A Perfect Knight For Love (19 page)

Nowhere was safe! She looked to the forest beyond him, sucked in on her bottom lip and hoped he wouldn’t note her reaction and especially the why of it. She already knew she had too much imagination and she knew he was handsome enough to tie her tongue and drop her jaw, but she’d hoped further time in his presence would cure, or at least mute, the affliction. It was a complete blow to find that false.

“Here.”

He fished about in the pack behind him, bumping against her head more than once with a shoulder before holding out another of their dry cakes.

“I’d rather await the sup prepared at your castle.” She replied haughtily before making a lie of it by accepting the offering.

“You’ll na’ attend,” he replied.

“I won’t?” The surprise sent her gaze to him. She’d curse that move later, once she corrected the instant dryness that made swallowing the biscuit near impossible. She settled with moving the bite about in her mouth with her tongue, hoping for moisture.

“Nae.”

She managed to choke down her food and sent another dry gulp after it to find her voice. Then she flicked a glance to his tightened jaw as he looked out over her head, narrowing his eyes on the low slant of sunlight. Incredible. Masculine. Perfect. Reacting to the view of him just made her voice feminine and breathless-sounding. Much to her complete and total disgust. It was better to watch the trees beyond him. It didn’t work. Her voice was still feminine and breathless-sounding.

“You’d have me . . . starve?”

His lips tipped into a smirk. “I dinna’ say you would na’ eat. I said you’d na’ attend the sup.”

“Why not?”

“The duchess would na’ allow it.”

Amalie straightened slightly. “Your mother wouldn’t allow me to attend sup?”

“There is nae dowager. I speak of the duchess. Jamie’s wife.”

“I look . . . forward to meeting her,” Amalie said.
And telling her a thing or two about her spouse.

He shook his head. “Na’ tonight. You’re . . . na’ proper.”

He glanced down at her at the exact moment her face slackened. She didn’t have time to alter it.

“I have never been so insulted,” she told him.

“You’ve said that afore. You must get insulted oft.”

Amalie set her lips. “I am totally proper, Thayne MacGowan. Totally.”

“Proper . . . but na’ acceptable dress. Nor is the way you’re wearing it.”

“Now, I’m thoroughly insulted, Thayne MacGowan. Thoroughly.”

He smiled but didn’t say anything, so she had to.

“I’m totally acceptable.”

“Na’ for the duchess.”

“Are you truly telling me she’d find me unacceptable? Me?”

Her voice was rising. And it was stronger. The only sign he gave was a wider smile, showing white teeth against his swarthy skin.

“Oh, you’re total acceptable, wife. Total. You just appear to be . . . tired.” When he answered, he used the arm about her to lift her, hauling her against him.

“Tired?” It was an argument. He should be listening closer.

“And . . . mussed.”

“Mussed?”

“From . . . sleeping in your clothing. And other things.”

“Other things?”

His lips were right at her ear. Amalie lifted a shoulder against it. It didn’t work. Not much did. She still had a complete lurch through her frame, and it was matched almost instantly by his.

“All sorts of other things,” he whispered.

“That is not . . . my fault.” Nor was the soft reply as she swiveled to face him, putting her lips very close to his.

“True.”

The word was accompanied by another push of his groin against her, and a tightening of the arm about her until every breath was a struggle. He also had his eyes scrunched. Amalie watched his face from a finger-length away and waited. She didn’t have another choice.

“Jesu’! But you’re a bonny one.”

He opened his eyes, looked deep into hers, and then loosened his arm enough to lower her to the horse again.

“That is not an answer,” she informed him.

“Bonny . . . and bristly. With an argumentative tongue that covers over honeyed kisses.”

“Thayne.” She was trying for a threatening note, but failed miserably.

“And sweet wet. Warmed. Just for me.”

Her eyes were huge. She couldn’t stop it as he put words into what he made her feel and what was happening.

“’Tis grateful I am to be near home.”

“Near?” She was hoping for a tart tone but sounding feminine, breathless, and now ripe with wanton needs and urges, as well.

“Aye.”

“How near?”

“Right behind you.”

“Right—”

Amalie looked over her shoulder and immediately put her hand out on the horse’s neck for support as she accepted every bit of shock at the structure looming from the mist, looking as if it sat atop a cloud, aglow with the gold-red of sunset. She’d never seen anything so massive, regal, awe-inspiring. Overwhelming. Immense. She lost every bit of her voice. It was impossible not to. Thayne had probably been generous when he called her unacceptable. There wasn’t any of Miss Carsten’s attire that would be. Only the wardrobe of the only daughter of the Earl of Ellincourt would suffice. And it had been left in London.

“Thayne . . . I . . . it’s . . . uh . . .”

Her voice was missing as he twisted to put her back fully against his chest. Her heart hammered against the arm wrapped about her. She didn’t know what her words would’ve been had she voiced them. The castle stole her words. It took her wits. And it severely dampened her self-confidence.

The fog about the castle base was thick, overhanging the shoreline they paralleled. From there it looked to reach out into the forest, like grasping fingers. Castle Gowan was the most amazing structure she’d ever seen, including Warwick and Alnsley. It dwarfed Ellincourt Manor. It probably did the same to anything save a royal estate.

“Doona’ fash, lass. There’s nae words needed.”

He sent a breath of amusement at the end of his words. She knew why. It was payment for her earlier disdain.

“See that tower? The middle one?” Thayne took the arm from about her to point up at the tallest of them. Amalie craned her head back into him to look.

“Yes,” she replied.

He put his arm back around her and she put her hand atop it. She nearly squeezed at the reassuring presence, but held back at the last moment. They were riding into the shadow thrown by the castle now and the setting sun put a massive formation of black silhouette over the landscape.

“Within that tower is a wheel-stair comparable to Fyvie. ’Twas added last century.”

“What’s a wheel-stair?”

“A staircase built of stone in a spiral. Counterclockwise. For defense.”

“Defense?”

“To have a sword-arm free while defending, while the attacking force has nae such thing. That stair is wide enough to ride three horses abreast, too, more than the two built by Laird Seton.”

“Who would want to do that?”

“A man attacking or defending his home.”

“By riding a horse up a stair?”

“I dinna’ say ’twas a normal thing. I only said ’twas possible. See the far tower? That one has two curved staircases. Wide ones. Gets men to the battlements quicker. ’Twas also of use in attaching the keep.”

“Attaching the keep . . . to what?”

“The curtain wall. A free-standing keep is na’ defensible against cannon fire.”

“Cannon . . . fire?” She was losing her voice.

“You doona’ ken what Cromwell’s Protectorship was about?”

Amalie shook her head.

“The man was fond of cannon and used it. ’Twas the prime reason we attached the keep to the walls. The keep is verra auld. Norman-built. Freestanding. Four stories high. Thick walls. Stout . . . but na’ stout enough for Mons Meg and her ilk.”

“Mons Meg?”

“You’ve na’ heard of Mons Meg, either?”

Amalie shook her head again.

“What do they teach you in England? And what, by the Saints, did you intend the MacKennah lasses to learn?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it. Drat the man for finding such a weak spot.

“Well?”

“Tell me about this Meg,” she answered finally.

He was amused enough to move her with his chuckle. “Mons Meg is a siege cannon, settled in Edinburgh since our second King James’ time, although it’s seen little use since the ascension war ceased. In 1603.”

“Surely you jest. There wasn’t a war then. I’m beginning to wonder at your education, MacGowan. Fully.”

“Hate and mistrust of Sassenach goes deep. ’Twas paused for a bit when Mary’s son ascended the English throne in 1603. That peace is now moot. Or are you na’ up on the current state, either?”

“Current state
?”
Amalie racked her brain. There was the abdication last year of the deposed king, James Stewart, who’d fled to France with his pretender son. They were calling this new monarchy of Anne and her husband William the Glorious Revolution. Of course, she’d heard talk, but all of it had seemed immensely boring and of little import.

“They expect us to accept another removal of a rightful Stewart from the throne? The true king? ’Tis war they want, lass, and war they’ll get. Again. And with that comes hatred. ’Tis all the Sassenach offer. And we can do naught save honor their threat.”

Amalie gulped and it moved her head. She knew he felt it.

“Doona’ fash it much. As my wife, you’re now Scot. Or verra soon will be.” He pulled her up against him to breathe the words against her neck. “I’ll order up a bath for you first thing. Heated. I’ll have the same thing done to your towels.”

“Thayne, I . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need a reminder of how condescending and scornful she’d been. The experience of being in the castle’s presence was enough. There was a swell of sound in the air now, too. It emanated from figures all atop the battlements. She could see the pipers if she squinted. It added to the effect. They’d fully entered Castle Gowan’s shadow, riding between two huge stone pillars and onto the first span of bridge. The structure was wood, echoing with first his horse’s hooves, and then the sounds of so many behind them, Amalie tipped sideways to look for the reason. She was pulled back into Thayne’s embrace the exact moment she gasped, securing her. In that glimpse she’d seen a sea of green, red, and black plaid-clad men following them. Some mounted, but most were on foot. Each of Dunn-Fyne’s horses had a rider. Amalie looked over the looming barbican wall, rising from the rock foundation to create a massive gate front at the end of the bridge. They reached two more stone pillars midway across, holding a drawbridge. There were chains leading to the tops of each pillar. Her eyes followed one to a crenellated tower with arrow slits carved into it.

“’Tis a grand structure. Aye?” Thayne asked and all she could do was nod.

They’d reached the end of the last drawbridge and a portcullis of iron spikes long and pointed enough to spear a horse and its rider. Amalie glanced at it before facing the darkness of archway that opened into a stone walled alleyway, long and narrow. The moment the webbed gate cleared Thayne’s head, he urged his horse forward, walking through another thick stone archway and into an inner bailey that was churned and uneven with slush-covered grass and mud. One of the near buildings loomed from the right, turning into an ancient-looking keep that was attached to the wall with a tower. It had the inflexibility of a Norman design, featuring large gray stone blocks, nothing save cross-shaped slits, and a two-story doorframe. At the far end of the inner bailey there was a building resembling a Renaissance Palace. The columns and carved statuary all about it faced them from across the length of the grounds. Amalie had a good look before moving her attention to the structures on the left side. These turned out to be thatched-roof crofts and fenced-off gardenplots, situated between two larger stone edifices that created another courtyard. And past that she could see more buildings.

Thayne continued through a corridor between the Norman Keep and another centuries-old building before turning to his left. She knew the stables before seeing them. The long, two-story structure ran along the wall, containing so many horses, she didn’t know how he’d fit in the ones he’d brought.

“Each MacGowan chieftain put a mark on the castle. They add a wing, a tower, a structure. Such as that one. The one attempting to be fashionable.”

“Which one is that?” Amalie asked.

“Just look.” He gestured to the Renaissance building at the far end. “’Tis called The Palazzo. Our grandfather had that monstrosity constructed. Designed it himself after studying buildings throughout the Continent. Spent my grandmother’s entire dowry on it. Such a waste.”

“It’s . . . beautiful,” she remarked.

“Useless in battle. Na’ one of those turrets could hold cannon, and but one archer. And look at the weakness of the design. An attacker would breach those windows in moments.”

“Surely that isn’t necessary in the inner bailey?”

“Betrayal comes from within, lass. Always. And the lone thing standing a-tween a man and death is strength and defense. In every aspect and every building. ’Tis what makes a clan rich. Proud. Strong.”

“Barbaric,” she added.

He huffed a breath. It sounded like a cross between annoyance and amusement.

“Jamie’s duchess lives there. That woman gained vast ideas for décor and uses large sums to pay for it. She fancied The Palazzo for her backdrop and naught else would do.”

His tone said more than his words.

“And that’s . . . wrong?”

“Doona’ you listen? She follows French fashion. All frills and nonsense . . . with regard to her entire household. Even the servants are attired in long, curled, powdered wigs atop their heads. Dressed in fancy short trews with satins, and laces and ribbons and gold-smelted embossed buttons. Most of her household hails from France. Nae self-respecting Highlander would wear such. They’d rather fall on their own claymore.”

Amalie had seen some examples of proper court fashion. At Dilling’s ball in Yorkshire, when she’d first been introduced to the dowager duchess of Rochester, starting this chain of events. Amalie hadn’t met the reigning duke until much later . . . when the family already had the promise of her hand in wedlock and her fortune slated for the Rochester coffers. There’d been no witnesses to the meeting of duke and wife-to-be except four burly handlers hovering over the scene. No one ever saw the current title holder of Rochester . . . for a reason. And her father wanted Ellincourt progeny sired by that freak of nature? Amalie had to move her thoughts or gag. She’d forgotten how frightened she’d been and why she’d grabbed at this escape when fate put it before her. It was easier to recall the courtiers that had been at the ball, looking elegant and refined. Well-groomed. Clean. But extremely effeminate when compared with Thayne and his band.