Page 10 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

A edan ate hungrily of a hot meat pie, thick with carrots, onion, and lamb, followed by cheese and wheat bread with salty butter. He noticed with mild surprise that Rowena Keith had a good appetite for a small woman, unless she was acting the role of expectant mother. The lass adapted well, he would give her that, especially with all he had asked from her so far.

And more to come, he thought, glancing out the window to keep a wary eye for anyone on the road or approaching the inn. At the first hint of danger, he would whisk Rowena up to the hired chamber quick as could be.

The innkeeper’s wife returned to their table with a tray holding jugs and cups.

“Ale or wine? We have water too if you really want it.” She set the tray down.

“No ale,” Aedan said quickly. “Wine if it is well watered—for my lady.”

“Is the water fresh from a stream, or boiled?” Rowena asked.

“My wife is in a delicate state,” Aedan explained.

“We fetch water from the stream that runs behind the inn, not from the river.” She set down the tray, poured clear water into the wine jug, and shook it. “Your chamber is ready. When you pay, I will give you the key.” She picked up the tray and left.

“Delicate state?” Rowena looked at him.

“Boiled water?”

“Water near a town or river may be dirty. Clean water is better for health.”

“Sensible enough. Do you prefer water, or will you have wine?”

“A little wine. Let me pour. Ah, it is dark red even watered. Good grapes.” She poured the glistening liquid into one cup. He held up a hand.

“Just water for me, lass.” She sent him an odd look, poured a cup of water, and slid it toward him. “I drink very little wine or ale,” he explained.

“Some have a weakness for strong drink. If so, I applaud you for avoiding it.”

“Not that. It gives me the headache,” he muttered. He rarely mentioned the weakness, but felt at ease with Rowena. “Takes very little. Sometimes just a few sips. I need my head clear, hey?”

She nodded, sipped wine, nibbled a bit of the small pie on the wooden trencher. Then she glanced at him curiously. “How long were you held at Yester?”

“About a month.”

“Surely they gave you wine or ale often.”

“Watery stuff, bitter and awful. Enough about that.” He grabbed a chunk of bread, dragged it through the butter, and took a bite. “Good bread. We are close enough to the English border here to get wheat bread.”

She tore off a small piece and buttered it with a spoon. “It is rare in the north.” When she popped the still-warm piece in her mouth and gave a little groan of pleasure, Aedan wished suddenly she did not love it quite so much.

“It does not grow well in northern Scotland, where the soil is loamy with peat and too rocky. We have some better success in Fife. But the English have cut off imports and supplies to Scotland where they can, so bread is even harder to get.”

“Sassenachs can keep their wheat. Oatcakes and bannocks are good fare, so we do not miss bread in the Highlands. Your castle in Fife, is it—”

“Hush.” He glanced around. “An easy reach tomorrow, I hope. With luck we can shake off any who follow. Later we will go where you wish to go.”

“Aye, dear Hamish,” she said.

He smiled a little, enjoying the pleasant wee game. Looking past her through the window, where pewter-colored clouds swept a storm along, he saw riders on the road. “We should go up now.” He stood and brought her to her feet. “Careful, Grizel dear.”

She cupped a hand beneath the burden she carried under her gown, set the other hand to her back, and took a few waddling steps. Aedan felt a quick sense of how much he owed this lass, not the least for her willing ruse here.

As they approached the stairs, Aedan turned to the innkeeper’s wife, standing nearby. “Good dame,” he said, and handed the woman more coins than required. “No one disturbs us, aye? My wife needs her rest.”

As he spoke, the inn’s door blew open, and three men in chainmail stepped inside, damp winds billowing their cloaks. Aedan turned away and urged the Keith lass upward quickly. Realizing that the helmet was tilting her off balance, he set a hand to her back. Behind him, he heard the men talking but could not make out what they said.

“Let me be, Hamish MacDonald. You will trip me up on these steps!” Rowena said, loud enough to be heard.

“What you will, Grizel, my bluebell,” he said, smiling.

“Bluebells are poisonous,” she muttered.

“I know, my dear.”

Rowena smoothed the blankets over the narrow, sagging bed, patted the pillows, and sat, rubbing her lower back, glad to be rid of the helmet and surcoat that she had wriggled out of and dumped on the bed. She looked up to see Aedan MacDuff tilting a brow at the discarded things.

“You will need to stuff that under your gown again if someone comes here.”

“I trust Hamish will guard against visitors.”

“He will. Did you have to make him a MacDonald, then?”

“Friends of English, some of them. He could not be Hamish MacDuff.”

“Indeed.” He drew the sword from the scabbard at his back and sat, the leather stool all but disappearing beneath him. Then he pushed long fingers through his hair and beard, a thoughtful, troubled gesture. A frown shadowed his hazel green eyes.

Hearing thunder and a distant crack of lightning, Rowena went to the room’s small square window and opened the wooden shutters while rain pattered against the building. “Are we safe here?”

“From thunder and rain? Most likely.” His frown was distracted.

“From the guards under our feet?”

“I think so.” He rose, took a dry reed from a batch, bent to light it from the squat iron brazier where flames crackled, and lit two tallow candles to brighten the room. Then he crossed to stand beside her at the window, resting a hand on the wall. A damp breeze blew inside, sifting his hair, wafting her veil.

“The air feels good after being confined for weeks,” he said.

“I was only in that cell for a short time. I cannot imagine weeks there.”

“Eh, I am used to dungeons. But when rain cleans the air, it feels very good.” He drew a long breath, exhaled.

“Used to a dungeon? How often have you been in such a place?”

“Now and then. Are you worried you have thrown in your lot with a rogue?”

“Fairly sure I have,” she said.

He huffed a little laugh and was quiet, a tower of a man, broad and brawny. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Yet she felt no threat in his presence, just his steadfast shelter. A sweet, curious thrill sank through her. She sensed a thread of danger too, dark and low, but never turned toward her.

“Aedan MacDuff,” she murmured. “Why are they after you?”

“My name tells you that.” Even quiet, his voice thrummed.

She frowned. “I know MacDuff is an ancient clan, and they say there are no Scottish kings without Clan Duff—the kingmakers.” She looked up at him.

He drew a sharp breath and closed the shutter. “The rain will wet us both.”

“We will not melt. Tell me. Are you one of the kingmakers?”

“Not me.” He turned toward the table that held the basin, towels, soap. “We should wash before the water cools.”

Sensing he was reluctant to discuss the MacDuffs, she nodded. “I will step outside until you are done.” She turned for the door.

“Grizel, you forgot your wee condition. Let me go out first. You do not want to use that water after me.”

She had to admit that. “Aye then. Just outside?”

“Nearby. I want to hear what those fellows are saying downstairs.” He opened the door, then closed it behind him.

Stripping out of her gray over-gown and the blue gown with its plain lining, Rowena stood in her linen shift, shivering a bit. She dipped a cloth into water that was nicely warm, then used a dab of the soft soap that smelled of roses, ash, and almond oil. Rinsing and drying, she loosened her braid and combed her fingers through the damp, rippling length of her dark hair.

As she pulled the blue gown over her head, not keen to sleep in her shift as she otherwise might, she heard a light knocking. MacDuff opened the door and retreated with a murmured apology.

“Come in,” she said, sliding the gown over her hips, the hem swirling around her bare feet. He entered, closed the door, and stood there looking awkward.

“Did you hear what the guards were saying?” she asked.

“Some.” He watched as she worked fingers through the waves of her hair. “I did not hear much. A patrol, perhaps from Yester. But they do not seem in a hurry. I smell roses,” he said. “You—are glowing.”

“Just the candlelight. And the soap smells of roses.” She blushed. “If you want to wash up, I can wait outside.”

“We cannot risk anyone seeing you. Turn away so I can clean up. Though I fear you have seen all of me already.”

“Not all. ” She laughed softly, sat on the bed, and angled away. She heard the rustle of cloth, then splashes as his tall shadow danced over the limewashed wall. From the corner of her eye, she saw that he had stripped to the nude, his back to her, linen toweling wrapped inadequately around him. Candlelight gleamed over his broad form and long back, over smooth rippling muscle, and glinted gold in the mop of brown curling hair that touched his shoulders.

She glanced away, glanced back. Over years of helping injured men, she was accustomed to seeing the male body, though generally not all at once. And she had thought desire numbed, willed all but gone after her brief marriage and the shock of widowhood. In fact, she felt more like a nun than she would have admitted. Yet at the sight of this man, her body remembered suddenly, warmth spinning through her. She looked away again.

On the wall, MacDuff’s shadow rubbed the cloth over his shoulders, his back, over swaying hips while he hummed under his breath. What she heard surprised her, for it sounded like a monk’s chant. Even softened, his voice was harmonious, deep, and mellow. She breathed in, closed her eyes.

“Och, the feet,” he grumbled, raising one foot, then the other, hopping about.

Rowena glanced over her shoulder. With cupped hands, Aedan MacDuff sluiced water over his hair and beard, then rubbed another cloth vigorously over his head, curls springing and spiraling. He was humming again, low and rich.

He glanced at her then, and she looked away. “Pardon,” he said. “I was so happy to have a wash that I forgot myself.”

“You have a nice voice.”

He sniffed his arm. “I smell like roses. Stay turned away, lass, for decency, aye?”

She heard rustling cloth, then footsteps. Thinking he was done, she turned back as he began to drop his loose linen shirt over the trews drawn up and tied at the waist. His torso was long, lean, muscled, golden in the candle’s glow and arrowed with a dusting of dark hair. Another thrill pulsed through her, warmer now, more insistent.

He poked his head out. “I should rinse the shirt. It does not smell like roses.”

“You could. It should dry by morning.” She thought then of the night to come, the small room, one bed, the two of them, and hours until dawn. Her breath quickened as she looked at his torso, the strength there, the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the hard toned torso, the taut waist—

She had promised to trust him. Now she needed to trust herself. These feelings were not usual to her. There was something about him—the humor, his easy manner, and now just the beauty of the man—that pulled her to him, that had her craving to be near him. Those feelings crowded her thoughts in this little room.

He shrugged off the shirt, dunked it, splashed about, then wrung it out. Draping the shirt near the brazier, he turned back. “Do you mind a shirtless man?”

“I am used to such,” she said.

“Ah. The healing work.” Taking up the plaid, he draped it loosely over his shoulders and sat on the low stool, leaning forward, arms on knees, hands clasped. “Tell me this, Rowena Keith. What happened at Soutra? Though that is how you came to Yester where we met again. Luck—and fate,” he added with a curious glance.

Aware he teased her gently, she wrinkled her nose. “Fate,” she said. “Could be, for truly I do not know how all this came about. I was invited to Soutra by a monk I met at Lanercost. I had no maid with me, for she took ill at the last minute. Sir Finley Macnab—our seneschal at Kincraig—escorted me with a friend, Sir Gilchrist Seton. I felt sure I would be safe in a monastery—I always have been. They were to return in a week to bring me back to Kincraig, but Edward’s men came for me before then. I thought perhaps King Edward had summoned me back to Lanercost. But I was taken to Yester.”

He barely moved. “How did they treat you?”

“Well enough. Tied.” She held up her wrists to show the pink marks still there.

“Beg pardon again, Lady Rowena.”

She shook her head. “The ropes helped you get us out of there.”

“Aye. When did you last see Edward?”

“I was there March into April, returned home, and then went to Soutra. And Yester. A knight in Edward’s service met me there. Sir Malise Comyn.”

He swore under his breath. “A busy fellow.”

“He—wants something from my family,” she said carefully. “He seemed unhappy about the accusations and said he would try to undo it if I—well, he said he would try to help. He was courteous and apologized. I almost believed him.”

Aedan narrowed his eyes. “What did he really want?”

“You know his ways, then. Whatever it was, I might have had to pay it—but you were there. I thank the angels for that.”

“Thank them from me as well.”

“I had helped Sir Malise last winter when he was severely injured, and he claims he owes me his life. So when he was there at Yester, it felt like a betrayal.”

“You are a trusting soul. Perhaps it is the healer in you.”

She shrugged. “It could be. He fell and injured his back, and they brought him to Holyoak. A nun pushed him off a parapet,” she added with an impish smile.

He laughed, shook his head. “I heard something about that. Likely he deserved it. So, you healed him, as you healed me.”

“Not me. The body heals itself with the person’s inner spirit and God’s help. Those who know cures and treatments assist.” She glanced down, aware that she had used the Rhymer’s crystal for Malise, but only to dip in water, which she might have done for anyone, regardless of who they were or what they had done.

“I know you did more than simply assist me, lass.” His gaze was steady. “But it might have been a fever dream. I thought you used a stone and sang a chant.”

She looked away. So he remembered the faery stone. She had used it more completely to help Aedan MacDuff, much more than for Malise.

Yet Malise had told Edward, who wanted the stone. She sighed. “You healed well, being a strong, healthy man.” She felt herself blush again. “You never answered my question, Sir Aedan.”

“Question?” He folded his arms, leaned back, the plaid covering only part of his broad, gleaming torso. He watched her through hooded eyes. She wished she could read his thoughts, but he kept a barrier of humor, of ease, a man who seemed to take life lightly—while hiding a deeply serious nature. She was beginning to see it now.

“Kingmaker,” she repeated. “Is that you?”