Authors: Heartstorm
"Give
over teasing the child, Francis," Donald said in exasperation.
"You've given her the devil's own time since last night."
MacLean
grinned, a warm glow in his eyes as his gaze traveled over her. "The
thought of acting maid to you is tempting, lass, but I'll play the gentleman
this morning. If you give your word as a MacDonnell you'll not try to escape,
I'll give mine as a MacLean I'll keep my back turned till you call."
"My
name is Randall," she reminded him, "and your word means nothing to
me. From what I've seen of the MacLeans, I doubt they've honor enough—"
"I
suggest you hold your tongue, mistress," MacLean warned softly. "And
I further suggest you take me at my word. I'm an ill man to provoke."
Anne
bit back the retort that rose to her lips. "Why can't Donald go with
me?" she countered, glancing toward the older man.
"Because
Donald has a soft spot in his heart for every lass with blue eyes. And I'd not
have you wheedle your way around him and get the poor man into mischief."
MacLean handed his empty mug to Donald, then turned back to her, one eyebrow
raised impatiently. "Either you come with me now, or we ride. Which will
it be, lass?"
Anne
studied the tall MacLean chief. He was obviously accustomed to having the upper
hand. She thought with longing of the stream and her desire to wash finally
overcame her fear of him. Had he meant her personal violence, he'd certainly
had the opportunity before now to complete it. She stood up with decision and
moved off down the hill before she could change her mind.
Accommodating
his long-legged stride to hers, MacLean walked beside her in silence until they
reached the stream. There he matter-of-factly pointed out where she might kneel
beside the stream to wash and where the water was deep enough to bathe.
"I'll
be there behind those trees when you're done," he finished. "Call if
anything frightens you."
She
stared uncomfortably at the ground, unconsciously twisting the folds of her
ruined habit. Now that the time had come, she could not imagine disrobing with
him not twenty feet away—yet she dared not protest again.
Sensing
her unease, MacLean took pity on the girl. Reaching out a strong, brown hand,
he lifted her chin, his touch so gentle it was almost a caress.
Blue
eyes bored into blue as the two carefully studied each other. There was no
trace of mockery or amusement in MacLean's face, just an expression of
understanding Anne found unusual in a man.
"Imagine
yourself in the privacy of your own chamber in England, lass," he said
gently. "I promise no rude Scotsman will invade your bath." His
fingers lingered on her cheek for the space of a heartbeat, then he was gone,
striding away across the dew-drenched grass to disappear into a nearby grove of
young birches.
She
stood hesitantly for a moment watching him disappear, then turned her attention
to the water. Kneeling in the bracken at the water's edge, she gazed in dismay
at the vision reflected in the still waters. Her unruly hair tumbled down her
back in a cascade of tangles and caked mud, and her velvet habit was torn and
heavily stained. Even her face was spattered with grime.
No
wonder he isn't tempted to join me, she told herself wryly. What man would be?
She drew a deep breath, then resolutely began unfastening her habit, wondering
as she did what MacLean's opinion of her was. It'd be a misfortune to take his
fancy, she reminded herself firmly, chiding herself for the wayward bent of her
thoughts.
Anne
purposefully slipped out of the habit and petticoat, then removed her boots and
warm, worsted stockings before she could think better of the whole idea. She
glanced nervously over her shoulder toward the trees. She could see no sign of
MacLean, but that meant nothing. Pushing one inquisitive foot into the pool,
she gasped at the coldness and removed the offended member from the icy water
with a jerk. Quickly revising her idea of stepping into the pool, she cast
about for another way to bathe.
Keeping
her back turned squarely in MacLean's direction, she slipped out of her shift
and dipped it in the water, then used it to wash her body. Working quickly lest
she freeze before she was done—or the Highlander lose patience—she scrubbed
ruthlessly until her pale skin tingled and gleamed a rosy pink. Hastily donning
the clean shift from her bundle, she turned her attention to the mess of her
hair.
With
a deep breath, she thrust her face and hair into the icy water, determined at
all costs to wash her unkempt mane. She worked furiously to remove the mud and
tangles before her fingers grew numb with the cold.
Her
ablutions finished, Anne squeezed the excess water from her hair and sat up,
drawing the fresh habit over her head and tugging it into place. Hands
trembling, she struggled with the tiny buttons, but two in the very center of
her back eluded all her efforts to manage them. Why in heaven's name had she
packed the thing? She had always had trouble closing it without Philippa, and
with stiff fingers, it was impossible.
Finally
giving up, Anne stepped into the sunshine. She nervously held the edges of the
habit together behind her as she called to MacLean. He strolled out from the
stand of trees, his knowing eyes taking in the situation at a glance.
"I'm
afraid I can't...," she began, but she broke off in consternation.
"If
you'll allow me, mistress." MacLean calmly caught her arm, turning her
around. "I've done this often enough for my, ah... sister."
Anne
was overwhelmingly aware of his hands at her back, of the warm feel of his
fingers through the thin cloth of her shift. When the job was done, she drew
away, glancing up warily to see if he meant mischief.
"How
is it the daughter of the earl of Glenkennon travels without a maid? Not that
I'm complaining at the duty, mind you," MacLean said lightly.
"The
woman who tended me from childhood died within three weeks of my mother."
Anne forced the words out calmly enough, though the bleak look in her eyes gave
the lie to her even tone. "The new girl took fright at London
harbor..."
She
faltered, remembering the awesomeness of the ocean and the storm-churned swells
shaking the ship the day of her departure. "I didn't blame her. There was
a storm brewing, and I'd have refused myself had it been possible."
MacLean's
narrowed eyes gently probed her own, reading there the terror of a young girl
alone on her first sea voyage. "I'm sorry, lass," he said softly.
"Was there no time to find you another companion?"
She
shook her head. "My father left orders for the day we were to sail."
His
lips tightened grimly and the understanding warmth in his eyes chilled.
"And Glenkennon's used to being obeyed, I know. Well, he'll have a long
wait to see his orders carried out this time." Taking her arm, he turned
toward camp. "You're shaking with cold. Let's get you back to the
fire."
At
sight of the two returning, Donald began ladling up a thick gruel. "How
did you manage to prepare breakfast out here?" Anne asked, sniffing the
delicious aroma and settling herself before the warmth of the fire.
"Never
ask Donald how he does a thing—just enjoy it," MacLean stated with an
appreciative smile directed toward the other man. "Whether it's for food,
spirits, or a clean shirt, Donald's never at a loss." He shrugged his
broad shoulders. "I gave up years ago trying to figure out his secrets,
but I suspect he's in league with the faeries."
Anne
reached for her cup, suddenly feeling amazingly lighthearted. "Are you
magical, Donald? That would provide a group of English soldiers I know with a
convenient excuse when they try to explain last night's happenings to my
father."
"Nay,
mistress," he explained with a grin, "there's no magic. But 'tis
easier to face the ups and downs o' life with a full belly and a clean shirt,
and I do my best to keep m'lord here in both."
Anne
gazed covertly at the powerful figure of Sir Francis MacLean as he breakfasted.
His hard manner was unexpectedly gentled that morning, and the slow smile that
warmed his face tamed Anne's fear.
She
looked him over curiously. In spite of their rugged surroundings, the man was
immaculate. His carefully stitched shirt of fine linen and well-cut leather
breeks bespoke a fastidious attention to dress without a showiness out of place
in this wilderness. A narrow band of lace edging the cuff of his shirt and a
black onyx ring set with a single diamond were the only adornments he wore. His
dress and aristocratic bearing sat poorly with her idea of him as an outlaw,
yet he seemed nothing like the foppish gentlemen she was used to seeing in
England.
If
Anne was puzzled about Sir Francis, the man was certainly in a quandary over
her. He had expected beauty— Mary MacDonnell had reputedly been one of the
greatest beauties to come out of the clans—but he'd been ill-prepared for the
reality of her daughter.
The
girl sat now before the fire, absently running her comb through the long silken
curtain of her drying hair. The gleaming mass tumbled halfway down her back in
a cascade of burnished gold touched with shimmering coppery highlights. Her
eyes, wideset and heavily fringed with remarkably fine, dark lashes, were the
color of a midsummer sky, their expression so luminous and deep a man might
forget himself in their depths.
Her
wide, full-lipped mouth curled up now in an engaging grin at some quip of
Donald's. It was a mouth made for kissing, MacLean noted with a suddenly
quickened heartbeat. His eyes slid lower, to the slender white column of her
throat, which rose from her demure blue habit to support a gently squared,
determined chin. He smiled, recalling the stubborn defiance of that chin as she
had sat in the mud the night before.
Without
thinking, he caught a silken strand of her hair, staring bemusedly as it slipped
between his callused fingers. The girl was too lovely for his own comfort. He
wondered if Glenkennon knew what a valuable tool she had become.
At
the gentle brush of his hand against her hair, the nerves along the back of
Anne's neck tingled, and a strange warmth rippled from his fingers down her
neck to her toes. She glanced up in surprise, abruptly forgetting what she had
been about to say.
Coming
to himself with a start, MacLean dropped the silken strands as if they were
burning coals. "If you've dawdled long enough now, we must ride," he
snapped.
Anne
glanced toward Donald, unsure how she had angered MacLean, but Donald was
frowning in puzzlement at his chief. MacLean doused the fire and turned
impatiently to the saddling of the horses, leaving Donald to gather the few
cooking implements and cover all signs of the camp.
Anne
watched the two men nervously, once again frightened and confused. The laughter
and easy companionship of a few moments earlier might never have been.
"We've
no lady's saddle, lass," Donald apologized, leading her to her mount,
"but if you'll tuck yer skirts beneath yer knees here, proper decorum may
still be maintained."
"Proper
decorum is the least of my worries," she whispered, moving stiffly to
accept his assist into the saddle. "What I need most is a bolster between
myself and this brute."
"The
soreness will ease after a short while in the saddle. In an hour you'll not
even remember it," he said hopefully.
She
nodded, then shot a quick glance at MacLean. What had she done to provoke his
swift anger, and why, in heaven's name, should she care? He was her father's
enemy, and thus her own. His earlier gentleness must have been merely a passing
fancy.
MacLean
preserved an unyielding silence as they swung out across the grassy moor. He
was reminding himself grimly of his many grievances against the wily Robert of
Glenkennon. Gazing out over the sun-drenched beauty of the day, he hardened his
heart. He'd not be swayed from his purpose by a pair of engaging blue eyes, no
matter how lovely they were.
Anne
shifted her weight onto one hip and tried to stretch her aching back as
inconspicuously as possible. She glanced resentfully at MacLean. He had pushed
the little group at a punishing pace all morning, carefully scanning the
distance for any indication of trouble. He had remained grimly silent, his hard
face shuttered and remote. No trace remained of the understanding companion
Anne had glimpsed earlier. In his present mood she could easily imagine him
engaged in any treachery against her father and King James.
With
renewed fear, she realized that every mile put her that much further from the
hope of rescue, and her spirits, which had been markedly improved by clean
clothes and a hot breakfast, plunged to her boots once again. After all, she
reasoned, no matter how kind Donald was, he would leave her to her fate if
MacLean commanded it.
They
paused for a hasty meal in the cover of a small stand of greening trees. The
place was well chosen, for the open country around would give sufficient notice
of any stirrings of man or beast. Whether by witchcraft or some more orthodox
means, Donald produced a hare from his saddlebag, claiming to have snared it
beside the stream in the early hours before dawn. In a few moments, he had it neatly
spitted and roasting over a tiny, smokeless fire.