Knight Defender (Knight Chronicles) (25 page)

Why heaven had decided to bless her to be sheltered in Raeb MacKai’s arms, she could not know, but she would not reject the gift. She returned his kiss with all the fervor, all the yearning in her heart. That heart rejoiced when his hand drifted to her breast. She welcomed the stroke of his palm that lifted her skirt to her hips then sought sweeter delights. Caressing his body as he did hers, she poured all the love she could not speak into her touch. She could not have his love, but she would have his passion.

• • •

She was up and moving about the camp when he woke. “You did not linger abed …”

“Sir Andrew is still with us. I worried when he dropped out of sight around noon yesterday. I fed him the last of the fish you caught. I hope you don’t mind. We can do with oatcakes this morning. I also think we will make better speed today…”

Raeb ceased listening—it was clear she’d rather prattle randomly than talk about the things they’d done in the night. Her silence on the matter this morning spoke volumes.

It was the same the next day and the next.

She shared his bed after dark, taking him to places of exquisite pleasure and delight, but refused to acknowledge her actions in any way. He tried repeatedly to discuss her reasons for sharing his bed, but she refused to speak of it. She either ignored him, changed the subject, or rode ahead, making conversation impossible. He had to find a way to make her talk with him. He’d not marry without knowing why she sought his lovemaking but did not seek his love. And he would wed her.

• • •

The morning of their journey’s last day, Jessamyn woke with empty arms. Raeb was nowhere to be seen. ’Twas just as well. ’Twould give her time to dress and compose herself. The past four nights had given her hope that their shared passion might continue when they returned home. However, the hope was a puny thing that shrank as she considered what must happen at Dungarob.

Raeb must return to being the leader of his clan, and though his sisters might like her, surely many others would resent an English baroness. To keep the peace among his clan, Raeb would recognize that an English bride would cause trouble. He would realize the wisdom of marrying a Scot. That woman would be the one to bear his children, receive his love, his passion.

She’d make no demands, seek no promises. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Raeb. She should start now and point out all the reasons they should not wed.

At that moment, he walked into view with the horses trailing behind. He’d gone to water them, which she would have thought of, if she’d bothered to notice that the horses were not where she’d left them. Embarrassed at her own stupidity, she felt her cheeks heat.

“Jessamyn, we need to talk.”

This was the moment she’d sought, time to talk him out of a marriage she most desperately wanted but knew would be hell for them both. She raised her head and fixed her gaze on his. “I agree. In fact, I have something I must say to you before we set out.”

His brows rose. “Very well. Let us sit.”

He tethered both mounts to a nearby bush then escorted her to a large flat rock and seated himself on the earth beside her. He smiled, looking attentive and open.

She gripped her hands together and gathered her courage. “We cannot marry.”

He leaned back as if slapped. His expression shut down. His lips thinned, and his jaw clenched. Yet he spoke with a quiet calm that made him sound almost reasonable. “That will be impossible. Our marriage is decided, resign yourself to that.”

As if aware of the tension flowing between them, Sir Andrew trotted up and planted himself beside her.

“But don’t you see we will both be miserable? You don’t love me, and I … well, I certainly will not make you happy.” Absently she stroked the hound.

Raeb’s gaze narrowed, but he continued in that passionless, reasonable tone. “I’ve told you before that I am willing to wed you. Your honor and mine demand it.”

She leapt to her feet. “The demands of honor and your meager willingness mean nothing to me. I’ll not wed a man who does not love me. A man who has stated before witnesses that he does not want me. A man who does not have the sense to recognize how lucky he is to escape a lifetime of misery or that his clan needs a Scot as their baroness. I will not wed you! Resign yourself to that.” She stomped her foot to emphasize the point then turned to stalk off.

“I’ll return when I am calm enough to ride.” She tossed the remark over her shoulder as she marched into the woods nearby, Sir Andrew at her side. She crashed blindly past trees, breaking branches as she went. She slogged through mud as thick as Raeb’s brain. She stormed through brush as sharp as her need to throttle him and kiss him at the same time. She did not stop until a thick low-hanging branch nearly knocked her off her feet. She was still so angry that, with both hands, she grasped the branch, half-broken where it joined the tree, and ripped it from its base in one mighty jerk.

She stared at the limb—as long as she was tall and as thick as a man’s fist at the torn end—surprised that she’d had the strength needed to perform such a feat. Hmph. She’d use the thing to steady her as she walked over rough ground. Leaning on the branch, she strode over increasingly stony terrain.

How could Raeb be such a blind, dense fool and still be desirable? The answer could only be that she was the more foolish.
I gave him—no, I allowed him to take—my heart, and he broke it as I knew he would the moment I first looked into his eyes.
He’d done a great deal more than look at her. And she’d gloried in every touch, every kiss—the more fool her.

She took her bearings. She had an excellent sense of direction. Thus she knew that heading off to her right would take her back to Raeb and the horses faster than retracing her meandering steps.

Beside her, Sir Andrew gave a yip and looked at her as if wondering what next.

Jessamyn expelled a huff. “My friend, I cannot tell you what is next. What I can tell you is that this dumb piece of wood is of more use than that idiot man back there.”

The dog sat and whined.

“You think I’m unkind to leave an idiot to worry about me, especially one who imagines I am his responsibility? Very well, I’ll go back. I’m calm enough to ride now, so we can proceed to Dungarob. But I’ll not speak to him. If I do, I might lose my temper again.”

She reached the camp to find the horses grazing and Raeb gone. Well, he didn’t go far without a horse. Odds were the churl had gone looking for her, believing that a woman who’d lost her temper was certain to lose her way and need rescuing. Couldn’t a woman try to gather her wits without some man worrying about her?

She leaned her makeshift walking stick against a rock and began to check the saddlebags to make sure nothing was forgotten. Persia and the destrier moved restlessly as she unloaded then reloaded the bags. “Shh, friends.” She patted their necks and murmured reassurance before returning to her task. She was just refolding Raeb’s large wool cloak when a rustling in the underbrush sounded from the far side of the campsite. The horses shied on their tethers. Sir Andrew growled low. She turned, with the cloak in one hand, to see the dog bare his teeth, hackles lifted, while staring at a thicket’s waving branches. She rolled her eyes, moving to stroke the dog and calm him.

“’Tis just his noble madness trying to frighten me into admitting I’m helpless without him.”

Sir Andrew quieted but continued to bristle, looking from the moving brush to Jessamyn and back.

“Very well, I’ll prove it to you.” She marched toward the thicket. “Raeb MacKai, ’tis most unkind of you to frighten … ”

With a ferocious growl Sir Andrew leapt past her, pushing her aside at the same moment that a boar charged from the brush.

Jessamyn screamed as she stumbled aside. A sharp tusk, which had been aimed straight at her, grazed her thigh. Ignoring the slicing pain, she watched horrified as Sir Andrew locked his jaws on the hairy beast’s neck.

Fear slowed time to a sickening pace where she could only watch as the brave dog tried to defend her.

Sir Andrew had failed to grip on the fleshy part of the boar’s throat, so he wasn’t doing any lasting damage. The blessing was the position also put Andrew out of range of the deadly tusks. That is, if the rearing, bucking creature did not throw the dog off and make another charge.

She had to do something. She’d already lost her heart. She’d not lose anything else to another thick-skulled male.

Her only weapon was the cloak … and the stick. It wasn’t a spear, but that tree limb would make a mighty club and was long enough to keep her out of reach of the tusks, as long as it did not break. Pray heaven it would not break.

She ran for the branch, hefted it as she would a club, shook out the cloak ready to throw over the boar’s head and blind the creature, turned ready to attack only to see Andrew sail through the air. He landed with a thump on open ground and lay still. Sensing victory, the boar pawed the ground and charged the defenseless dog.

“No!” Jessamyn rushed to intercept the racing beast. She threw the cloak. Blinded and disoriented, the boar shook its head and at full speed turned in her direction.

• • •

He should go after her. The wood was dangerous, and she had no weapons.
Would the dog raise the alarm should any hazard arise
? The thoughts stumbled through Raeb’s brain while he sat numb and confused, trying to understand what had just happened. Had Jessamyn in some backward fashion told him that she loved him, or at least wanted him to love her? Those could be the same, or no. If he lived to be as old as Methuselah, Raeb would never understand women. He believed his sisters’ thinking to be twisted, but armed with that knowledge he usually managed to understand them and their motives. Jessamyn made his sisters look like masters of straight-forward logic and reason.

Jessamyn was right about one thing. Persia would have nothing to do with a rider in so furious a state. The mare would be unmanageable, and they would go nowhere fast if Jessamyn were even to get into the saddle.

Raeb sighed. He’d never straighten this out with Jessamyn gone, so the first thing to do was find her. The way she was stomping when she left, she shouldn’t be too hard to track. He discovered, however, that he was as unable to find her as he was to understand her.

Praying she’d calmed down quickly and had the good sense to return to camp by another route, he retraced his steps. His feet dragged, and his heart weighed down. Was there too much betrayal between them? He’d deceived her from the first about his intentions, though where she was concerned his plans had changed. He still hoped to do damage to English resources. That would never change, and she must continue to feel betrayed by that despite his honesty in eventually telling her. She’d understandably tried to warn her king of a plot. She’d chosen her brother over her vow to him and still kept secrets. Would he ever be able to convince her that he wanted her, loved her, would lay down his life or live for her, whichever she chose? His heart, his life were hers for the taking. If she wanted him, why did she persist in kicking him away with both feet and all her strength?

The sound of loud growls punctuated with snorts and grunts broke his thoughts. St. Finan’s ghost. That was a dog attacking a boar. He’d hunted enough boar in these woods to know the sounds. But there was only one dog in the area. Raeb started to run, praying he could reach them before they died.

The scene that met his gaze as he crashed through the trees nearly stopped his heart. Sir Andrew lay as if dead at the far side of the clearing. A crazed boar caught under a cloak charged Jessamyn, and she was armed only with a makeshift club. Albeit a big club. But how she had the strength to wield it, Raeb couldn’t imagine.

Acting on well-trained impulse, he drew his blade and, issuing the MacKai war cry at the top of his lungs, slashed at the boar from behind. He drew blood and stopped the creature in mid-charge.

The blow landed too high up on the beast’s side to cause real harm. The boar didn’t stumble or falter. It reared up on its hind legs, spun, pawed the air with its cloven hooves, and dropped down. Thankfully it was pointed away from Jessamyn. Not so thankfully, it managed to stomp on the trailing end of the cloak, and momentum ripped the blind from its snouted face.

The wild swine swung its great head from side to side searching for any threat. The beady black eyes fixed on Raeb, and it charged.

Time slowed into battle-mode. Raeb planted his feet, raised his blade, and waited for the right moment, praying his stroke would be quick enough to split the boar’s skull before it ripped open his belly. A boar’s brain was a small target surrounded by heavy bone. Using a sword, the chance of a direct hit on a charging animal was wee to say the least.

Death on four hooves ran at him.
I will not fail. Jessamyn needs me whether she knows it or
—

He swung. The blade caught in the thick bone just to the left of the soft brain spot. His only regret in dying like this was that he left Jessamyn defenseless.

The boar’s forward motion placed its front left hoof on Raeb’s foot, but the tusks never touched his vulnerable belly. However, the razor-tipped tusk did rip through the fleshy part of Raeb’s left arm. His jaw dropped as he watched the boar jerked off its feet to the right under a powerful impact.

Sir Andrew, recovered enough to join the fray, sank his enormous jaw into the swine’s chest just behind the elbow joint of the beast’s left leg.

Raeb’s sword, wrenched from his grip and remained stuck in the bone of the boar’s head, was shaken loose and tossed out of reach when the creature fell to the ground.

The maddened swine squealed and thrashed, trying to shake Sir Andrew off. One hoof landed a glancing blow, but the hound would not release its hold.

Raeb watched helpless, certain that Sir Andrew would give his life to save the humans he cared for. The question was, which would die first, dog or boar?

Raeb saw movement from the corner of his eye and an unholy howl shook him to the core.

Jessamyn flew past him, cloak in one hand, club in the other, like the mythical Queen Scathach or her enemy Aoife, legendary warrior women known to every Highland Scot but which a gently born English lady had little knowledge of.