tugged at his chest before he released it. Such ague-spiked mist was the cause of Sean’s coughs as they came ever closer together and louder. Thayne could also blame the inclement weather for Mary’s early labor and subsequent death. He didn’t. It was his fault, and his burden to bear. That was the curse of chivalry.

  The lass in his arms whimpered slightly at the beginning of every breath, reminding him of barbarity and guilt. She wasn’t doing it consciously. She’d been asleep since they’d entered this forest and well before rain hampered their progress. Or she was an expert at relaxing her frame in a parody of sleep. Thayne smirked. He truly wasn’t caring one way or the other and it was a large improvement to the thrashing and closed-mouth screaming she’d done when he’d first subdued, gagged, and then trussed her up in bonds like a holiday game hen. He hadn’t meant to but she didn’t give him the choice. She either didn’t understand the dire reality of their situation, or life meant little to her.

  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 wiv
es. 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.