The Rogue (17 page)

“Whoa, Birdi.” He’d been right. Her fragile beauty hid a spitfire, not some fear-filled featherbrain despite her atrocious name. “I promise, dear lady, he’ll come to no harm, though he may wish me dead before I’m through.”

She gave that some thought, then asked, “What do you need me to do?”

He smiled. “Just be yerself.”

Birdi nodded. As she pulled her hand from his, he heard Angus MacDougall growl, “I see ye found her.”

Ian winked at Birdi, rose, and offered her his hand. As she came to her feet, the Thief asked his friend, “MacDougall, have ye ever known me
not
to find the fairest and most fulsome woman in town?”

A
ngus growled deep in his throat. “Nay, I’ve not.” Which was precisely what had his nerves on edge.

Congratulating himself on his restraint, Angus gently took Birdi’s hand from Ian’s arm and placed it on his own. With an eye on Ian he asked Birdi, “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Aye, just cold.”

He pulled Birdi closer and saw that her cheeks were damp and her extraordinary long lashes spiked. “Ye’ve been greeting.” He spun toward Ian. “What have ye done to her?”

Ian huffed. “MacDougall, open yer eyes. She
was
greeting when I found her. She wasn’t greeting when
you
found her.” 

Unable to argue with that bit of truth, Angus felt a pang of guilt. Birdi had been upset when she’d left the croft. The moment he got her indoors again, he’d discover why. As he turned toward the croft, he saw Birdi cast a wary glance over her shoulder at his friend. Good. Apparently, her inability to see clearly had made her immune to Ian’s impressive countenance and charms. Thank God.

To Ian he said, “Thank ye for finding her. I’m sure ye have pressing business to attend, so I’ll bid ye good night now.”

Instead of saying good night, Ian responded, “Actually I’ve naught to do at present.”

Birdi, to Angus’s consternation, asked, “Have ye supped, sir?”

Ian grinned at her. “Nay, my lady, I’ve not.”

“Then join us. We’ve more than enough.” Birdi looked up at Angus. “He’s yer friend so ‘tis only fitting, aye?”

What could he say? No? Let the idiot find his own food. “Aye, Birdi, ‘tis fitting.” Knowing but not caring that he sounded reticent—for his friend’s presence would delay his finding out why Birdi had been sitting in the cold crying—he grumbled, “Come on then.”

Had Angus not heard Ian’s laugh echoing off the loch moments ago, he’d still be out scouring the hills for Birdi. When had the man planned to call him and let him know he’d found Birdi? After he’d worked his wily ways around her? He wouldn’t have put it past the bastard.

Angus hurried Birdi across the roadway, pushed open Kelsea Fraser’s croft door, and settled Birdi in a chair before the table. After retrieving a blanket and wrapping it about her, he threw more peat on the fire. “Are ye warming, lass?”

Birdi, her brow furrowed for some reason, looked up at him. “Aye.”

The croft felt unaccountably tight to Angus as Ian took a place opposite Birdi at the table.

He distributed a fish pie to each of them.

Angus poked a hole in his pie, no mean effort, and took a bite. Fraiser’s warning that his Kelsea’s pies were best “eaten hot” hadn’t been spoken in jest. Now cold, they tasted like charred embers. He jabbed his pie as he watched, through narrowed eyes, Birdi’s expression shift from surprise to delight as she listened to Ian’s story of the current court jester.

His appetite gone, Angus pushed the remains on his trencher aside. “What business are ye on for Albany?”

Ian cast a quick glance at Birdi as he pushed his own trencher away. “‘Tis better not spoken—”

“Fear not. My ladywife neither kens nor cares of whom ye speak.”

Ian thought on that a moment, then said, “I’m on my way to Dunberg. Albany suspects the Campbell of conspiring with the Sassenach to our south. Apparently, two agents were caught just this side of the border carrying detailed sketches of Edinburgh Castle’s battlements and those of Sterling’s.” He hesitated, looked at Birdi for a moment, then turned his attention back to Angus. “After many hours...uhmm, below-stairs, one agent finally made mention of Dunstaffnage before he...passed.”

Birdi frowned. “The poor man died?”

“Aye.”

Angus, his gaze on Ian, murmured, “The water there is verra bad, lass. Flux is common.”

Birdi nodded sagely. “Then you should tell them to boil the water, particularly if the cows come to it.”

She then finished off her fish pie in two quick bites, patted her stomach, and sighed contentedly. When she looked up and found both men staring at her, she smiled. “The pies are very fine, nay?”

Eyes averted, Ian and Angus reached for the bread and mumbled, “Aye, verra.” That was enough. They both started laughing.

Birdi huffed. “What may I ask do ye find so humorous?”

Both muttered, “Nothing,” and reached for their ale.

Birdi then mumbled, “Minnie was right,” and began licking her fingers.

Not trusting himself to continue watching her and not laugh again, Angus said, “I have difficulty believing the Campbell is involved in such treachery.”

The Campbell had once been father-by-marriage to Duncan, Angus’s liege lord. Allies, the MacDougalls had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Campbells.

Ian downed his ale. “Nor I, but what Albany wants investigated, I investigate.”

Her third pie finished, Birdi asked, “Who is Albany?”

“The Duke of Albany is our rightful king’s uncle,” Ian told her.

“Ah. You should tell him to boil his water as well.”

Ian frowned at Angus and arched a brow in question.

Wanting to say, “
Aye, she truly is this naïve, and ye’d best keep yer dimples and friggin’ hands to yeself,
” Angus shrugged. “So how long do ye have to get to Dunstaffnage and back?” The sooner the Thief of Hearts was away from Birdi the better.

“As long as I can possibly take.” Ian refilled their tankards. “I’ve no stomach for anything that stinks of personal enmity.”

“How so?”

“The Campbell is not the only one who’s been questioning Albany’s delay in ransoming our wee king out of Sassenach hands, but he is one of the loudest. Too, no one but Albany’s man heard any mention of Dunstaffnage before the execut—ill man died. I find that rather convenient.”

“Aye, ‘tis.”

If war was pending, then the sooner Duncan learned of it, the sooner stores could be laid in at Blackstone, and the sooner the sept could prepare. Angus didn’t need another pressing reason to hurry this bride-quest along, but there it was.

Birdi yawned broadly and pushed back her chair. “If ye’ll pardon me, I’m verra tired. Sir MacKay—”

Ian rose and took Birdi’s hand in his. As he placed a kiss on her knuckles, he murmured, “Good night, my lady, and please call me Ian.”

Blushing—her gaze on her hand where he’d kissed her— Birdi murmured, “Uhmm, Ian, please feel free to make yerself comfortable before the hearth this night.” To Angus she said, “I’ll sleep next to the wall.”

Made speechless by her invitation to Ian without so much as a by-yer-leave from him, Angus gaped after Birdi’s lithe form as she glided the eight feet to the bed where she dove under the covers. A moment later a naked arm poked out and her tunic flew the length of the bed and landed on the floor. Merciful Mother. She was naked as a newborn jay...and in a room with two burly men she barely kenned!

The woman needed a keeper.

As she settled on her side, her back to them, Angus hissed, “Shit.”

“Not what I was thinking, but I do envy yer dilemma.”

Growling, Angus slowly turned, his eyes narrowing. Ian, grinning, nodded toward the table, indicating Angus take a seat. In a whisper, he said, “A hard choice, my friend; sleep by me or that luscious bit.”

Angus, gut churning, heaved a sigh as he settled in the chair Birdi had vacated. “Take a care.”

“Ack, ye wound me.”

Angus snorted. “Have ye given any thought to where I might find the Shame clan?” If anyone knew them it would be Ian. An agent of the king—or better put, Albany—Ian had spent the last five years within the halls of power.

“Aye, but I can’t recall ever hearing of them. Mayhap her sire was Sassenach. Shame sounds like something they’d choose.”

“Humph.” Not what he needed to hear. If she was indeed English, then he had but two choices. Bring her back to her glen, which didn’t set well, what with the Macarthur there, or bring her home to Blackstone, and he couldn’t imagine his bride taking that well.

“Then do ye happen to know the location of a sacred well?”

Ian took a swig of ale before saying, “Aye.”

Hope surging, Angus straightened. “Where?”

“South of Kelso.”

“God’s teeth, man, ‘tis on the other side of the realm. I meant one that’s close at hand.”

Ian shrugged, “There’s the one in the hills above Drasmoor, in the place we romped as lads. Remember? Those about call it the Glen of Tears.”

His friend was referring to a spring within MacDougall territory, days away and miles from Beal Castle. “There are none closer?”

Ian shrugged. “There may well be, but I don’t recall such.” After a moment he leaned forward and whispered, “Tell me the truth. Is she really as...innocent as she appears?”

Angus snorted. “More than ye’ll ever know.”
A great deal more.

“Then yer Birdi is most unusual.” Ian leaned back, rubbed his jaw, his gaze speculative as he studied Birdi’s back. “Aye, and in a most decidedly refreshing way.”

Fists clenched, Angus leaned forward, “Ye’ll be keeping yer charms to yerself, if ye ken what’s good for ye. I’ll not see her hurt.”

“Friend, ye remind me of that dog in the manger. Ye canna eat the hay, ye dinna even want to lie in it, but ye’ll not let the cow have it. Why is that?”

Why? Because he did want the damn hay, wanted to gorge until he was bloated, ready to burst. Wanted to wallow in it, roll in it. He wanted Birdalane Shame with an intensity that bordered on pain. He just couldn’t have her. Not and keep his word. Not and get Donaliegh. To be his own man for the first time in his sorry life.

Ian shook his head, his expression saying, “
Ye’re pathetic,
” and then yawned. He rose. “Well, what shall it be then? The floor or the bed? I’ll take whichever ye dinna want.”

Angus, his teeth aching from the pressure of his clenched jaws, went to the bed. Eyes glaring, he faced his friend, stripped, and climbed in beside his naked Birdi. “Dinna forget to gut the candle.”

He’d get no sleep this night.

~#~

Coming out of the last croft to their east, Fegan Macarthur raked his gaze the length of Crianlarich village, looking for his brother. Spying Robbie exiting the last croft to the west, he ran toward him. “Anything?”

“Nay, no one has seen hide or hair of the Blood, his horse, or our spae.”

Fegan blew out a breath and cursed. “My instincts were right. We should have turned west. What now? I say we backtrack.”

They’d wasted precious time heading north following their liege’s orders; they and their mounts were exhausted, and the Macarthur was, nay doubt, at home readying to lop off a head.

His brother raked his hands through his unkempt hair and looked at the moon. It was already halfway through its arc toward the western mountains. “We eat, then head south. We haven’t time for sleep, but they, thinking they do, will. If the fates are kind, we’ll catch up with them by sunset tomorrow.”

Fegan, greatly relieved, nodded. The sooner they were done with this business the sooner he’d be home, spae in hand. His Mary’s houghmagandie was due to start at any time, and he didn’t want his wife birthing without the spae. He’d die if he lost his Mary. Aye, he would.

~#~

Birdi awoke to the comforting sound of Angus’s guttural purring and with the warm weight of a relaxed but heavy arm about her waist. In her sleep, she’d rolled and thrown a leg over one of his powerful thighs. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her right hand, fingers splayed, threaded through the fine, dark, curling hairs glazing his fine chest.

A fortnight ago, she’d have screeched finding herself in such a position with a naked man. Now, she could only stare in awe at the powerful chest beneath her hand.

Goddess, he is most glorious, is he not?

But like Wee Angus, not for her to keep, unless Ian the Golden Man had worked some magic during the night. And she seriously doubted he had.

She’d watched Angus most carefully last night as they ate the wondrous pies together by candlelight. Angus had appeared agitated, though he’d been less withdrawn. He’d touched her, had covered her with a blanket, but ‘twas not the same as kissing and fondling. She’d come to the conclusion he’d only behaved in a caring manner so as not to appear rude before his friend. Aye. And though they’d whispered—had thought her asleep—she’d heard him ask his friend about the sacred well.

He could break the handfasting for all she now cared, but he would do it without her. She’d spent a good part of the night thinking about how she could find her way home before falling into a fitful sleep, and now—thanks to Kelsea—she had the means.

A pounding at the door made Angus jerk upright, his left arm reaching for his sword. He then realized where he was, that no danger lurked, and blinked down at her. When his gaze shifted from her face to her breasts, he groaned deep in his chest and scrambled out of bed. Hauling the covers up to her chin, he growled, “Good morn.”

Seriously doubting it was—he’d again raised the invisible barrier between them, she murmured, “Morn.”

Pounding sounded again and she heard Ian roll over and grumble, “Get the hell away!”

  In a whisper she asked, “Angus, where is hell?” Mayhap she could find it. She’d heard the Macarthur bairns speak of it, so therefore it had to be close to her glen.

He blinked at her. “Ye dinna ken hell?”

“Nay. Should I?”

He shook his head and continued donning his clothing. “‘Tis where the sinners go.”

Sinners. Another clan she didn’t ken. “‘Tis far, this hell?”