Chapter Seven

“There now,” Alana said to the sweet babe over her shoulder. “A full stomach, a burp, warm, and clean. How long has it been since you have been this comfortable? Poor thing.” Darkness had descended, and Shaw had gone below to find them a dinner meal while Alana tended Rose. The small brand on the babe’s toe seemed nearly healed, leaving the undeniable mark of a rose. Was it done by the queen, so she would be able to find her daughter again? Which would mean that the queen knew Rose was alive. But what mother could burn her own child?

Rose fell quickly to sleep, and Alana lowered her into the woven cradle next to the large bed. There was hardly any room for the basket with the wooden tub before the hearth. Alana had taken a bath with the babe and was wearing a clean smock that she’d bought from Willa while her ripped one dried from a line she rigged out in the hallway.

She knelt beside the tub. If she was quick enough, she could wash her hair before Shaw returned with the food. Tipping her heavy tresses forward over her head, she dropped them in the relatively clean water of the tub. It was definitely cleaner than her poor hair, which was still crusted with blood in spots. Running her fingers through the mass, she soaked it all, kneeling over so far that she could tumble in if she wasn’t careful.

The door clicked, and Alana turned her head, her face hovering over the surface.

“I got us two ham pasties, ale, and bannocks.” Shaw’s words trailed off as he looked at her bent over the tub, but he closed the door and set the dinner on the bed. “Need some help?”

She should ask him to leave, for she was just in a smock that was bound to get wet. “My soap, please, on my bag.”

He grabbed up the small bar that was scented with rose hips from the school garden and placed it in her upturned hand. “Thank you.” She turned back to stare at the water under her face. Balancing the edge of the tub against her ribs, she rubbed some lather and began to work it into the thick waves of hair. “You can eat. I need to get this blood out of my hair.”

Shaw moved to her side. “With the two of us working on it, we will get ye clean to eat in half the time.” His big hands reached over her into the water. Her breath caught as she felt his strong fingers work through her strands, parting them and rubbing up through the mass to find her scalp. Scooping some water in his palm, he wet the scalp with the still warm water and began to wind a massaging path along her head.

Alana sighed. She’d never had anyone rub her scalp before. Her mother had been rather rough when brushing out her hair as a child, and none of her friends preferred to fashion hair. Placing her hands over the tub rim, she closed her eyes and held on while Shaw worked the suds through her heavy tresses. “Blessed lord,” she murmured. “That feels good.” Her words came breathless, and he stopped for a moment before continuing.

He cleared his throat. “I…I think all the blood is worked out. Now to rinse.”

She took a breath and pushed forward, submerging her hair into the bathwater as he once again ran his fingers through the floating hair, ridding it of soap.

“A bit more,” he said. “Then a little rinse with the water left on the hearth.” He picked up the bucket. “Turn around so it falls down the back from your forehead to make sure the soap is clear from the bullet wound.”

“Oh…ah, yes,” Alana said, pulling a bit higher onto her knees and slowly turning while managing to keep her hair over the tub, the ends long enough to sink to the bottom. Her back was arched backward over the rim. Shaw stood above her, looking down with the bucket in his hands. His gaze swept her, and she felt a warmth rise inside. Not embarrassment but something else, a heat that made her tremble a little.

He gave her a nod and then slowly poured the clean water over her hair, making sure to clean the wound with a gentle touch of his fingers. “It does not look tainted, but we should keep watch of it.” He bent forward, studying the gash, and Alana noticed that he’d trimmed his short beard, and his hair looked damp.

“You found a bath, too?” she asked over the sound of the water tumbling down her hair into the tub.

“Aye. The blacksmith let me wash there since there are no public places to get cleaned. He had heard that ye were bathing here with our baby boy. Word gets around quickly in a small town.”

“Good thing you said Rose was a boy, then.” She slowly straightened out of her bent-back position and took the damp drying sheet from Shaw to wrap around her hair. Standing, with his help under her arm, she glanced down herself. Och, the front of her smock had been wet, making the material almost transparent, and she’d had her breasts thrust forward. She glanced where he was emptying the water from the tub with buckets out the open window. He hadn’t said a word about it, so she wouldn’t, either. But her cheeks were stained red.

“Rose is sleeping happily,” she said.

“Ye should eat and get some sleep, too.” He turned from the window and set the bucket down by the hearth. “I will take the floor.”

Alana looked at the one-foot path of bare floor around the bed. “Where exactly? Under the bed?”

Shaw opened the door and lifted the tub, carrying it out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Mistress Fiona.”

Alana heard the woman grunt in the hall, and he came back in, shutting the door behind him. He pointed to the wall. “Her room I think,” he said low.

“Then you need to share this bed with me,” she whispered. “In case she has a peephole.” Her words were so low that she wondered if he could hear her. He came to sit on the bed next to her, and she dragged her bare toes up under her gown. The heat from the fire was making the room comfortable, even with her damp hair. They shared the food in silence. Only the crackle of the peat in the fire grate and an occasional whisper of wind outside made noise.

A howl sounded far off outside the window. “That might be Robert,” Alana whispered. “Alistair won’t kill him for keeping him up all night, will he?”

“Not with Mungo there,” Shaw said. “The man grew up with a pack of dogs and would fight anyone to the death if they tried to injure one.”

“Grew up with a pack of dogs?” she asked. “You said his mother died when he was young, but surely someone took him in.”

“My mother looked after him until he was an older lad, but then my uncle threw him out of the castle when she died.”

“The uncle who sold Girnigoe to the Campbells?” Alana asked, biting into the fragrant meat turnover. He nodded and drank from their shared tankard. “How old were you when she died?”

“Eight, almost nine.”

Her chest tightened. There was no emotion in his words, and having lived with warriors, she knew he’d hate any pity she might show. “And your father?”

“He died when I was a lad of five, which is why we were living with my mother’s brother at Girnigoe Castle.”

“And your uncle accrued debt?”

He stood, stretching, his head nearly brushing the sloped ceiling. “He was a drunkard and liked to take his self-pity and rages out on people who were weaker than he. Aye, he accrued debt, and enemies. No one would help him when the Campbells wanted our home. So, he sold it all without thinking about anyone else. The Campbells let us stay in the castle until George died about nine years ago. Then the seat of the mighty Sinclairs was dismantled, but the Campbells still came to take the castle even without furnishings and a complete roof.”

Alana watched him bank the fire with more peat, and she let her damp hair out of the bath sheet, sliding her fingers through it. She squatted down near Shaw to splay the tresses out to dry. “My distant cousin, Edgar Campbell.”

“Aye, and he has no interest in letting us win or buy the lands back.”

Alana sighed. “And somehow, all of this ties to Rose and getting her to St. Andrews?”

Shaw turned his face to hers. The firelight cut across his features, and she felt the prickles of heat on her skin. “It has everything to do with this mission.”

“Rose is a babe, not a mission,” Alana said softly.

“And Girnigoe is a home and seat of a clan, not just a castle and conquest.” She watched his jaw move as if tension ached along it. “I will sleep on the far side, so ye can drape your hair over the bed to dry it close to the fire.”

He splayed his hands, stretching them against the ceiling. In the confines of the small room, Shaw Sinclair looked even larger, like a giant captured in a box. One who was gentle enough to keep an infant alive and honorable enough to wash a scandalously clad woman’s hair without comment or the hint of a leer.

With a tug, Shaw loosened his belt around his kilt, and it dropped for him to step out of it, leaving him in what looked like a new white tunic. He picked up the length of woven fabric, and Alana tried not to stare at the muscular legs below his tunic. Stretching over the bed, he climbed under the single quilt covered by the wool blanket that they’d had on the horse. With a quick glance at Rose, he settled in, yanking off the tunic to drape it on the end of the bed.

Alana stood there, her mouth dropping open. He was naked, completely naked under the blanket. He wiped a hand over his forehead and looked at her. “It is hot in here, even with the blankets off,” he said. “But I can put my tunic back on.”

She shook her head. “Not necessary,” she whispered, turning to perch on the edge, her back to him. The bed was large. Surely, they wouldn’t accidentally touch within it. But what if it wasn’t an accident?

Shoving the wayward thought away, she climbed under the quilt, making sure not to lift it too much. A dip of blankets in the middle would serve as a wall, so she pulled some slack. He’d said that he wouldn’t harm her, and she believed him. Although he had tossed her over his shoulder back at the festival. I hate him. Yes, I hate him. The lie felt hollow inside. For where would little Rose be now without her looking after her? Dead or near dead most likely. Starving, dirty, and jostled until her wee brain was mush.

He lay on his back, hands cupped behind his head, and she was turned toward him, so her hair could tumble out behind her off the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes and lay completely still, her breath shallow as she listened for movement.

“Good night, Alana,” he said, his deep voice making her heart skip into a fast beat.

“Good night, Shaw.”

“Should I kiss ye?” he asked softly, and her eyes flew open.

“What?” she asked under her breath. Kiss her? He wanted to kiss her?

He came up onto his elbows, the blanket slipping down to his rock-hard stomach. Alana held her breath. The firelight played along the muscles of his chest and shoulders. Good lord, she’d never seen, let alone been close, to a man of such beauty and strength. A warrior with a gentle touch, an honorable heart, and…and stark naked under the same quilt as she.

His mouth bent toward her ear. “In case we are being watched.”

“Oh,” she said on an exhale and drew in more air. He’d completely thrown off her normal breathing rhythm, and she was feeling a bit dizzy. It was a good thing she was lying down. “Yes. I…I suppose.”

“Goodnight, dearest wife,” he said, his voice louder in the room, and leaned over her. His face drew near, and she shut her eyes. His lips were soft, almost hovering over her with gentle pressure. She felt him cup her face with his hand, his large body rolling to the middle of the bed as he held her cheek, his thumb stroking it slowly.

She tilted her head, feeling the tantalizing draw of the kiss. Her fingers came up to clutch his shoulder. Warm skin and smooth muscle. Her heart beat wildly. And then…he pulled back.

Her eyes blinked open to see him staring down at her, a slight shine to his lips where she’d just clung. He frowned, swallowing. “I…uh… Good night.”

Her breathing was much too fast, and she rubbed her lips together. “Good night, husband,” she said past the thud of her heart. She swallowed as he turned away from her, facing the wall. Alana pulled her knees in and forced her eyes closed. The bed was comfortable with a full tick, and the fire was warm against her hair and back. She’d had a bath, dinner, and was safe for the night. Still, it took long minutes before slow inhales and exhales of her breath were natural again. Her mind drifted into dreams and deeper still.

The forest was snowy, but Alana was warm. She threaded through the trees after a bird until it landed on a limb above her. She smiled up at it, watching it grow into a hawk, its yellow talons clasping the limb. The bird opened its sharp beak. Waaa. Waaa. It cried like a babe. “Rose?” Alana called up to it as the hawk changed into the little girl, perched dangerously on the branch. “Rose!” she yelled, running toward the tree as the babe cried again.

“I have her.” Shaw’s deep voice penetrated Alana’s panic, and he was suddenly holding the babe there on the branch. “Shhhh, little Rose,” he crooned.

The scene wavered, growing fuzzy as Alana woke. She blinked in the pre-dawn light filtering into the room but didn’t move as her mind latched onto the only thing in her line of view. Shaw’s profile, his features strong, even in sleep. He lay on his back, chest bare except for the baby lying flat against it.

Rose slept on her stomach, her little cheek right over Shaw’s heart. He held her there with one large hand on her back, the dark lines of the horse’s head laying stark on the smooth skin of his upper arm. The design covered the largeness of his bicep in smooth swoops and points. Whoever had marked the pigment into Shaw’s skin had been an artist.

Rose cooed, and Alana’s gaze moved back to the sleeping babe. Shaw had tucked one of Rose’s light blankets all around her over the lace-edged smock that had come in her satchel. The babe made little sucking motions with her lips while she slept, one tiny hand out and curled into a fist to lay against his neck.

She must have woken, and he had calmed her against him. It was the most peaceful and beautiful thing Alana had ever seen. Was this what new parents were afforded every morning when they woke? Clearly not every father spared the mother and tended the baby himself. If they did, she would surely have heard about it. How could a woman not talk about such a perfect vision?

Shaw’s inhale lifted Rose upward, and she lowered back down on his exhale like a baby sleeping upon gentle waves in a warm sea. Alana watched them for several minutes, studying the handsome face of her…captor? Partner? She wasn’t sure what he was anymore. His nose was straight, his cheeks high. Dark lashes lay under his closed eyes. Her gaze traced the white scar along his hairline. Obtained in his youth? But how? His horrible uncle perhaps. Was he the fiend who had flayed Shaw’s back open, the scars still evident?

His lips were slightly parted, surrounded by the neatly cropped facial hair above and below. She remembered the goodnight kiss with clarity, the tickle of his beard, the teasing promise of a wild heat.

“Damn,” she whispered.

“Good morn to ye, too,” Shaw said without moving, making her gasp softly.

He turned his face toward her without moving the babe, his gray eyes open and clearly awake.

“I…I did not mean to wake you,” she whispered. “Was Rose up during the night?”

“Aye,” he said. “But she settled down again.” He pointed at his chest. “She likes heartbeats like ye said.”

Alana, her cheek still on the pillow, smiled at him. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”

He lifted one hand to cup his head, his bare bicep framing that side of his face. “I would have woken ye if this had not worked.” He grinned, his body stretching under the covers slowly so he wouldn’t dislodge the sleeping infant just yet.

“The horse on your arm, does it mean something?”

“Aye,” he said, bringing his arm back down as if to look at it. “A symbol of the might of Clan Sinclair.” His smile faded. The haunted look in his eyes told her that there was more to say within him, but he turned his gaze back to Rose.

Alana pushed up in the bed and glanced toward the window. “Time to get moving.”

“We cannot leave the town for a few hours,” he said, rising into a sitting position, his hands holding Rose securely against him. “The horses are not finished being shoed.”

She slid from the warm bed and crouched to stir the fire, adding more peat. The room was cool, and her toes curled under. “I can feed Rose while you check on the horses.” She kept her back turned toward him, listening as he moved in the bed. She heard him take up his kilt from the end. “You can pretend you are looking at one to buy.”

“Ye can turn around now, lass,” he said.

She straightened, the room feeling incredibly small. The space between the bed and the hearth was so narrow that they stood right before each other. He’d set Rose in the warm blankets of the bed and pulled his tunic over his tan, brawny chest, tying it at the neck. “I will send some food up for ye with some milk for the bairn.”

She smiled, feeling shy, and edged closer to the window. Was it the small room or the sleeping with a naked man or the goodnight kiss that was making all of this extremely awkward? “I will have us ready as soon as I can.” She waited until he finally nodded.

“Very well, then,” he said, his words slow. He hesitated but then went out the door.

She exhaled, lowering to sit on the bed that still held their heat. She rested her hand on the sleeping babe and sighed. What would her brother do if he knew that she’d shared a bed with a naked man? And not just any man, but a Sinclair, and not just any Sinclair. The Sinclair. “But nothing happened,” she whispered to the room, her gaze going to Rose where she began to wiggle and would soon wake, demanding milk.

Alana dressed quickly in her blue dress, pulling on the training trousers underneath for warmth. It was now November, and nights were getting cold.

Rose whimpered. “Let us get you changed and fresh,” Alana said. “Then we will hunt for some milk.” Laying out the blanket under the blinking babe, she pulled off her wet breech cloth.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The door swung inward. “Morning to ye,” Fiona called, pushing into the room.

“I brought more nettle tea for ye,” Willa said, following on her sister’s heels.

Alana gasped, spinning around.

“Oh my, little George still has his cord stump,” Fiona said, peering past her. “That has got to come off soon or it will grow infected.”

With such a small space, the sisters were upon them within an exhale, and Alana had no time to grab a clean cloth to cover Rose, and used her hand.

Willa gasped, the cup rattling in the saucer that she held on a tray with some food and a glass bottle of milk. “Little George is not… I mean… He has no jack,” she ended in a whisper.

Fiona’s face had hardened with suspicion as she stared at Alana. She reached out, pushing Alana’s hand away. “That is because the bairn is a wee lass.” She placed hands on her hips, her sharp brows rising.

Alana’s mind raced. Why had Shaw made up that lie? Well, she knew why, but now it was going to make the sisters very suspicious of them. Everyone in town would be talking about a little girl now. Worry tightened her face, pulling at the cut on her head.

“I demand to know what is going on,” Fiona said, her voice higher.