Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 02] (14 page)

One or two irreparable rips gaped wide, giving delicious glimpses no red-blooded man ought be exposed to . . . lest he be allowed to sate the lust such sweetness was sure to stir in his loins.
Iain’s throat instantly tightened, as did other parts of him.
Indeed, it’d taken but one fleeting look at a single coral-tinted nipple, puckered tight and thrusting, for his body to make short work of his fervent wish not to unbehindsettle her.
And she thought him a gallant.
Shoving nervous fingers through his hair, he said a silent prayer of thanks for the loose-hanging folds of his plaid.
Nevertheless, if she peered as closely at his lower body as she was studying his face, she’d soon see just what an un-gallant he was.
So he turned away.
And hoped another glance at MacFie’s ugly countenance would banish the rise beneath his plaid.
Blessedly, it did, and he wheeled to face her as soon as he knew he could without further compromising her modesty.
“Iain of Baldoon,” she surprised him by saying, again seeming to practice its feel.
“So I have said,” Iain ceded, amazed his voice didn’t crack like a besotted squire’s, so enchanting was the way she said his name. The soft lilt of her Highland tongue a sweet balm he’d not tire of hearing, if he lived a thousand years. “But there is more I must tell you.”
She peered at him. “Aye?”
A flicker of interest flitted across her face. No coyness or condemnation . . . just a look of simple and honest inquiry.
Iain’s heart twisted, then began thumping hard against his ribs.
How long had it been since a lass had eyed him with aught but accusation or pity?
And even
before,
with the exception of his sweet Lileas, it’d been the glitter of MacLean gold lighting every bonnie female face to turn his way.
That, or the titillating thrill of bedding a laird’s brother.
The closest many an ambitious lass would e’er come to such a coup.
And Iain had ne’er much cared . . . till now.
Straightening his shoulders, he clasped his hands behind his back. He was almost certain they’d begun trembling and he wouldn’t embarrass himself by adding weakness to his long list of faults.
So he stood as straight as he could, waited for her gaze to cease flitting over him, and hoped he wouldn’t catch a gleam of calculation hiding anywhere within the depths of her gorgeous, thick-lashed eyes.
“I ken what you want to tell me,” she said, her green-gold eyes all innocence and wonder.
Iain arched a brow, waited.
“You are laird,” she said, and Iain’s heart plummeted to his toes.
Careful to keep his alarm at bay, he steeled himself to rectify her conclusion. “Sweet lass, I would subsist upon naught but bread and water if I could please you by claiming it were so, but I am not laird,” he told her. “I am but the laird’s brother.”
To his amazement, she simply shrugged.
“It matters not,” she said, her gaze full earnest. “But I vow your brother is one of the most fortunate lairds in the land.”
Iain eyed her carefully. Surely he’d misheard her.
He had to be dreaming.
She reached up to press gentle fingers to his cheek. “I should like to know more of you, good sir,” she breathed, and a shadow passed o’er her face. “Aye, I truly wish I could.”
Iain stared at her, his skin tingling where she’d touched him. Golden warmth like he’d never known spilled through him, its sweetness cloaking the faint glimmer of regret in her eyes. Erasing, too, the tint of melancholy coloring her last words.
Her
other
words shot straight to his heart and made him want to throw off every cumbersome chain of guilt, yank her into his arms, and claim her lips in a searing, never-ending kiss.
A fine, soul-slaking kiss to make up for all their lost yesterdays and to lend resplendent promise to the many tomorrows lying before them.
Tomorrows that should have lain before them.
A bliss that would ne’er unfold.
Iain blinked away the thoughts, suppressed a frown, and almost succeeded in closing his ears on the voices of a past he couldn’t flee.
Indeed, a decidedly gruff-sounding harrumph at his elbow minded him of the impossibility of escape.
“I thought Amicia’s
arisaid
would suit our disguise better than a torn and soiled postulant’s robe,” Gavin MacFie declared, Amicia’s exquisitely woven plaid dangling from his outstretched hand.
“Disguise?”
Madeline’s brows shot up, her gaze flying to her friend, then to Iain’s sister’s
arisaid
. . . the same one he’d used to wrap around a few of the most priceless pieces of MacLean treasure.
Precious goods stashed in the very bottom of his travel bag.
A fierce growl rose in Iain’s throat, his fingers itching to curl around the Islesman’s neck.
A neck slowly turning as red as the bastard’s beard. “You haven’t told her yet,” the dimwit stammered, for once having the grace to appear nonplussed.
Saints, he even looked rattled.
A condition Iain would have reveled in under any other circumstance.
“Told me what?” Madeline whirled on him, her wide-eyed paleness lighting balefires of warning across every inch of ground he’d managed to win from her.
He opened his mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but no words came, for his tongue seemed determined to stick to the roof of his mouth. Ramming both hands through his hair, he wished the stony ground would open up beneath his feet.
His blood cooking, he glowered at MacFie.
She
blew out a breath and swung on her friend. “What have I not been told?” she repeated, a vein pulsing visibly at the base of her throat. “And what is this about a disguise? Who is Amicia?”
The older woman met her questions with a well-meaning if cautious smile. “Amicia is your shadow man’s sister,” she said, indicating Iain.
With surprising agility, she plucked the
arisaid
from MacFie’s hand and thrust it into Madeline’s arms before she could voice a protest.
As quickly, she snatched away the wadded mass of Iain’s pilgrim’s cloak and handed it to him.
He took it, some unattached part of himself noting that it now smelled faintly of heather before he sent it sailing through the air to join the other cast-aside vestiges of his pilgrim disguise.
“What you’ve not yet been told,” Nella of the Marsh was saying, “is that these two gallants have kindly offered us their escort.” The words out, she looked so pleased with herself Iain wondered fleetingly where her loyalty lay.
Madeline looked anything but pleased. Her eyes widened to an alarming degree, and every freckle gracing her proud cheekbones stood out in stark relief against the gleaming whiteness of her skin.
Her companion rushed on, clearly unconcerned . . . or perhaps well used to the lady’s wrath. “For propriety’s sake and our own good safety, they’ve suggested posing as our husbands until we’ve reached our destination.”
Sheer panic—and barely contained anger—broke out on Madeline’s face. She stared at her friend, nigh white-lipped, her eyes darkening to a deep, mossy green, the lovely golden flecks completely gone.
Iain stared at her, slack-jawed.
Were he not so intimately involved in her vexation, he would have hooted with amusement, for ne’er had he seen a lass come anywhere close to the fury of his own unleashed temper.
Ne’er until that moment.
Her indignant gaze flitted between the three of them before settling on her companion. “We do not need an escort,” she ground out, her agitation palpable. “And I’ll have naught to do with the husband part of it.”
Clenching Amicia’s
arisaid
so tightly her knuckles ran white, and with high color seeping onto her cheeks, she looked every proud inch an unconquerable Celtic warrior princess.
She swiped a curl away from her eyes. “You ken we must travel alone . . . and why.”
Nella folded her arms, apparently every bit as brave and daring. “And you, my la—” she broke off, her own cheeks flaming. “You cannot say I e’er approved. Two lone women a-traipsing across the land!”
Leaning forward, she braved Madeline’s narrow-eyed stare. “No matter the reason.”
“And what
is
the reason?” The question slipped from Iain’s lips before he could catch it . . . remembering too late the danger of provoking anyone caught in the throes of such white-faced fury.
She rounded on him. “None that I care to discuss, sirrah,” she said, the whole sweet column of her throat and the fine upper curves of her breasts wearing the same becoming flush as her cheeks. “Not even in the face of your gallantry, which I shall ne’er forget and e’er cherish.”
That last, and the wee shade of regret he’d caught lighting across her face as she’d said it, gave him hope . . . and the encouragement he needed to seize his advantage.
He stepped forward before the courage left him, lifted his hands, palms outward. “I give you my word of ho—” —he broke off to slide a warning glance at MacFie—“my word of honor that no harm shall come to either of you from this hour onward, my lady,” he sought to reassure her.
“Not so long as you are in our care,” he added, low-voiced . . . and, he hoped, with enough quiet certitude to calm her. “We shall see you safely whither you please.”
“Nay.” She waved a dismissive hand and began backing away from him, her swift retreat causing her to stumble over a toppled headstone.
She caught herself, but one of the cloak brooches sprang from her bodice and dropped to the ground.
The nipple Iain’d glimpsed earlier popped into view, the tear in her bodice gaping wide enough to display it fully. Wholly relaxed this time, the nipple’s unpuckered fullness and the round disk of her surprisingly large are ola proved just as rousing as in a tightly ruched state.
Iain’s loins clenched at once.
His conscience chided him.
And she gasped, clapping a quick hand over the delightfully exposed delicacy.
“Oh, dear saints, whate’er have I done to be so tested!” she cried, a telltale brightness sparkling in her eyes. “Just leave me be, all of you,” she pleaded, and swirled Amicia’s
arisaid
about her shoulders.
With a last, furious glance at each of them, she snatched up the fallen brooch, spun on her heel, and hastened out of the kirkyard.
Gavin MacFie whistled and turned aside. Shaking his head, he took Nella’s elbow and began guiding her toward his horse. Too flummoxed to move, Iain watched them go, knowing without asking that she’d ride with Gavin to MacNab’s.
He also knew he’d not ride anywhere without his particular
bane
sitting securely before him . . . whether she desired to accompany him or nay.
’Twas for her own good, he told himself, starting after her.
He caught up with her in eight easy strides.
“Lass, you have just caused me to break the one code of honor I ne’er thought I would,” he grumbled, and swept her into his arms.
A dark scowl now marring
his
face, he strode back through the kirkyard gate, carrying her toward his waiting garron. With each step of way he tried not to think about the gravity of his deed.
For not only had he just abducted a woman against her will, he’d also rubbed grime all o’er the last untarnished corner of his pride.
Chapter Eight
M
ANY HOURS LATER AND MUCH incensed, Madeline huddled above a wee patch of heather-free ground, her rumpled skirts bunched about her hips, and blew out a breath of sheerest frustration. She kept a narrow-eyed stare pinned on
him,
her shadow man, and wondered where her dignity had gone.
More than that, she couldn’t decide which of her present depredations plagued her the most—her aching feet, her fiercely sore buttocks, or the humiliation of Iain MacLean’s refusal to allow her to slip alone into the sheltering cluster of gorse bushes and dwarf hawthorns.
Dangers a-plenty roamed the land, he’d minded her, excusing his overly vigilant shepherding by claiming robbers, rogues, and ravagers bedeviled even this pleaslawlessneant country of gently wooded slopes and deceptively peaceful vales.
Especially in these times of disharmony and lawlessness in the Scottish realm.
He’d underscored his point by tightening the arm he’d wrapped securely about her middle when, his warning scarce spoken, they’d passed the gutted ruin of an empty cothouse, its fire-scorched walls and blackened roof thatch lending harsh validity to his caution.
In truth, leaving her glad of it.
Unbidden, Silver Leg’s hood-eyed visage flashed through her mind, and a torrent of cold shivers snaked down her spine. Lifting her chin a notch higher, she closed her heart to the horrors she’d seen and wished a triplefold plague on the dastard.
Blinked back the tears she’d sworn not to shed for her father until she’d seen his death avenged.
Aye, ’twas glad she was of her shadow man’s protection.
But not
this
glad.
Pressing her lips into a firm line, she aimed another barrage of impotently defiant daggers at his broad back and wished the tumbling burn beside her would gurgle and splash with a bit more vigor.
Nay, much more vigor!
Her pointless wish expended, she dug her fingers deeper into the woolen folds of her gathered skirts and longed to make a few blaring noises of her own. A peppered word or two, muttered loudly, or at the very least an indignant, windy huff.
But any such outburst might incite him to wheel about to face her, and, saints be praised, so far he’d kept his word.
As he’d promised, he held a fair distance, and gave not the slightest indication of turning around . . . or even sneaking a glance over his shoulder.
Nor did he rush her.
But he could surely hear her.
And that knowledge blasted heat straight up the back of Madeline’s neck. She bit down on her lower lip, a hot tide of sharp-edged embarrassment coursing through her, making her task all the more difficult.
He
appeared perfectly at ease with their rather delicate undertaking.
Not ten feet away, he waited beside his quietly grazing garron. Nary a muscle on the whole tall length of him moved, his entire body arrow-straight and so rigid he might as well be carved of solid, living stone.
He stood with his long, well-hewn legs braced slightly apart, and even his hands bespoke his masterful self-possession, clasped simply and ever-so-casually behind his back.
Madeline eyed him, quite certain he’d becharmed her—for how else could he have haunted her dreams for weeks? Make her look on him in favor, moon-eyed and swooning o’er his bonnie muscles, now, when caught in the throes of such an awkward moment?
Faith, his braw proximity rendered anything
but
gawking at him a feat of near impossibility.