Page 19 of The Guardian's Bride

“Disguised? You are rather…noticeable.” Truly, he was a beast with wild hair, a bushy beard, and a surcoat about to split across his broad shoulders.

“Let us pray they do not look closely. Come on.” He reached for her arm.

“Wait.” She slipped her hand into the embroidered purse on her leather belt and took out a small pair of scissors. “Less beard would change your appearance. You might look more like an Englishman.”

“I do not care to look English.” He stepped back as she brandished the scissors.

“Then go out as you are and see how far you get.”

He gave a reluctant grunt and lifted his chin, tugging a handful of beard for her to clip. “Hurry. But leave some of it.”

“You are too tall for me to do this properly. Kneel.”

“God’s bones, woman,” he said as he knelt, his head, still in the quilted cap, now level with her shoulders. “Will you knight me next, and shall we have wine and sweetmeats? We have no time for this.”

She took hold of his beard, pushing his hand aside to slice bit by bit through the beard. Russet, brown, and gold spiraled to the floor. “Are you a knight, sir?”

“I am.”

“What are you called?”

His eyes were closed. “Mine is not a name to speak aloud in this place.”

Puzzled, she paused to scrutinize her work; the beard was choppy but improved. A fine masculine face emerged with a strong, elegant structure: a lean jaw, squared chin, high-set cheekbones, and long, neatly shaped nose. His hair was a riot of long brown curls partly mashed under the cap; under thick dark brows and half-lowered eyelids, his eyes were hazel green. Peeking through the shorter beard, a dimple slotted at the corner of his pursed lips, a note of amused impatience. Propping his firm chin in one hand, she began to trim his mustache.

“Not the mustache,” he mumbled through taut lips.

“I wish we had time to trim your hair.” She brushed back the messy waves and curls spilling over his broad brow. A scar creased the side of his cheek, thin and pink, with faint dots from old stitches. She stopped, stared.

She knew that scar.

“We have no time, lass. Are you done?”

Could it be—what was the man’s name at Holyoak, months ago? She could not think in the moment, on the edge of panic, with the Highlander pressing her to hurry. As he raised his hand, she smacked it away and snipped the beard to neaten it further.

“Enough!” He scowled, his mossy green eyes touched with gold. Beautiful, she thought. Months ago, she had hardly seen them open.

“That looks better.” She fluffed his beard. He lowered her hand, his fingers gentle.

Muttering gruff thanks, he stood, took up the helmet, and jammed it over cap and curls. “Too small. Damn thing might pop off.”

“Bend down.” She reached up to smooth the thick chestnut curls bulging out from under the helmet, then tugged up thenarrow collar of his shirt and tunic, lost under the ill-gotten surcoat. “Better.”

“Now you.” He took up his discarded plaid, shook it, held it out. “Put this on.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I do not—”

“Ach,it is not that dirty! Hurry, now. They will look for a lass in a blue gown. I cannot wear the plaidie with this gear and will not leave it behind. My sister wove it and she would have my head if I lost it.”

“I see.” She realized she had decided to go with him. He swirled the plaid around her shoulders and draped its edge over her head. Then he cupped his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

“Listen, lass. Be careful, follow me, and say naught, aye?”

“But—”

“Hush. Once we are away, say whatever you please.” He stepped and snatched up a length of rope from the straw. “Hold out your hands.”

“What are you doing?” Rowena squeaked as he wrapped and knotted the rope around her wrists.