A Perfect Knight For Love (30 page)

Just as he had at the brewer croft.

Amalie straightened and turned to Sean, facing the center of his chest, or thereabouts. She didn’t look higher.

“Well, Sean. Come along. We might as well get this over,” she informed him.

“My lady?”

“The escort to my chamber. I’m ready for the climb, if you are. Although . . . you probably shouldn’t converse with me. You’ll get further reprimand.”

“Reprimand, my lady?”

She moved rapidly, forcing him to the same pace, in the direction of the stairs, moving around the odd bit of table or bench in the way as she went.

“It’s painfully obvious you’re a miscreant, Sean. Or you’d be with His Lordship, doing whatever it is men do when they’re avoiding their wives.”

“My lady?”

“You got the short straw, Sean. Confess.”

“My lady?”

“What?” Amalie rounded on him, reaching a view of his upper chest this time. He didn’t have any resemblance to her husband’s size, at all. It was getting easier to see, too.

“You’re heading toward the Chieftain Hall.”

“And my husband? Oh dear. That won’t do at all, now will it? Very well. You lead. Escort me. Wasn’t that your task?”

He put out an arm. Amalie took it, and got turned around again. They’d reached the correct tower hall before he spoke again. Amalie looked toward his head, but it was difficult to decipher features with the gloom, even interspersed as it was with lit torches in their sconces.

“My lady, if I could speak?”

“Is this the wrong stairs, too? I’m going to need smelling salts before I reach the chamber at this rate, Sean. I’m warning you. We Sassenach are weak creatures. Surely you’ve been taught that.”

He chuckled. “I’ve a confession to make, my lady. If I might be so bold?”

“Oh please. Whenever is a Scotsman
not
bold?”

“I am na’ being disciplined. I’m being honored.”

“Of course you are. Step lively now or I’m racing you.”

“My lady?”

Amalie grabbed up her skirts and started running. He had her at the fifth step, and was waiting at each landing for her to finally arrive, huffing for breath; one handful of skirts, and the other holding the necklace from jouncing, before starting up the next. By the time they reached the last one, Sean was laughing, while Amalie had rarely felt so silly. She didn’t need a mirror to see how red-faced and ridiculous she looked. She still longed to thank him for changing any desire to cry. He gave her time at the door to gain her composure before knocking; winking at her while she fussed with each fold of her dress, and then every strand of her hair.

Maves answered the knock, looking stout and efficient, and eternally Scottish. She had Beth at her side. Greeting them was the added touch to a complete restorative, and Sean didn’t even wait for a word of thanks. Honor indeed! He was whistling as he jogged from her. Amalie imagined him running to join in the keg of ale they’d decided to split open and then drink.

Men.
She’d never understand them.

It was a laborious process to disrobe, unbraid her hair for brushing, decide on an elaborate, feminine-looking night rail, before finally getting settled into that enormous bed, watching the fire glow from across that huge span of floor. She wasn’t used to such space, nor was she used to the solitude. At least, she wasn’t since Edmund had passed on. Most nights, she’d snuck into his room and slept curled at the foot of his bed. None had known how close they were, because no one truly cared what a daughter did with all her spare hours. Amalie blinked rapidly on the tears of self-pity, counseling herself over them as she did so. Like always. Tears were for the selfish. The weak. The unrestrained. Not her.

But she missed Edmund. She missed the comforting weight in her arms that was Baby Mary. And she truly missed Thayne.

A knock came at her door, echoing oddly through the measure of space. Thayne knocked now? What sort of behavior was this? Amalie slid to the edge of the bed, slipped a thick robe on, and then padded over to the door, running from rug to rug as she did so. She hadn’t known the floor was this cold.

“My lady?”

It was Maves; her hair in some sort of arrangement of tied strips of material, and in her own nightclothes. She had a candlestick in her hand.

“Yes?”

“’Tis the bairn. She—”

There was more but Amalie wasn’t listening. She raced past, intent on the rooms given over to a nursery. She ran up one more swirl of the steps, any light from Maves’s candle long behind her, not even aware of the cold stone on bare feet. She didn’t need directions. She just followed the heartrending cries. She was no longer the stoic Englishwoman in a castle full of the enemy. She wasn’t a woman scorned. She wasn’t a runaway heiress with a plan. She was a mother with a distressed babe, and she didn’t care who saw it.

They had a fire roaring in the fireplace of the nursery, stifling the area with warmth. One of the nannies was in a rocker with the babe in her lap, rubbing along her belly. There were others in the rooms, rubbing their hands together, murmuring amongst themselves, and Baby Mary was kicking and squalling through all of it.

“Mary!”

Amalie had her in one swoop, cuddled against her heart, crooning to the little down-covered head. She didn’t even note the tears sliding down her cheeks.

“We dinna’ wish to disturb you and the master, my lady, but the bairn! She would na’ quiet. She’s like to make herself ill with that amount of crying. We were that worried.”

“Aye. She would na’ even suckle.”

“She’s so weak. We dinna’ wish her to pass without a word to you or—”

“My baby isn’t weak!”

Amalie interrupted her with the announcement and then she snarled at all of them. She’d never felt such a warm surge of heat as the one that flared through her. The room was absolutely silent, and then the baby made the slightest coo sound, ending the tension-filled moment. Amalie snuggled her closer, breathing infant smell and sniffing against an onslaught of tears that would shame her if she gave vent to them. That’s when the nanny stood, setting the rocker to a floor-thumping sway with her missing bulk.

“Well, will you look at that? I’d heard of it, but disbelieved it until now.”

Amalie tightened her arms about Mary.

“Heard what?” one of the other women asked.

“That the bairn has taken to her. Exactly like the master.”

“And just why wouldn’t they, Mistress MacGorrick?”

The antagonistic tone wasn’t lost on those in the room, although Maves was clearly out of breath. Amalie felt her standing beside her, adding a right flank to her defensive position. She didn’t bother checking. She couldn’t see through the veil of tears in her eyes, nor did she want to move her nose from the top of Mary’s head.

“Why . . . her being Sassenach and all.”

“She’s wed to the master, and that’s good enough for me. Should be enough for any of you. Mistress MacGorrick. Elsie. You too, Bett.”

“Word is, she forced the wedding.”

“Take a good look at Her Ladyship, mistress, and then hold your tongue. She look capable of making a MacGowan do anything he has nae mind to?”

The amusement from that statement rippled through the room. Mistress MacGorrick’s tone on her next statement didn’t sound like she appreciated it.

“Does na’ always take size and brawn to force a man. You ken it as well as I do, Maves . . . for all your Sassenach leanings.”

“I serve Her Ladyship. As wife to our future laird. And I suggest you do the same.”

“The next thing you’ll be averring is it’s a love match.”

The woman’s scorn showed her disbelief of that. Maves’s reply was loud.

“Aye. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve a verra good inkling of such, and I’ll attest it now.”

“Well, I’ve been told he had the choice given to him. ’Twas death or her hand. That’s what I heard.”

“You heard wrong.”

A chorused gasp answered Thayne’s announcement, the full male timbre of his voice surprisingly loud in the room. Everyone turned to face him, Amalie included. He had some of his Honor Guard with him, packing the space. If he meant to frighten them, he succeeded. He took another step forward, holding one hand on his sword hilt. And then he glared at the women behind her, moving his eyes to encompass all of them. Amalie had never seen anything so raw and so dominating. No wonder Jamie feared him.

“I give orders for my wife to be in my chambers. I expect them obeyed.”

That was too much. Amalie sucked in air, choking with it while her entire frame started trembling. She didn’t care how grim and terrifying he sounded.

“Later, Amalie.”

His tone, as well as the words, shut off her throat. If it wasn’t for the baby, she actually considered having a fit of hysteria, much like her father often accused. And if she knew what it entailed.

“Nor do I tolerate open dissent in my household.”

“’Twas na’ as Your Lordship thinks.”

“All things are different than they appear, Mistress MacGorrick. Even this. You’d do well to remember that in the future. The rest of you need think on your words, your intents, and your futures.”

“Futures, my lord?” The words were hesitant. Frightened.

“I doona’ harbor vipers in my midst. This will be dealt with. For now, I’ll be to returning to my chamber. And I’m taking my wife with me. Amalie?”

“I’m not leaving the baby.” Amalie forced her voice to work. She was shocked when it did.

“I dinna’ suggest that you do,” he replied.

“She’s . . . coming with me?”

“Us. The bairn is coming with us.”

He took a step toward her, somehow enveloping with warmth and security. The men made a passage between them for her and the babe, closing it as they passed, adding even more security. Maves led the way. Amalie didn’t know Thayne was at her back until he started giving more orders.

“Grant? Secure a cradle. Len? Send word to the clan for another wet-nurse. One with a bent toward loyalty. Euan? Check the stables for goats.”

“Goats?”

The door shut behind them, echoing in the hall, and making a torch flutter.

“We’ll need the goat milk. For the bairn. In the event Len fails, or takes over-long in his search.”

“Oh. Aye.”

The group had halted and now formed a circle with her at the core. Amalie didn’t notice how she’d been separated from her maid until Thayne spoke again. He was using his authoritative voice again, the one that created shivers.

“Who are you, and why have you accompanied us?”

“Maves, Your Lordship. I’m Her Ladyship’s maid.”

“Is she?”

He addressed Amalie. She lifted her nose from breathing in delicate baby smell and nodded. Thayne regarded her wordlessly for a moment before turning back to the maid.

“Then, how is it my wife is at the nurseries getting harangued by women with sharp tongues and na’ secure in her bed as ordered?”

“T’would be my fault.”

“Yours?”

“I . . . forced her, you see. She was all set in Your Lordship’s chamber. Abed and waiting and then—”

“I see nae bonds about her. How did you manage such a feat?”

“The bairn . . . would na’ quiet. Nanny MacGorrick fetched me, and I . . . thought if she had her mother . . . she’d calm.”

“Her mother?”

Maves straightened. “Exactly as I’ve been told, Your Lordship.”

Thayne looked down at her for long, heart-pounding moments before finally smiling. “Verra good, Maves. Grant? We may continue.”

“It appears I had the right of it, too. Do you see how the bairn takes to her? I vow, the moment she felt Her Ladyship’s touch, the wee one ceased all her issues. ’Twas the most heartwarming thing. I vow, started tears into my eyes. ’Tis clear the bairn kens her mother. There’s nae clanswoman in Scotland would believe different.”

“Phib?”

The named came on a breath from Thayne. One of the men moved forward, holding on to Maves’s elbow as he took to escorting her down the steps. Amalie couldn’t tell what he said but she could guess from the woman’s reply.

“You? An issue with the lasses? Come on, man. You’re one of Thayne MacGowan’s Honor Guard. What issue could you have with the lasses other than working to peel them from you after a bit of showing on the lists? Truly? Well, there’s a bit of a potion I’ll see fetched for you. That is, if Her Ladyship nae longer has need of my services?”

Maves looked back to Amalie, midsentence. Thayne answered for her.

“I’ve got the wife fully in hand. She’ll have nae need of services until morn. From you or any other party. Except perhaps Len. With the goat milk.”

Maves was turned down a hall at the next landing, chatting the entire time with the hulking man beside her. Torchlight was futilely trying to dent the gloom between sconces as they passed through it. Amalie watched them go and then looked up at Thayne.

“You did that on purpose.”

“What?”

“Handed Maves another assignment to see her on her way and out of yours.”

“I did that?”

“There’s probably nothing wrong with the man, either. Is there?”

“Your maid appears to have a bent toward speech . . . of the nonending kind. Phib has a great knack for listening.”

“He does?”

“He’s tone deaf, my lady.”

“Aye. Reads lips, if he must.”

The information came from two of Thayne’s Honor Guardsmen. They were all grinning.

Amalie couldn’t hide the amusement, although hers came with a chuckle. “I see.”

“Come along, wife. I’ve a strong yen toward my chamber. And some time alone with my wife.”

“And your babe?” Amalie added.

He flicked a glance to the bundle in her arms and everything on his features seemed to soften for the barest fraction of time. And then it changed to the stern visage he’d presented in the nursery. “Aye. Her, too. Come. The night has na’ gotten longer. And I need my bed.”

They started off again, Thayne leading this time. The man was so mercurial! He gave heat-inducing statements and glances one moment, and then chased them away with cold looks and acidic rejoinders. He was sending her emotions down a torrential waterfall one moment, and then sealing them in a frozen pond the next. Maddening. Impossible. And it wasn’t lasting much longer.