Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy Two 02] (24 page)

Returning to the house through the front garden, she had shifted her thoughts to what she would wear for supper that evening. Footsteps behind made her turn with a smile, expecting to see that Garth had sprung up again.

Instead she faced Sir Harald, who returned her smile with a knowing grin and said, “Well, lass, you do look pleased to see me for once. I suppose you must have missed me these past few days. But I shall be supping with you tonight, so you should smile again.”

“You are too familiar, sir, and you assume too much,” she said, striving to keep her anger to herself. Life with her brothers had taught her that letting any tormentor see her anger gave that tormentor entirely too much satisfaction. She added crisply, “I thought you were one of the other ladies, that’s all.”

“You’re a dreadful liar, lass, so don’t try it with me after we’re married. I’d take a switch to an untruthful wife just as I would to an untruthful serving wench.”

“Now you are offensive, sir. You have no right to address me in such a manner and can do yourself no good thereby. Indeed, you make too much of what others may have told you, because my father has told me I need not marry you,” she added, fervently hoping that she could count on Sir Iagan to keep his word.

Not looking at all worried, Sir Harald said, “Does he say that? I expect, then, that he will not make the final decision in this matter.”

“No one else is entitled to make that decision, except me,” she snapped.

“Watch your tone, lass,” he said. “Sharpness does not become you, and you must be aware of your brothers’ opinion of you. I doubt they will expect me to treat you with more than common civility.”

A chill shot up her spine at those words, but she said grimly, “You overstep with every word you utter. Take care that I do not complain of you to the princess.”

“Dare you do that? Does the princess know as much about you as I do?”

“She knows
everything
about me,” Amalie declared, raising her chin but glad for once that she was not speaking the truth.

“Boyd, Sir Kenneth wants you. You should not be dallying here with her ladyship when you still have duties to perform.”

Never had she been so glad to hear Garth’s voice. That Harald Boyd was
not
glad to hear it was evident, which pleased her even more.

From the stable doorway, Garth had seen Boyd hurrying after Amalie and had followed as soon as he could without drawing undue attention to himself or to them. He had seen her turn and smile, then frown. And he had likewise noted her increasing irritation. His temper had stirred right along with hers.

Now, having banished Boyd, and glad that Kenneth had looked for him when he had, he said, “What did that feckless cush say to irk you so?”

“What is a cush? I’ve not heard that word before.”

He grimaced, recognizing her usual diversionary attempt, but he said, “Around here, it just means a low, useless person. Now, what did he say?”

She opened her mouth as if she were about to let loose a stream of complaint but stopped before a word had left her tongue. Then, looking rueful, she said, “He just treats me with infuriating familiarity. I wanted to slap him.”

“Don’t do that, lass, especially if you are alone with him, as you just were.”

“But ladies often slap gentlemen who forget their manners.”

“If they are wise, they do so only if others are nearby and able to make the . . . uh . . . gentleman think twice about retaliating.”

“You told me yourself that I should have clouted Simon, and Sir Harald is more puffed up in his own conceit than Simon could ever be.”

“Sakes, what
did
Boyd say to you?”

“He called me a liar and said he’d take a switch to me after we are married if I dared to lie to him. I told him he was odious and that I’d never marry him.”

“Good,” he said with more heat than he had intended. “What else did he say?”

“He calls me ‘lass,’ instead of ‘my lady,’ ” she said with a near growl.

Garth didn’t say a word to that, but his temper eased and his lips twitched.

She looked up at him and then flushed fiery red. Defensively, she said, “Well, he does, and I don’t like it when people do so who should not.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” he said.

“Does that mean that you won’t do it anymore?”

“No, but I’ll remember that you don’t like it,” he said, struggling to contain his amusement. “Nay, now, that’s not the way to make a proper fist.” He reached for the offending, ungloved hand and found it small and warm in his own.

“You said you would show me,” she reminded him, looking up from under her lashes in a way that made him want to kiss her again. Had they been anywhere but in plain sight of both the stable and the front door, he would have.

Instead, he said, “I’ll show you how if you’re sure, but I think I may have made an error in making such an offer. If you do strike a man, be sure you hit hard enough to discourage his behavior and don’t just ignite his wrath. And don’t tuck your thumb in like that,” he said, using his free hand to open her fist. “You’ll do more damage to your thumb that way than to your opponent.”

Looking serious, she made another fist, this time with her thumb out, and examined the result. Turning the fist one way, then the other, she said, “I’ll break my nail. For that matter, the ones inside are sticking me.”

He had not thought about the long fingernails tucked inside her tender palms.

Making an experimental fist of his own, he could barely feel his nails against palms calloused from riding, swordsmanship, and other things he did that, despite gloves, hardened a man’s hands. “Tuck them in closer by making a tighter fist,” he suggested. “See if that helps.”

She did, and nodded. “ ’Tis odd, but I think it does help. Now what?”

He held up his right hand, palm outward. “Hit that.”

She did, lightly.

“Harder.”

She tried again with the same result.

“Still too light,” he said. “No man would feel that. You can’t hurt me, so you’ve no need to worry about it. Just hit as hard as you can.”

As if she hoped to make a liar of him, she pulled back and let fly, but her aim was off, and if he had not caught her arm, she would likely have spun right around.

He grinned at her. “You want to use more than just the muscles in your arm. Use your shoulder, too, and fix your gaze where you want to hit. You’re swinging wildly. Do it like this.” He showed her how to jab.

She tried a few more times and began to get the way of it.

“See this spot right here,” he said, indicating the center top of his abdomen below his ribs. “Many nerves come together here, and you are of a satisfactory height to do a man more damage by striking there than by aiming for his jaw. You can aim lower, too, and try to get him in the cods, here.”

He demonstrated.

She was attentive, perhaps even fascinated.

“Look at me, lass,” he said.

When she did, her eyes were twinkling, and he realized what he had called her.

He shook his head. “Don’t expect me to apologize.”

“I won’t,” she said. “To be truthful, it does not infuriate me as much when you do it, although I cannot imagine why it should be any different.”

“Nor I,” he said. “Press yourself, just here,” he said, touching himself just beneath the center of his ribcage. “Can you feel how tender that is? That’s it,” he said approvingly when she grimaced. “Strike there but take care, because if you strike too high, you’ll hurt your hand on his ribs. And, lass, don’t do this unless you can scream like a banshee at the same time and draw the attention of someone near enough to come to your aid. Otherwise, you’ll only find yourself in the suds.”

“I’ll practice,” she said, her eyes gleaming as if she could imagine herself knocking Boyd flat.

Garth decided he’d better keep a close eye on both of them for a while.

Amalie did not have a chance to try her new skill straightaway. But that night, she shut a large, well-stuffed pillow between her bedchamber door and its frame to keep the pillow at the height she estimated the bottom of Sir Harald’s ribs to be. Then she practiced jabbing her target as hard as she dared until her arm grew tired. It was not satisfactory, but she thought it good practice for her aim.

Thursday and Friday announced themselves with morning fog that lingered until afternoon, and she kept busy inside both days.

On Saturday, she awoke to see dawn twilight and a still bright waning half moon in the sky outside her window. Getting up, she peered out and saw that although wisps of ground fog moved like wee ghosts through the garden, there were not enough of them to obscure the landscape.

Dressing hastily, she went downstairs and out to the stable, where, to her delight, the stable master and two grooms, anticipating her arrival, had her favorite mare already bridled for her. She rode astride and without a saddle, as most Border women did, so when the stable master made a cup with his hands, she stepped into it and let him toss her up.

Thanking him, she signed to her grooms to follow and rode out of the yard to the path that would take her across Eden Water to the river Tweed.

She soon put her mount to a gallop, enjoying the crisp morning air as it caressed her cheeks and delighting in the brief respite from duty.

When she slowed again and turned to be sure the grooms were still with her, she saw a third rider with them, and then saw the grooms turn their horses.

Although the eastern hills showed a glimmer of nearing sunrise, the land was still dark enough so that she did not immediately recognize the rider. But suspicion stirred, because Garth knew it would do him no good to order her grooms home.

When she recognized Sir Harald, she grimaced. She had not seen him in the stableyard but decided he must have been nearby. He could not have caught up with them so quickly had he needed to bridle and saddle his horse.

“I thought you’d like some company,” he said lightly as he joined her.

“You were wrong,” she said. Putting two fingers to her lips, she produced a shrieking whistle.

Chapter 13

A
malie wasted no time in discussion or waiting for her grooms but turned her mare back toward Sweethope Hill and urged it to a fast pace, knowing the grooms would fall in behind her. Her delight in the morning was gone, replaced with anger because Sir Harald had spoiled her ride. That he managed to keep pace with her, and seemed to taunt her by doing so, made her even angrier.

She had to slow for the track to the stables, but as soon as she rode into the yard, barely reining the mare to a full stop, she flung her leg over and slid to the ground. Tossing her reins to a gillie, she turned away from Boyd with chilly hauteur and strode toward the house.

He caught up with her just past the horse pond and stepped in front of her, saying, “Hold there, lass, I would speak with you.” When she tried to pass, he caught her shoulders and forced her back to face him, so close that she could not see the house. Gripping hard, he said, “I want you to know I
never
meant to anger you so.”

Carefully measuring her words rather than shrieking, she said, “Let me go.”

“It’s no use giving me orders, for you will never rule me or our household. I’ll just show you now how easily I can make you feel pleasure and forget your anger.”

Unable to free herself, she said, “Let go of me, or I’ll scream.”

He grinned, shook his head, and still gripping her tightly with his right hand, lowered his left, letting the back of it brush across her right breast. “See,” he said, extending one finger and teasing the nipple more. “Don’t you like that?”

Shocked, she stared at him in disbelief before her right hand shot up to knock his away. She struck hard. Then, instead of lowering her hand when his jerked away to the side, she swung back and slapped his face as hard as she could.

Gripping both shoulders again, he yanked her close, lowered his face to hers, and, grinning again, said, “You
do
know how to stimulate a man, lassie. But you should know that some of us demand kisses as the penal—”

His expression changed ludicrously as he released her and sailed up off his feet into the horse pond, Garth having grabbed him from behind by no more than his hair and breeks and heaved him there.

She stared in astonishment as Boyd, sputtering and splashing, struggled to stand in the slippery pond, only to slam down hard on his backside.

“I will escort you to the house, my lady,” Garth said evenly.

“But that was remarkable!” she exclaimed. “I would never have thought anyone could just pick him up and throw him like that. He is nearly as big as you are. But he deserved it! I won’t even tell you what he did, but I slapped him good, and you have made him even sorrier. Perhaps now he’ll behave himself.”

Garth said nothing. Touching her shoulder, he gestured toward the house.

Fairly dancing with delight, she kept up with his long strides on the path. “He followed me, just as you did last week,” she said as they approached the steps. “And he sent my grooms back, too, just as you did. So I whistled.”

“That was sensible.”

“What was sensible, and what I’m
very
glad I did, was to tell those lads never to let anyone order them away from me,” she said. “But
he
seems to think he has the right to do that, and when I turned back to the house, he did, too. If he thinks I would
ever
marry him after what he did then, he is quite the daftest man I’ve ever known.”

Garth opened the door for her and urged her inside with a touch to her back.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“They had not come down when I left the house,” he said. “They may be in the hall by now, but come this way.” His hand shifted to the center of her back.

Since he had to have left the house only minutes before he heaved Sir Harald into the pond, she thought the likelihood that anyone had come down yet was small. But she willingly let him escort her along the corridor to the anteroom at the end.

She was certain he was as pleased as she was and went to the anteroom to look into the garden and hall to see who, if anyone, had already come downstairs.