The Rogue (12 page)

The pretty woman said, “Not
the
Angus MacDougall...the one they call Angus the Blood?” The admiration remained on her visage, as she made a delicate shudder. “My oh my, aren’t ye the brave lassie.”

Feeling defensive—she’d heard one of the Fraisers call Angus
the Blood,
as well, but in less admiring tones—Birdi lifted her chin. “Nay, he’s...kind.”

“Hmm, he certainly looks kind.”

When the woman ran her tongue across her lower lip as Wolf had whenever he spied Hen, Birdi found herself hard pressed not to snatch the pretty woman bald-headed.

Jaws clenched, Birdi squared her shoulders. “We must take our leave. ‘Twas good meeting ye.” She turned and ran smack into Angus’s chest.

Cradling her bruised nose as Angus steadied her, Birdi mumbled, “I didna ken ye were there.”

Angus snaked an arm around her waist and bowed his head to the two women. “Good day, ladies.”

Birdi caught a new tone in Angus’s voice, looked up, and was alarmed to see admiration in his eyes as he studied the pretty sister, Margie. Humph!

And Margie still hadn’t pulled her gaze from Angus’s broad chest. Aye, ‘twas a fine chest to be sure—hard and well muscled—but how rude!

Redheaded and pox marred Kate mumbled, “Good day, sir,” to Angus then tugged on her sister’s arm. “Margie, we need go. Now!”

As Kate hauled her sister away, Birdi heaved a relieved sigh.

Angus murmured, “I found some berries. We need eat and go ourselves.”

Arm about her waist, Angus guided Birdi, deep in thought, to a grassy knoll overlooking the loch.

As they sat he heard the call of a falcon and looked up. The geld circled twice, folded its wings, and then dove for its unsuspecting prey. ‘Twas a good sign. Had danger been riding hard their way, the bird would have sought safer hunting ground. He turned his attention back to the remains of their midday meal and saw that—despite being given ample time and the choicest fish and berries—Birdi had barely touched either. But he should be thankful for small blessings; Birdi’s determined, straight-mouthed grimace had softened.

She cleared her throat. “I need ask ye something.”

“Ask.”

“Are ye honest...forthright?”

Unaccustomed to having his integrity questioned, Angus straightened. “Aye, absolutely.”

She nodded, apparently pleased with the answer, and asked, “Why do they call ye Angus the Blood?”

It had been too much to hope she hadn’t heard the Fraiser call him that. “‘Tis a name I’ve cultivated to protect my clan.”

She scowled. “How can a name protect them?”

Angus hesitated. Had she not asked for honesty, he’d have tempered his words, suspecting she still feared him, but then, they’d soon be at Inveruglas. Better she hear the story from him than from them. “I am reported to eat the livers of the men I kill in battle. My reputation has caused many a man to flee me rather than risk being eaten should he fall.”

  Birdi blanched. “Nay!”

  “Aye. ‘Tis false, of course—I dinna even like liver—but it serves a purpose. Few tread on MacDougall land without good cause. And those that do ken that they’d best behave or risk losing a body part to me.”

Birdi worried her bottom lip as she gave his answer some thought. “Then why did ye taste me? In the field and again in the cave?”

Angus frowned, then realized she was referring to his kisses and grinned. “I wasna tasting, but kissing.”

“Explain
kissing.
”

Never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined so luscious a woman asking that. He chuckled. “What do ye need explained?”

“The why of it.” She twisted the hem of his tunic. She’d refused to don the dead woman’s kirtle he’d confiscated for her from Ardlui. “This kissing feels odd to start, ye ken?”

“Aye, but I find it pleasantly odd. Do ye?” He could only hope.

“Aye, but why did ye do it?”

Tread gently, laddie.
“Men and woman kiss when they feel a craving for each other or when they want to display affection. Just like mothers kiss babes because they love them.”

Birdi ruminated on his words for several minutes. “So...if I kiss the babe, I’m telling him I love him?”

“Aye.” Had she never been kissed before? What manner of mother had she? Good God Almighty.

Birdi’s forehead scrunched. “So ye kissed me because ye love me?”

Ack! “I kissed ye because ye have a winning way about ye, because ye’re soft in all the right places, and because ye have a mouth any man would want to taste.”

“Hmm.” She wrenched several blades of grass out of the patch at her feet and started braiding them. “Would ye like to kiss me again?”

What do ye say now, MacDougall? Answer honestly and mayhap cause her to bolt, or lie and regret it for the rest of ye life?

“Aye, I would.”

Chin tucked, she whispered, “Ye may, then.”

His heart jolted. Before she could change her mind he leaned across the sleeping babe and placed his right hand on her neck. Using his thumb he raised her chin so he could look into her incredible, icy eyes. He saw no indecision or fear, only curiosity. He drew her closer still, and their mouths made gentle contact.

Her lips, though still, were as soft and pliant as he recalled. Now kenning she was totally unschooled in the matters of men and women, he took his time, increasing the pressure. After a moment he nibbled her lower lip and she gasped, giving him ready access to the sweet, moist confines of her mouth. He eased in and heated blood roared into his groin. Her tongue was as soft as a rose petal. She tasted of berries. Seeing her eyes close, he closed his own and stroked the interior of her mouth for just another moment, savoring her lush interior. He felt her tongue explore his for too short interval, and then he reluctantly pulled away.

To his relief, she sighed, opened her eyes, and then blushed to a rosy hue. She cleared her throat then asked, “‘Tis done?”

“Aye.” It had taken all his willpower to pull back, to keep from delving deeper into her in the hopes of chasing away the rest of her reservations, but that wouldn’t have been fair to her and certainly not fair to him. ‘Twas bad enough he’d have to live with this memory—of what might have been—for a lifetime.

Please, Blessed Mary, let the lass at Beal be worth this sacrifice, or I’ll not be able to live with myself.

Birdi, her color still high, brushed a few tresses from her face—the ones he’d inadvertently pulled from her braid—and cleared her throat. “Very well.”

“Have ye any other questions?”

“Mayhap, later.”

Coming to his feet—and hoping she hadn’t noticed the swelling within his trews—he said, “Ye best make use of yon bushes. We willna be stopping again ‘til we reach Inveruglas.”

Birdi took the hand he offered and came to her feet.

Angus studied the gentle sway of her hips as she made her way through the tall grass. Lord, she was one fine woman. She then stumbled over a rock the size of a sow—one any fool could see—and he frowned. He kenned he kissed well—had been told so on more than one occasion—but his kiss certainly couldn’t have unsettled her so much that she couldn’t see a boulder, could it?

A moment later he found himself wincing as Birdi—her gaze on the ground—nearly knocked herself senseless on a heavy, low-slung pine bough. As she rubbed her forehead and grumbled something, he scowled. She continued on, but this time with a hand out before her. She walked slowly, straight toward a head-high boulder gleaming nearly white in the glare of the afternoon sun. When her hand made contact, she turned left. A moment later she slipped behind a bush.

Something wasn’t right.

As he waited, he ruminated over the last three days and the manner in which Birdi moved.

When she reemerged from the bushes, he scrutinized her every step. She followed the exact path she’d taken up to the bush, only this time she paused a few feet before the sow-sized stone. Instead of tripping over it, this time she cautiously skirted it, and then continued toward him. She smiled—despite the red welt on her forehead—as she reached for Wee Angus.

Feeling like a lead yoke had just been dropped onto his shoulders, Angus slowly rose. He patted Rampage’s thick neck, then reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the last of his bride gifts, a three-yard roll of white satin ribbon.

With a heavy heart, he held his bride gift out in the palm of his hand—only five feet from Birdi’s nose. “I found an apple. One of the lasses must have dropped it. Would ye like it?”

Birdi, babe in her arms, shook her head as she smiled at him. “It looks good, but nay. Ye can have it.”

Angus’s heart stuttered. The beautiful and resourceful Birdalane Shame was as blind as a mole.

 
~#~

Ian Macarthur, having no appetite for anything but news of his missing spae and the bastard MacDougall, shoved his untouched trencher away.

His men had been on the hunt for two days and should have found them by now. How long could it take to find one wee woman and a bastard knight?

He still couldn’t believe she was gone. Not after what he’d done to ensure she was as powerful as possible, more so than her bitchy dame. Were it not for his efforts, the one who called herself Birdi would never even exist. How dare she do this to him?

And when he got his hands on MacDougall, the man would wish he’d never been born. Aye, he’d not simply kill the bastard; he’d take Angus the Blood apart, joint-by-joint, limb by precious limb.

Relishing the agony MacDougall would suffer, he reached for his tankard, found it empty, and threw it across the room. The three women clearing the tables scattered like startled chickens before him.

“God’s teeth! Need I do everything myself? Fetch me more ale, woman!”

The stoutest of them, he thought she might be the smitty’s wife, muttered, “Aye, my lord.”

He didn’t care for the sullen look she gave him as she passed to do his bidding, but he looked away rather than call her to task. His hold on the clan was already tentative at best. He needn’t go looking for trouble.

Since the Campbells had forced the Macarthurs off their lands and out of Dunstaffnage Castle during his father’s time, little had gone right for his sept.

With his coffers empty and deplete of warriors, his father had been given little say in what lands his sept would then control. His father was told to occupy this place and built a meager keep. Unfortunately for Ian, his father’s heir, the clan still wasn’t content. The Macarthurs were bred for the sea; they were fisherman and smugglers, not shepherds and farmers. And the land was nay better suited to tilling and harvesting, either. It generated little beyond what they consumed, so he had no ready source of revenue. And there were taxes to pay and tithes. He’d had little to draw men to him.

Until he’d discovered the spae.

With her at his beck and call, he remained fit and could guarantee the health of a strong man and his family’s in return for his fealty. In a life filled with pestilence and war, that was no small matter.

And now she was gone—like his right hand. He had only one man to blame.

A
s they entered the village of Inveruglas, Birdi looked over her shoulder. “What now troubles ye?” Angus, having spent the day clarifying his position on giving the babe away and breaking the handfast, was now unusually quiet.

“I know not, but something is
not
right here.” He paused before a stone building with a thatched roof and dropped to the ground. “Wait here. I need check something.” He took several steps, then turned. “I mean it, Birdi, dinna get off that horse.”

“As ye wish.” Good stars, he was getting testier by the hour. Had it something to do with their kiss?

Aye, she, too, had found it disturbing, but in a new and wondrous way. Minnie had called yearnings evil, but what if she’d misunderstood her mother’s intent? How could something so pleasant and warming possibly be evil? Birdi huffed. This not kenning and having no other woman to ask would be the death of her.

She caught the scent of roasting meat on the faint breeze, and her stomach growled. “Do ye ken this family?”

Mayhap they had something she could use to better feed the babe. Might even offer a bit of meat. She’d been foolish refusing food earlier and now had a pounding head.

“Nay, ‘tis not a home but a hostiel—an inn.”

Ah, Tinker had spoken of inns; large crofts that people could—for a coin—find refuge in for a night or two. The possibility of spending the night with a real mattress beneath her and a fire at her feet brought her a small measure of comfort.

After Angus disappeared through the inn door, Birdi shifted her attention to her surroundings. The village’s thatched cottages appeared close to one another, stout brown blobs strung along the wide roadway. Dark green—what she kenned to be forest—loomed behind them. Before the crofts and to her left still lay Loch Lomond, a wide swatch of glistening black. Before meeting Angus she hadn’t kenned lochs could be so grand.

Hearing feet scamper, she turned toward the sound. A woman yelled, “Ye’d best hie, Willie, or ye’ll be getting yer bottom blistered.” A child answered, “Comin’!” and then all fell silent again but for a dog barking at a distance.

A moment later a familiar tightness encircled her heart and her hands began to itch.

Ack! ‘Twas the
need
again. In no mood to heed it, she muttered, “Sheet.” She liked the hiss and tension of Angus’s word on her tongue. Aye, ‘twas a good word,
sheet.

“Sheet, sheet, sheet.” It expressed her frustration with Angus MacDougall and her reluctance to heed the
need
very well indeed.

But Angus was right about one thing. Something was definitely wrong here.

There should be clatter, more comings and goings of clan folk. More than just a mother, a bairn, and a few dogs barking. Why were there no bairns at play, no women laughing as they gossiped, as there had been on the few times she been in the Macarthur’s village? From what little she’d gleaned during her visits to her neighbors—and despite the Macarthur being an unhappy and not particularly caring man—his clan was boisterous, the village noisy.