The Firebrand (29 page)

Even as he moved beside her, she heard his one, short, mirthless laugh in response to her desperate words of defeat. She felt his arm wrap around her, and draw her head to his shoulder.

“There is only one thing in which you have failed miserably, and that is the way you have been taking care of yourself.” With the back of his hand, he wiped the wetness from her face. “You need some sleep, Adrianne. Aye, a wee bit of well-deserved rest is just the thing, I’d say.”

She continued to weep softly against his chest. “But what of all the damage—of all the trouble I’ve brought on Gillie? How am I to fix what I have done?”

“No need to worry about any of that now, lass.” He placed a kiss in her hair and laid her back on the bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. “Gillie has beaten the fever, but he needs more time to recover. This gives a fair opportunity for others to help. Quick enough, the rest of the household will get to know the lad, and all will be well. Now get some sleep.”

Wyntoun started to get up from the bed, but she reached for his hand. His eyes were dark and his thoughts hooded as he looked down on her.

“Will you stay?” she asked hesitantly. “Just for a few more moments. Will you just stay...with me?”

She watched the planes of his face flicker as his jaws clenched and unclenched, and she held her breath until he gave her a nod of assent.

Adrianne didn’t give much thought to the fact that she was fully clothed and beneath the blankets and he lay on top of them. What did register somewhere deep within her was the gentle way he put his arm around her, gathering her so protectively to his side, resting her head on his chest. In a moment, her hand found his, and their fingers entwined.

As she fell asleep, she could hear his great heart beating in his chest, and it formed the rhythm that reverberated in his quiet response.

“I’ll stay.”

If she were a wee bit stronger, and taller, and perhaps a bit wider—or at the very least armed—Adrianne knew for certain she could have removed the man physically from her path. But as it stood now, she felt more like some sparrow looking into the face of a falcon. The man was a monster.

“What do you mean, I cannot go by?”

The sailor called Bull refused to meet Adrianne’s direct gaze, staring at a spot just above her head.

“No trouble, now, mistress. ‘Tis just as I told ye. The Blade says I canna let ye go by.”

“Are you telling me that Sir Wyntoun has ordered you to block this flight of stairs?”

“Aye, mistress. Just so.”

“Is Gillie still upstairs?”

“Aye, mistress. And getting haler all the time…I’m to tell ye.”

She was glad to hear the news that Gillie’s health was improving, but still she wanted to see the boy for herself. She stepped to the side to go past the man, but he shifted his weight, as well. If she was going to go up these stairs, she was going to have to take the man down.

“Is there another flight of stairs that I am ignorant of, Bull?”

“Nay, mistress.”

“I only told Bege to look after him for the night, for certain the poor woman needs some rest.”

“Oh, Lady Mara’s seen to that. Auld Bege’s watch finished up yesterday morn. And after that, Makyn took the watch fer half a day. And then there was that bonny scullery lass with hair the color of fire. And then--”

Adrianne raised a hand in front of Bull’s face. “What do you mean ‘yesterday morn,’ Bull? How long have I been sleeping?”

“Well, mistress…” The man removed his tam to scratch his head. “I came over fer my watch at dawn, but afore me Ian stood a piece, and Tosh before him, and…”

“How long has it been?” she asked less patiently. No wonder she had been so hungry this morning. She’d eaten every morsel on the trencher left in her husband’s antechamber.

“Well, I’d say ye slept away the day yesterday, and last night, as well.”

Adrianne closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. She hadn’t the time to dwell on staying away so long. Instead, she needed to focus on what needed to be done now. She put a hand on his forearm. It was rock solid and roughly the size of her waist.

“All the more reason for me to check on Gillie this morning. Don’t you think so, Bull?”

The sailor’s face reddened at her entreaty, but he went back to staring at that spot above her head. “The Blade says I wasna put on this earth fer thinking, mistress. I canna let ye by.”

“But what if we just kept it as our own wee secret? All I’ll do is poke my head in and…”

“Sorry, mistress. Blade’s orders.”

She
wasn’t
going to be as protective as she’d been before. Adrianne thought she’d made Wyntoun understand that. She only needed to see Gillie. Just for a moment. And then she had things to do. She wanted to visit Auld Jean, to thank the midwife for all her help with Gillie and to ask her about the lad’s face. There were others in the village that she wanted to see, too, now that she was on her feet—Agnes and Gerta, the widow Meggan and her wild brood of children.

“Bull, I have it! You can come up with me and make certain I keep my visit short.”

The man shook his big head stubbornly. “Nay, mistress. Blade’s orders.”

“Am I the only one to be kept from visiting Gillie, or have you been ordered to hector everyone who wishes to visit the lad?” This was her last hope. Perhaps Wyntoun had meant to keep everyone out.

The man scratched his chin and took a half step backwards. “Only
ye
, mistress.”

“Where…
is
…my husband?” she asked as civilly as she could, through clenched teeth.

“He...the master, that is, had a busy day, mistress. He did leave a message that perhaps ye might like to spend some time with Lady Mara, and he’ll be looking fer ye there when he gets back.”

Adrianne folded her arms across her chest and stared up at the man. “Bull, I am certain you know of my reputation when it comes to creating mischief.”

“Aye, mistress.”

“So you do know that if I am provoked to do it, I could easily climb the castle wall and go wherever ‘tis I wish without the use of those stairs you so valiantly guard. Now, Bull, did I mention the word ‘provoked’?”

“Aye, mistress.”

“Now, climbing the wall hardly seems like mischief to me, but if I were to take the opportunity to do some damage in this new section of the castle…if I were to wreak so much havoc here, that my husband would have to rebuild this entire wing…” She looked about her with keen interest. “And do you know who would be responsible if there were some
serious
damage…?”

“He’s in the training yard, mistress,” Bull blurted out quickly. “He was planning to ride out again, but with the heavy weather, the master is working with the men.”

“Thank you, Bull. You have been most helpful.”

“Ye willna burn down the keep now, will ye, mistress?”

“Not on your watch, Bull,” she said, smiling sweetly. “At least, not this morning.”

****

Steam was rising from the bodies of the muddy, half-naked warriors as they pushed through the open doors of the stables. They had worked hard with their weapons, and now sweat mingled with rain on their torsos and faces, beading up and glistening on every naked chest and back. The day was cold and gray and somber, with heavy mists giving way to occasional downpours, but the spirits in the stables were high as the men poured buckets of water over each other to the sound of shouts and laughter.

Wyntoun made his way through the boisterous group of men and took a bucket of water himself from one of the stable lads. His father’s castle guard—many of them old sailors who’d fought under Alexander’s sea banner for years—had provided good exercise for his sailors, and even now a number of the men were facing off in friendly competition inside the stable doors.

“I believe we’ve been away too long, master,” Ian called loudly to Wyntoun. “Why, these old graybeards have aged so poorly, the poor auld buggers can barely hold a weapon aloft.”

“Poorly aged, is it?” a broad-chested warrior of middle years responded, making an obscene gesture. “Well, I’ve got a weapon that stands aloft on its own, I’ll have you know…unlike that wee and pitiful excuse for a thing you’ve got!”

Amid a burst of laughter and cheers from the two groups, the two combatants threw themselves at one another like a pair of battling bulls, grappling in the open space by the stable doors. Their friendly scuffle drew a wry smile and a shake of the head from Wyntoun, who moved down the row of stalls to a safe distance from the escalating battle. The knight sat himself on an overturned bucket and looked at his own upper arm and a long cut that—though not very deep—continued to bleed fairly steadily.

“Could I be looking after that for you, Sir Wyntoun?”

Looking up in surprise, he saw the blond-haired Canny approaching across the stable floor, carrying a clean shirt for him. Ten years earlier, as the Blade of Barra, he had saved her entire family from a Danish raiding ship off the east coast of Scotland. She’d been hardly more than a child then, but she’d grown into a strong-willed and lusty wench. It was no secret that the lass was not quite ready to give up her long-held crush on him, but her determination to ignore both Adrianne and the marriage ceremony gave Wyntoun pause even to talk to the young woman.

“Nay, lass. Leave the shirt and go on back to the keep.”

“You must take better care of yourself, master. A cut can go very deep, sometimes.” The young woman leaned forward, her hand brushing lightly over his muscled arm as her large, firm breasts practically spilled out of the low neckline of her blouse. Her voice dropped to a husky pitch. “And you know I’m quite capable when the blade goes deep.”

Wyntoun would have been deaf and blind to not get Canny’s not-so-subtle suggestion. He looked directly into her blue eyes. “Nay, Canny. I’ve a wife to look after these things now.”

Her lips parted slightly as she let her gaze drop to his bare chest and even lower. Her eyes traveled back to his face, holding his gaze.

“I do not know how the Englishwoman is to care for you when you’re hurt like this, Wyn, when she cannot even keep to her bed.”

The young woman’s frankness was as impressive as her body, he thought, but she needed to be set straight for her own good.

In a way, Wyntoun was relieved to realize that he wasn’t in any way tempted by Canny. But even as that thought registered in his brain, he frowned, distressed to think that his feelings toward Adrianne were changing the way he might desire an attractive and very available lass. By the devil, he thought, he’d need to think about that a wee bit more when he had time.

Nonetheless, the Blade of Barra shook his head at the young woman and started rising to his feet, only to have Canny pretend to lose her footing and throw herself at him. With a crash of the bucket, the two of them tumbled into the straw and dirt, Canny’s voluptuous body sprawled on top of him.

“By the devil, lass…!”

“I haven’t forgotten how great a lover you are, Wyn,” she cooed in his face before planting her lips firmly on his.

He had rolled her onto her back in an instant and was peeling himself out of her grasp when he realized that the men’s distant shouts and laughter had died.

Wyntoun knew somehow what was facing him before he even turned.

“Adrianne,” he said casually. She was standing in the midst of a crowd of half naked men, most of them twice her size.

Like a number of the men, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest, watching the spectacle. If it weren’t that her eyes were shooting arrows of fire, one might think she was calm and entirely unaffected by the sight of her lecherous pig of a husband tumbling in the straw with a hot-blooded wench.

Canny appeared at Wyntoun’s side, but Adrianne’s threatening half-step forward coincided with him shaking the woman’s hand off of his arm. Coll, though, immediately stepped forward and took the young woman in hand.

“I believe ye have done enough damage here for one day, lassie.” The burly sailor’s words were hushed, but in the deadly silence of the stables, there was nothing said that went unheard. As he led her out, Adrianne’s gaze nearly reduced Canny to cinders before returning to Wyn.

“Out! All of you men!” Wyntoun growled sharply, never taking his eyes off of Adrianne.

There was some grumbling as they moved off. The spectacle that was sure to ensue would be something to talk about over a cup of ale, but the lash of Wyntoun’s temper was something none of them wanted to feel. In a moment the stables were empty of all but a few horses in their stalls and a bold-hearted sparrow chirping in the eaves overhead.

He hadn’t done anything wrong, Wyntoun reminded himself. Seeing her unflinching glare, though, he guessed that Adrianne had already jumped to a most reasonable conclusion. He could handle that. It was the unpredictability of how she might immediately respond that had him on the defensive at the moment. He knew danger when he saw it.

Wyntoun watched her turn and walk to where his sword and sheath stood up against the wall. She picked up the weapon.

“We should be able to resolve our differences without that.”

She whirled the sword lightly in the air as if to get the feel and weight of it. He was impressed, in spite of himself, with how easily she handled the weight of the weapon. She turned to him with the sword still in hand.

“Adrianne!” he growled. “There is no reason to behave rashly.”

Her eyes flashed as she met his gaze. “I would have cut out that hussy’s heart with a stone if I were behaving rashly. I would have dragged her out of these stables by her lank, yellow hair and let
her
hang in a cage from the Duart Castle’s walls if I were behaving rashly.” The sword cut another arc in the air, and she came a step closer. “Tell me, Sir Wyntoun, would you consider it rash if a woman—not even a fortnight married—were to react violently to the sight of her husband in the arms of another woman?”

The knight stood his ground, his arms crossed over his chest. “And is there a woman here who can make such a claim?”

“I
did
see a man sprawled atop a wench on this stable floor a moment ago, did I not?”