Authors: Marsha Canham
That was possibly why she had begun to notice MacGillivray's distinctive scent. While he was by no means as fastidious as Angus with hot water and soap, he was not hesitant to strip down after a morning of exercising with the men and dump a bucket of water over his body to rinse away
the sweat. Anne had happened by a window once when he was in the process of doing just that, and it had caused her to stare so long and hard her eyes burned from the dryness. The fact there had been a dozen men stripped naked and standing in the snow tossing water at each other had hardly left an imprint on her mind. It had been the sight of John MacGillivray, tall and sleek with muscle, his face tilted upward and his hair streaming golden and wet down his shoulders, that had warmed her cheeks and left her body tingling in all the wrong places.
It had been equally difficult not to remember how he had looked naked and sprawled out in the candlelight, or how those brawny arms had felt wrapped around her, pinning her to the bed. Harder still not to recall all that heat and strength crowding her against the wall of a booth at the fairground, his hands pressing boldly between her thighs, daring them to open that she might feel what else he had to offer.
It did not help her concentration either that he was rather cavalier about his dress. In the comfort of his own home he favored little more than a long, loose fitting shirt and short breacan kilt. The former was often left unlaced, the edges parted carelessly over the reddish gold mat of hair that covered his chest. Nor was he reluctant to slip one of his large hands beneath the cambric and scratch absently at a rib or breast while he was engaged in a conversation with his men, and she suspected he was completely unaware of the effect when he raked his fingers through his hair and left the golden mane scattered and boyishly disheveled.
He smelled wonderful as well, for it was a rare occasion that found John MacGillivray without a cigar clamped between his teeth. Pipes were as commonplace as dirks and dags in a man's belt, but cigars were an extravagant luxury, one of the few he indulged himself as a reasonably wealthy laird. It was also one he kept to himself despite the often blatant hints from the Farquharson twins that they might enjoy a draw with their evening tankards of ale. He ignored any and all appeals to his sense of hospitality, and in spite of a thorough—and decidedly ill-bred—search of the cabinets and cupboards of Dunmaglass, the lads could not discover where he hoarded his supply.
Anne found the scent heady and at times uncomfortably arousing, especially if he happened to be seated at the table while engaged in a debate, his chair tilted precariously back on the two hind legs, a glare on his face like that of a lion contemplating his next meal. Or when he leaned close to look at something over her shoulder and she could feel the silk of his hair on her cheek, the warmth of his breath on her skin.
Or when she was cold and tired and her legs ached with cramps from riding all day, and he stood beside her, his arm remaining around her waist for support while she wobbled and chose to lean against him rather than slide into a heap on the ground.
“If ye'll come this way, Colonel Anne,” said Colin Mor, bowing awkwardly as he held a hand out toward the door of his cottage, “ma wife Rose will be glad tae pour ye a dram o' hot broth tae warm yer bones.”
Anne started and looked guiltily away from the smile that had begun to cross MacGillivray's face. How long had she been staring up at him? Had she had another “Fearchar” lapse in concentration? The big Highlander was proving to be every bit as adept as Angus in reading her thoughts, and while it could sometimes be a wonderful thing for a husband to know when his wife was craving certain … attentions … she did not think it was particularly wise to pique MacGillivray's interest.
Her hands, she noticed, were braced with easy familiarity on John's chest and she lowered them quickly before turning to follow Colin Mor into the cottage. His wife had already relit the lamp and a couple of thick tallow candles; she stood nervously back in the shadows, the children still clinging to her legs, peeking out from behind her skirts. A second woman, a year or so younger, was standing against the wall. She bore such a strong resemblance to Colin Mor it came as no surprise when she was introduced as his sister Glenna.
The clachan was like a thousand others that dotted the glens and nestled into the hillsides. A bare earth floor supported timber walls fortified with muck and peat, and a steeply canted roof from which hung strips of dried, salted meat and fish. There was the usual assortment of household trappings. A rough straw divider at one end separated the
narrow sleeping pallet used by Colin's sister from the larger one he shared with his wife and children. The cooking fire was in the center of the room and on it, a tripod from which hung a black iron kettle. The Mors were better off than most, for in addition to several woven rag rugs, they had a table and two benches. In one corner a pen held chickens, and in another a milk goat was tethered to a post.
“A thousand pardons for disturbing your evening, goodwife,” Anne said in Gaelic. “We were told your glen had a sweet burn running through it that would lead us right the way to the river. Unfortunately, we could not find the burn in the mist and were afraid our wagons would find the river without any warning. We smelled the smoke from your fire, and …” She waved a hand to indicate the natural progression of events, but the woman just stared.
“I ken who ye are,” Rose whispered, her initial awe over their guests replaced by the more practical emotion of fear. “An' I ken why ye're here. Ye've come tae take ma Colin awa' tae war.”
“No,” Anne said carefully. “We've not come to take him away. He is free to join us if he wishes, but we will not force any man to come with us. Each must listen to his own heart and decide the best way to serve his family, his clan, his honor.”
“Aye, well.” The girl bit her lip and glanced down at the wooden cradle. “Ye put it that way, he'll no' be able tae refuse, will he?”
She turned her back, startling the two smaller children into scrambling to reposition themselves as she leaned over to pick up the fussing baby and settle it back over her hip. “Will ye have broth, or a mug o' ale? There's rabbit stew as well. Glenna can fetch it f'ae ye, if ye're of a mind.”
“A cup of broth would be very welcomed, but I do not want to put you to any trouble.”
“'Tis too late f'ae that now.” She paused and glanced past Anne's shoulder as MacGillivray ducked his head beneath the low lintel and came into the cottage, followed closely by the Farquharson twins. “Ye've brung the trouble wi' ye.”
Seeing the handsome trio, Glenna Mor showed a reaction for the first time, straightening and squaring her shoulders so
that her breasts pushed round and full against her bodice. There was an inordinately large amount to push, and the twins' gaze stalled there long enough for John to give them both a clout on the shoulder.
“Like I said,” the wife muttered. “Looks like ye've brung the trouble wi' ye.”
Anne had been determined to repress all memories of the incident in MacGillivray's bedroom. The kiss had meant nothing. Nor had it in any way been a conscious effort on his part to seduce her. He had still been half drunk from the previous night, scarcely accountable for his actions. Yet it was difficult to ignore the effect his presence had on other women. The trull, Glenna Mor, all but fell over herself to serve him his ale and ladle the choicest bits of meat into his wooden bowl. The lacings on her bodice miraculously loosened from one turn to the next so that each time she leaned forward, he had an impressive view of her breasts. And being a hot-blooded male, he noticed. More than once, Anne caught him staring unabashedly at the succulent offerings, his one brow slightly raised in speculation, his mouth curved in a lopsided grin. Robbie was less circumspect. He practically had to keep his hands in his lap to prevent his kilt from tenting each time she brushed his shoulder or gave him a sly wink. While Anne had no right to be angered by the innocent flirtations, she felt as bristly as a hedgehog and found herself wanting to reach across the table and slap them all silly.
It wasn't fair. She might have been able to abide the sloe-eyed glances and smiles and swaying hips with somewhat more tolerance had her husband been beside her. As it was, each time the girl's bodice gaped, she felt her own breasts chafing against the constraints of her cambric shirt; each time the wench ran her fingers through her hair and flirted openly with John or the twins, Anne thought of the tremors she had felt in Angus's hands when he'd taken the brush and stroked it through her own hair, the movements slow and sensual, the effect as thrilling as the tiny crackles of static the motion produced. She thought of his body, hard and straining into hers. She remembered the heat of his skin, the warm smell of him, the way his head arched back and his eyes smoldered with
pride when she shivered around him time and again and refused to let him go.
He had lied for her. He had not exposed her part in the theft to Forbes or Loudoun or Worsham, but what did that mean? What
exactly
did that mean? If he cared for her enough to put himself in such a precarious position—surely he would have been arrested and treated to the same prison hospitality as Anne, had they caught him in the lie—why had he not swept her into his arms at Drummuir House and told her so? Why had he deliberately kept himself at arm's length?
No, it wasn't fair. And it wasn't fair to be in the constant company of a man who seemed to know she was not always squirming and red-faced because her trews itched.
“Ye look as if ye've fought a battle already, lass.” MacGillivray's quiet voice came over her shoulder, startling Anne into looking up from the fire. She had moved there when Robbie had started laying pats and pinches on Glenna Mor's bottom and the girl's incessant giggles had begun to shred Anne's last nerve. She wasn't sure how long she had been staring at the low ripple of flames, but there were snores coming from the family pallet, and more than one figure lay bundled in plaid on the dirt floor.
She was seated on a three-legged stool, and without waiting for an invitation, MacGillivray lowered himself onto the floor beside her, sitting cross-legged, cradling a cup of whisky in his hands.
“'Twas a long day. We started out before dawn, did we not?”
“Aye, that we did. An' we'll start out afore dawn on the morrow, too, so ye shouldna be squanderin' what little time ye have to rest by thinkin' on things that have no answer.”
She studied his firelit profile for a moment before scowling. “You cannot possibly know what I am thinking, John MacGillivray.”
“No? Then I'll gladly apologize if I'm wrong, but ye've the look of a wife worryin' after her husband.”
She just stared until he looked up and grinned gently. “Tis a look we've both seen often enough these past weeks, each time a man kisses his wife an' bairns an' promises he'll be back after we've driven the
Sassenachs
back to England.”
“Even so, I will accept your apology,” she said archly, turning her gaze back to the fire, “for you are wrong; I wasn't thinking of Angus at all. He made his choice, I made mine, and we both knew we would have to live with the consequences. In truth, I wasn't thinking of anything at all. I was just enjoying the sensation of having warm toes and fingers.”
She was aware of his smile, but since she did not feel like compounding her foolishness by having her bluff called, she did not look his way again.
In the end, he sighed affably and stretched his hands toward the heat. “A worthy pleasure,” he agreed. “For the rest of the body as well.”
She watched his hands as he turned them this way and that, noting the width of the callused palms, the length of the strong, blunt-tipped fingers. Angus's hands were smoother, far more elegant than they were powerful, more comfortable holding a quill than a
clai' mór
. They were gentle and tentative when they reached for her, and she could not imagine for a moment Angus Moy lifting her against a wall at a public fairground and threatening to take her there and then before God's eyes if she did not give him a kiss.
“Jesus God and all the saints,” she whispered, bowing her head with a small shake, wondering what it would take to rid her mind of such unwanted images.
“Ye have need of a special prayer?” MacGillivray asked.
Unaware she had invoked the heavenly powers aloud, she felt all the more foolish for it and smiled wearily. “An exorcism, perhaps. But you were right. I should make my bed while I have the chance.”
She started to shift forward, to push herself off the stool, but her legs had become locked in the folded position and refused to budge.
John's grin came back, tempered by a cluck of his tongue. “Did ye not use the unguent I gave ye, lass? It will ease the stiffness out o' yer muscles each night an' let ye ride in comfort in the mornin'.”
“It smells dreadful, like camphor and turpentine and something else I cannot fathom.”
“A virgin's piss gathered fresh in the mornin'.” He laughed when he saw her startled expression, and sprang to
his feet so easily she wanted to kick him. Reaching down, he grasped her around the waist, bringing her up slowly, letting her legs straighten and uncramp with a minimum of strain. It took a full minute or more, with Anne's hands resting on his chest all the while, her fingers splayed over the solid bulk of muscle beneath. His head was bent forward, bringing the musky scent of smoke and whisky closer than was probably wise at that precise moment, but his next suggestion nearly sent her toppling backward.
“Drop yer trews for me, lass: I'll ease what ails ye in no time.”
Her eyes, blue and huge, locked with his long enough for the smile to fade from his face and his complexion to grow ruddy.
“I meant the salve,” he murmured. “Ye need to rub it in hard for it to work best.”
“I can manage it on my own.”
“Aye, of course ye can.” He lifted one of her arms above her head and snorted when she did not have the strength to hold it there without wincing. “Now get on over to yer blanket, drop yer breeks, an' cover whatever ye dinna want me to see.”