Highland Conqueror (4 page)

“Weel, ’tis a good thing I ken that ye prefer a buxom lass with fair hair or I might think ye had an interest in the wee lass.”

“Ye think too much. Staying with the monks is what did it.”

Liam laughed. “Since ye arenae interested in the wee lass, then, mayhap I—”

Sigimor swung around to face Liam so quickly it caused his cousin to stumble back a few steps with a gratifying lack of grace. “And mayhap ye best think on how that winsome smile of yours wouldnae woo the lasses so weel if ye didnae have any teeth. Stop grinning. Ye look like a fool.” He started to walk back toward the camp, sighing loudly when Liam kept pace with him.

“Why so irritable, Cousin?” asked Liam. “Where is the harm in being drawn to such a bonnie wee lass? She is your equal in birth, chaste, and nay doubt she has a fine dowry.”

“That sounds suspiciously like the qualities one looks for in a wife.” It worried Sigimor that he did not immediately and fiercely decry the thought of marriage to Jolene.

“Tis past time ye took a wife.”

“Why? I dinnae need an heir. Dubheidland fair swarms with them.”

“True, but that doesnae mean ye dinnae need a wife or bairns of your own.”

Sigimor stopped, slowly turned to face Liam, and crossed his arms over his chest. He was strongly tempted to pound his cousin into the mud for putting this idea into his head, if only because it felt right, tugged at a need within him that he was trying very hard to deny. Logic told him Lady Jolene Gerard was all wrong for him, but everything else within him kept saying
mine
.

“Ye did notice her size, didnae ye? And my size?” The fact that his deeply sarcastic tone of voice had no apparent effect upon Liam truly annoyed Sigimor. “If I put a bairn in her ’twould probably tear her apart.”

Liam also crossed his arms on his chest and gave Sigimor a look of utter disgust. “That is nonsense and weel ye ken it.”

“She is English. ’Twould probably be illegal to marry her.”

“Mayhap in England, though that law comes and goes as often as the tide. I suspicion ye wouldnae be able to claim any lands she might have, but ye wouldnae want them anyway, aye?”

“Why have ye set your teeth into this whim?”

“Mayhap because this is the first lass of good birth ye have e’er shown an interest in. Dinnae try to deny it for, although she may be too innocent to ken it, the rest of us can see that ye want her. Ye fair stink of it at times. Ye are two and thirty and have ne’er done more than indulge in an occasional tussle with a buxom whore. Ye have ne’er e’en taken a leman. Ye, Cousin, are a mon who should marry.”

Sigimor knew Liam was right, but would rather have all his toes broken than admit it. He had a hearty appetite for fleshly pleasures, but did not often succumb to those needs. While he enjoyed the occasional tussle with a well-rounded tavern maid, it never fully satisfied him. He was always too aware that it was coin that put the woman in his bed and that another man’s coin was just as welcome as his. The few times he had tried to woo a better-born lass, he had failed. Such women either feared his size, revealed an unkind amusement over his character, or just did not feel
right
. It was not something he would ever confess to because it seemed nauseatingly romantic, but he liked the idea of having a woman who was his alone, one he could talk to, a companion who would share the burdens of home and family. He wanted a mate. Only once, ten years ago, had he thought he had found one only to be gloriously proven wrong. It was why he was cautious now, would prefer not to be feeling all he was feeling for the delicate Englishwoman.

“And what makes ye think this lady is a good choice?” he asked, inwardly cursing the curiosity that prompted the question.

“She watches you.”

“Probably wants to be sure I dinnae stumble and chance falling on her for fear I would flatten her into the ground.”

“Idiot. She
watches
you. She shows no interest in any of the rest of us save as companions in this wee crusade.”

“Nay, not e’en ye,” Sigimor murmured, recalling his surprise over that.

“Nay, not e’en me. She isnae intimidated by your size and your manner. If the way she was glaring at ye earlier today is aught to go by, she also has the spirit to stand up to ye. What did ye say to her, by the bye?”

Still caught up in the pleasant thought that Jolene watched him, Sigimor made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “She was telling me what qualities an Englishmon likes in his women and I told her it sounded as if the fools were thinking to breed a hound, nay a woman.”

“Nay wonder she looked ready and eager to gut ye. I was hoping ye kenned how to flatter the lasses, but I begin to fear ye dinnae.”

“I did tell her that I suspected most Englishwomen smelled a wee bit better than a hound.”

“Tis a wonder she didnae swoon with delight,” muttered Liam and then he shook his head. “Ye do it apurpose, dinnae ye? Ye just have to keep poking at a person, waiting to see what will happen.”

“Tis part of my charm.” Sigimor paused at the edge of the camp and his gaze immediately settled upon the slim form of a sleeping Lady Jolene. “Let it rest, Liam.
There may be something there between us, some mutual attraction, but I am nay sure it should or could go any further than looking and thinking. She is an English lady and I am a Scottish laird. A greedy mon wants her and the lad dead. That wee lad is an English lord and she is verra nearly his mother, bound to him by blood and love. Aye, and I still believe she hasnae told us everything, that she holds fast to a wee secret or two. Tisnae a simple matter in any way. Twill go as it will go. One can but wait and see.” He started to collect his bedding, fully intending to spread it out at Jolene’s side.

“Fine, wait and see. Just be sure ye keep both eyes wide open. Aye, and your mind and heart.”

If the last few days were any example, Sigimor mused, he could do nothing else. His mind and heart would not let him.

Sigimor woke with a curse as a small, hard fist slammed into the side of his head. As he hastened to fend off further blows, he realized the woman at his side had not suddenly turned into a virago intent upon murdering him, but was caught fast in a nightmare. Reynard began to cry and Nanty quickly appeared. Sigimor told the man to take the child to his bed, then set his mind to pulling Jolene free of her nightmare before she did him a real injury.

It took him longer than he felt it ought to get her thrashing body pinned firmly beneath him, but he was trying hard not to bruise her. He was a little surprised at the virulence and the variety of the curses she spat out while she fought against the enemy haunting her dreams. The blind panic that briefly twisted her delicate features when she finally opened her eyes struck him to the heart. In a soft, calming voice he had perfected over the years of raising his siblings and many of his cousins, he repeatedly told her who he was and where she was.

The moment she calmed, he became all too aware of the intimacy of their position with her slender legs pinned beneath his and their groins pressed close together. His body’s reaction to that suggestive delight was immediate and fierce. Sigimor was not surprised to see her eyes slowly widen and the hint of a blush shadowing her cheeks. Even as a voice in his head told him not to do it, he brushed his mouth over hers, finding her lips soft and sweet.

“What do you think you are doing?” Jolene asked, shivering over the strange tingling warmth his lips had left upon hers.

“Kissing it to make it better?” Sigimor lifted his head only a little until they were nose to nose.

“Tis already better for I am now awake.” Steeling herself against the shockingly strong urge to rub herself against that hard length pressing so impudently against her, she gave him what she hoped was a very stern frown.

“What haunts your dreams, m’lady?” Having heard her curse Harold in her dream, he had a suspicion or two, but wondered if she would answer truthfully.

Even as she wondered how the featherlight kisses he brushed over her face could make her insides tremble so, Jolene replied, “Peter’s death.” It was not a complete lie for there had been glimpses of that horror mixed up with all the other fears and terrifying memories.

“Ah, so that is why ye were cursing Harold, aye?”

“Aye.”

“I begin to think ye arenae telling me everything, lass, and for that I have decided ye must pay a forfeit.”

“A forfeit?”

Jolene had barely finished muttering the words when he kissed her. This time it was no gentle tease of a kiss, but one that made her toes curl. She tried to fight the feelings tearing through her, but she lost that battle completely when, suddenly, his tongue was stroking the inside of her mouth. How it got there, she did not know, but, when it left, she immediately wanted it back. Instead, she was abruptly free, Sigimor lying on his side next to her with his back to her. He grumbled something about Nanty keeping Reynard with him, then said no more. Jolene stared up at the stars, felt a strange, gnawing ache inside of her, and wondered why she wanted to kick the man senseless. She could forsee a great deal of trouble in the days ahead and not just from that murderous usurper Harold.

“Harold is in Scotland.”

Liam’s announcement sent a chill through Jolene, a cold that settled into her very bones. Up until that moment she had been riding beside Sigimor idly wondering if she should scorn him for daring to kiss her last night or try to get him to do it again. Now she was brutally recalled to the reason why she was with Sigimor and his men, why she had fled to Scotland. Unthinkingly, she tightened her grip on the reins and caused her horse to shift about in nervous confusion.

Sigimor reached over and patted her thigh without taking his gaze off Liam. To Jolene’s amazement, she felt calmed by that touch. It was a silent reminder that she was not alone. She still felt the pinch of guilt over dragging them into her troubles, but it was fading. Whenever the men spoke of Harold there was such anger and hatred in their voices that she realized they, too, hungered for revenge. They had, after all, come very close to dying at Harold’s hands. Jolene had no doubt that these men would never hesitate to help a woman or child in trouble, but they also intended to make Harold pay dearly for imprisoning them and plotting to hang them.

“Are ye sure?” Sigimor asked, reluctantly removing his hand from Jolene’s slim thigh once she was calm again.

“Aye. He is being verra brazen in his pursuit.” Liam smiled and shook his head. “He is asking about us. He tells all he speaks to that he is hunting an errant wife, that his lady ran off with ye and taking their bairn with her. The fool probably thinks to stir outrage o’er such a crime thus gaining aid in hunting us down.”

“And has he?”

“To his face—aye. Behind his back—nay. He is English and many think that reason enough to deceive him. The fact that an English lordling lost his lady to a braw Scot only delights most of those he speaks to. I just dinnae ken how long he will remain the fool.”

“Longer than he should, but not, I fear, long enough.” Jolene smiled faintly when both men looked at her. “Harold scorns all who are not high-born and not English.” She grimaced. “He considers the Scots all ignorant barbarians.”

“Aye, he made that opinion verra clear as he tossed us into his dungeon,” said Sigimor.

“Howbeit, he is not a complete fool. He
will
soon realize he is being made mock of and change his tactics.”

Sigimor considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, he will. He might possibly go to ground.”

“Do ye think he can?” asked Liam.

“Enough so that we may nay find it so easy to ken exactly where he is. If he has brought some coin with him, he may e’en buy himself a mon or two to aid him, e’en to do his talking for him. Some men will do anything for a full purse, e’en help an Englishmon. How many men ride with him?”

“I dinnae ken exactly, but my guess, from all I have heard, is about a dozen.”

“Enough to be a threat, but nay enough to rouse concern about a dangerous raid or an English attack. Since he must ken where we ride to by now, he doesnae need to keep close to our heels, either.”

Jolene frowned as she tried to think of when or how Harold would have learned exactly where Sigimor was from. “Are you certain he will know where we journey to? I do not believe Peter would have told Harold for, by the time he sent for you, Peter was already deeply suspicious of the man.”

“E’en if Harold doesnae ken exactly where we are from or where Dubheidland is, it willnae take him long to find out,” replied Sigimor. “We may nay be rich or powerful, but most all ken who we are and where we are from.”

Sigimor had turned his attention to Nanty before Jolene could ask exactly how or why they could be so well known if they were neither very rich nor very powerful. She could not believe it was for anything particularly shocking or evil. Men who lent aid to a woman and child, especially ones from a country most Scots probably cursed daily, could not be evil. Since she had been with them not one of the men had treated her with anything less than the greatest courtesy, aside from that one kiss Sigimor had stolen. Surely scandalous men did not treat a woman in such a gentlemanly way. Yet, Sigimor had sounded absolutely confident that the Camerons of Dubheidland were well and widely known. Glancing at her six guardians, she idly wondered if the unrelenting handsomeness of the men of Dubheidland was the cause of their fame. Her idle musings were abruptly ended by what Sigimor was saying to Nanty.

“I think we need to spread the word that Harold is ahunting us and that we would prefer it if he didnae catch us unawares,” Sigimor told Nanty. “How far from here are the Armstrongs of Aigballa?”

“Ah, I see.” Nanty smiled briefly and handed a sleepy Reynard to Jolene. “Nay far. Nay far at all.”

“Good. Ride and tell them of our troubles, of how we need a close watch kept on that bastard.”

“Ye dinnae want him routed?”

“I would like naught better, but ’tis best if no one else stains their swords with the blood of an English laird. If Harold is fool enough to stay on our trail, to push this to a confrontation, we will meet him and bury him. We at least have the right to do so, if only because he threatens us. We dinnae want this fight to spread too widely.”

Nanty nodded in agreement. “If I take the right path I can spread the word to others. Mayhap the Murrays, and certainly to my brothers. Where shall I rejoin you?”

“I mean to stop a night or two at Scarglas with my cousins, then ride on to Dubheidland.”

“If I dinnae catch up with ye at Scarglas, I
will
join ye at Dubheidland.”

Jolene had barely joined everyone in wishing Nanty a safe journey when Reynard began to fuss. The child whimpered Nanty’s name and kept his gaze fixed upon the departing man. She felt a brief pang of jealousy, then told herself not to be such a fool. Reynard liked all the men and, after all the poor child had been through since Harold’s arrival at Drumwich, it was not surprising that he would be distressed to have any one of them leave. It was a little harder to quell that sting of jealousy when Sigimor took the child from her arms and Reynard immediately quieted.

“Nanty has a verra important job to do,” Sigimor told the boy as he settled him in front of him on his saddle. “When he completes that chore ye will see him again.”

“Nanty is my friend,” Reynard said.

“That he is,” agreed Sigimor as he nudged his horse into an easy but steady pace,
“but he is also a mon with work to do. Sometimes a mon’s work means he must leave friends and family for a wee while.”

“Like Papa did.”

“Aye, just like your papa.”

“But Papa has not come back.”

“Nay, he must work for the angels now.”

“When will the angels let him come home?”

“Och, laddie, the angels cannae send him home.” Sigimor stroked the child’s thick black curls. “There is nay coming back from Heaven, I fear, but your father is watching o’er ye and listening. He will always be watching and listening to see how ye grow up into a fine, strong mon and take care of his people and his lands.”

“And kick Cousin Harold out on his arse ’cause he stoleded Drumwich and sent Papa to the angels.”

Sigimor almost grinned at the shocked look that briefly crossed Jolene’s face. “Aye, laddie, ’tis exactly what we shall do.”

Jolene stared blindly into the distance, away from Sigimor and Reynard, fighting back the tears that swamped her eyes and formed a hard knot in her throat. Reynard understood more than she had realized. He had obviously overheard a few less than genteel remarks as well. Even more moving was the gentle way Sigimor explained Peter’s loss to the small child. He was a big, strong man with no fine courtly manners who often said the most outrageous things, yet he was kind and gentle with the little boy, willing to help in the care of him, and astoundingly patient with him.

In fact, all the men riding with her were very good to Reynard. Although none of the men at Drumwich had actually been mean or abusive to Reynard, only Peter and the two men murdered with him had actually taken any time with the boy. She ruefully admitted that Peter and his friends had not revealed the great patience or understanding these men did. Why, they were almost motherly, she mused, and nearly grinned, knowing they would probably fall from their saddles in horror if she ever said such a thing.

It was how Sigimor acted with Reynard that caused her the most astonishment, however. This was a man who compared the ideal English lady to a hound, yet he spoke to a child of angels. What worried her was how that made her feel. It strengthened all the inconvenient feelings she had for him, softening her toward him when she wanted to harden her heart. The man stroked Reynard’s curls and spoke of angels, for sweet Mary’s sake. How could she harden herself against that?

“There is a village a few hours ride from here,” said Sigimor as he rode closer to her. “There is a clean inn there. We will stop there for the night.”

Shaking free of her meandering thoughts, Jolene frowned slightly. “Will stopping at an inn not mark our path too clearly?”

“Aye, if Harold follows us to that village, but I believe it doesnae matter much. Now that I realize he can and will discover where Dubheidland is, I see no reason why we cannae indulge ourselves with a wee bit of comfort when ’tis so close at hand.” He glanced up at the sky. “Aye, especially as there is a storm brewing.”

Jolene looked up at the cloudless sky, but decided not to question him about his prediction. “A clean bed and, mayhap, a hot bath?”

“Aye. Tempted?”

“Mightily. Howbeit, I would not wish my comfort to bring Harold to our door and
put Reynard in danger.”

“As I said, lass, Harold will soon be at our door nay matter how clever we are. If he is determined to find us, he will. And, wheesht, where did ye come by the idea that I was thinking of
your
comfort?”

She glared at his back as he rode away, taking the lead next to Liam. The man was going to drive her utterly mad. One moment she was feeling all soft and warm toward him; the next she wished she was a big, hulking brute so that she could pound him into the mud.

The Twa Corbies Inn was indeed a clean one, and rather pretty despite its odd name. A very tempting smell was wafting through the inn from the kitchens and Jolene felt her stomach clench with anticipation. The only thing wrong that she could see was that everyone was staring at her with a mixture of horror and amazement. It might have been better if she had remained silent and let Sigimor request a bath for her.

“By the saints, ’tis an Englishwoman,” muttered the innkeeper before he scowled at Sigimor. “What are ye thinking to bring a bloody Sassenach into my inn? And where did ye come by her, eh?”

Sigimor crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the much shorter, much rounder innkeeper. Jolene could almost feel sorry for the innkeeper, but he was being excessively rude. Glancing at the other four big, strong men with her, she did wonder how Master Dunbar could remain so obstinate. The strength of those frowns should have turned Dunbar into a quivering puddle of obsequiousness. Master Dunbar had obviously not noticed how thin the ice was that he was treading on. Although the others in the inn were still looking at her with a distinct lack of welcome, they at least had the sense to remain quiet. Jolene felt a little hurt by this reaction to her mere presence and hoped Sigimor would not take too long in putting Master Dunbar into a more accommodating mood.

“Aye, she is English,” drawled Sigimor. “A wee, too thin, puling Sassenach lass.”

Then again, Jolene mused, maybe she would just kick him.

“I hadnae realized so many braw laddies would be set to quivering with fear by her presence.” Sigimor shrugged. “Howbeit, since she has set all your bowels to clenching—”

“Of course she hasnae,” snapped Master Dunbar, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the angry grumbling of his patrons. “A wee thing like her be no threat to a mon. Be she yours then?”

“Aye.” Sigimor was torn between the urge to grin at the cross look Jolene wore and to slap some courtesy into the innkeeper. Unfortunately, satisfying though such actions would be, neither would get him the soft bed and hot bath he wanted.

“Couldnae ye find a nice Scottish lass? Ye look a braw lad.”

“I am, but I was bound by a blood debt. Her brother saved my life.”

“He asked a high price.”

“Aye, he did.” Sigimor kept a subtle watch on Jolene as he continued, “Tisnae all bad. The English train their lasses weel. They train them to be sweet of tongue and disposition, kind to all, skilled at loom and needle, firm and alert in the management of a household, frugal, obedient, and a faithful companion to her lord, giving him peace and comfort in his home.”

“Saints! Do the fools think they are training hounds?”

“One does wonder.”

Jolene gave into the urge to kick Sigimor in the shin and ignored his exaggerated grimace. It only added to her annoyance to catch everyone in the inn grinning at her. She hoped it was because she had shown some spirit, but had the lowering feeling it was because a perfect English lady had just been compared to a hound—again.

“I dinnae think she learned all her lessons,” murmured Master Dunbar.

Sigimor bit back a laugh over the way Jolene was eyeing Master Dunbar’s shins. He draped his arm around her slim shoulders and kept her close by his side as he and the innkeeper settled the matter of rooms, baths, and price. As they followed a plump maid to their rooms, he idly wondered when Jolene would realize he would be sharing her room.

After checking the bed to see if it was as clean as it looked, Jolene settled a drowsy Reynard on top of the thick coverlet. It was going to be nice to spend a night under a proper roof and in a proper bed. She had removed her cloak and draped it over the end of the bed before she realized Sigimor was still in the room with her. He leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed on his chest, watching her with an expectant look that made her decidedly uneasy.

“The room is quite acceptable, m’lord,” she said. “There is no need to linger. You may seek your own chambers now.”

“These
are
my own chambers,” Sigimor replied and smiled.