Chapter Eight

“Shhh,” Alana said, stalling while she tried to latch onto a reasonable explanation other than that the infant was the queen’s daughter and being hunted by extremists.

“Why must I hush?” Fiona demanded. “Do ye not want that big husband of yours to know ye have a girl instead of a boy?”

“Uh… Yes.” Alana nodded vigorously, rounding her eyes even more. She lowered her voice. “He wants a son, not a daughter. I was afraid he would kill the babe if he thought it was a girl.” She was painting Shaw in the worst possible light, but it was the first somewhat reasonable explanation that she could use.

Willa gasped, setting the tray down on the hearth and turning in the tight space to shut them all inside the room. “He does not want a sweet little lass?” Willa asked, her question a rushed whisper.

She shook her head and quickly finished tying the new breech cloth into place. “He comes from a warring family and has always said he would only have a son. When my babe was born, I swore the midwife to secrecy and told him that she was a boy. He named him George.”

Fiona frowned. “Well, your man is sure to discover the truth.”

Alana shook her head. “He never changes the babe. Or bathes her. It is all me.”

“But as the bairn grows,” Willa said, still speaking in whispers as if he were listening at the door.

“I have hopes that he will die in battle very soon,” Alana said. “He is quite brutal and wars constantly. He is sure to be killed before the babe is old enough to be breeched.”

Fiona crossed her arms, one hand rising so she could tap her lip in thought. “There are ways to help that along. Then ye will be free of him, and ye can raise your pretty little girl.”

“I…I am most appreciative,” Alana stammered. Was the woman describing poison of some type?

Fiona nodded, her face softening. “I will make something up for ye before ye leave, just in case he discovers your secret. We cannot have him killing the bairn and ye if he finds out.”

Willa shook her head. “He seems like such an honorable and loving husband.”

Fiona snorted. “I spotted something was off from the start.” She tapped her chest. “A sense I have in my heart.”

Alana smiled with what she hoped was something more pleasant than the grimace she hid. Rose began to fuss, and she picked her up, along with the warm bottle. “And thank you for your help with the food and tea.”

Willa reached over and squeezed her arm. “Happy to help, love. We women must stick together.” Good Lord, how many other women had they helped by killing off their husbands? Hadn’t Fiona had three of them before? Willa’s husband, Jasper, better be very careful and obedient.

“When you finish feeding little George,” Willa said, “come on out in the square. There is a morning wedding happening with a small festival taking place. Lots of delicious treats to brighten your day.” She nodded encouragingly. “Gingerbread even.”

Rap. Knuckles dropped onto the door, making Willa jump. Shaw opened it and stared at the packed room. “Just checking to see if ye are ready to come below.”

Fiona and Willa filed out of the room, a look of fierce judgement pinching Fiona’s face. He shut the door behind them. “What was that about?” he asked, frowning.

“They know Rose is a girl,” she whispered. She met his gaze and held it. “And whatever you do, do not eat or drink anything that Fiona gives you.”

…

The bloody morning was wasting away, but the horses weren’t ready. Shaw led Alana and the bairn around the village square while the townspeople celebrated the union of a young couple. An old woman had a stand set up with fresh gingerbread biscuits cut in the shape of hearts. “A love token for yer lady,” she called out as he and Alana walked by with the wrapped babe in the crook of his arm. “Made with fresh ginger root from the boats docking in Edinburgh.”

Alana tugged gently on his sleeve. “Evelyn and Scarlet, the two sisters who started the Highland Roses School, said that jousting knights and their ladies exchanged the spicy biscuits before entering the arena. The spice is exotic and brings heat with it.” She smiled. “At least that is what they said. I have never had any.”

Heat? Bloody hell, he’d had enough heat already. Shaw was surprised that the entire bed last night hadn’t roared into flames with his foolish good-night kiss. What the damnation had he been thinking? That they could be watched? Och. He’d spent an hour trying to cool down, his iron will the only thing keeping him from reaching out to pull the sweet-smelling lass into his arms. Would she have fought him off? The thought made his stomach sour. Of course she would have. He’d abducted her.

He fished two pennies out of his sporran and set it on the lady’s table. “A biscuit please.”

“Ah,” the old woman said. “Young love, and with a healthy bairn already. Ye are fortunate.”

Fortunate, his arse. Shaw nodded and handed the gingerbread to Alana. To outward appearances, aye, he was wed to the bonniest lass he’d ever seen, with a healthy bairn tucked between them. Only Fiona and Willa reserved their smiles, Fiona trading hers for glares. But inside Shaw, war raged the closer he came to Alana. The woman was beautiful, intelligent, and brave. And her kiss had been innocent and more alluring than any he’d ever sampled. And he’d sampled many with lasses panting after him back in the north. Women who liked his dangerous look or felt that in time he would be a chief with a castle, and there’d never been a reason to turn them away.

“It is delicious,” she said, nibbling at the pointed tip. She handed it to him, and he bit into it, the spice pricking his tongue.

“Aye, there is a heat to it,” he said, handing it back. Several men from before the chapel looked their way. Were they discussing the travelers that had come to town?

“Is something wrong?” Alana asked, her voice low.

He slid his gaze to the milling people near the tables that had been set up for a feast. “We should hide away from here before we become a memorable couple to these witnesses.”

“Let us head back to the inn,” she said. They walked slowly across the square, winding between the tables. A man dressed in bright colors and a pointed hat ran about, reminding Shaw of Mungo’s jester act. The man held a pole with a string off the end, dangling a ball of mistletoe and berries. He leaped toward them, and Shaw picked up the pace, nearly dragging Alana and Rose along.

“You are going to draw attention to us,” she said out of the side of her mouth, a tightness in her smile.

“Kiss the lass,” the jester called, his voice loud. Shaw glanced up and saw him holding the kissing ball over Alana’s head. Mo chreach. “’Tis tradition at weddings. Go ahead.”

Gazes were beginning to turn toward them. If he didn’t kiss her, they would surely cause even more of a spectacle.

“A lush one for yer lush wife,” the jester demanded. “For giving ye a wee bairn.”

“Aye, on the lips,” another man said, lifting his mug of ale in a gesture of good health. “Sláinte!”

He looked at Alana and saw a gentle blush stained her cheeks. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

Och, she was lovely, the sun glinting off her fresh hair and smooth skin as she looked up at him. With the bairn nestled snuggly on his arm, he pulled her close. She pressed her body up against him and tipped her face up to his, her lips slightly parted. Her long lashes lowered to close, her whole countenance open and wanting his kiss, even if it was a complete farce. His hand came up to cup her cool cheek, and he lowered down to meet her lips, kissing her.

A heat roared up within him, making his muscles tighten, his fingers itching to thread through the silky waves of her hair. In those few seconds, oaths melted away under the taste of her, sweetness and gingerbread spice and something more, something completely Alana. Convictions and truths, right and wrong, strategies and intricate plans dissolved away with the feel of her cheek in his palm and the gentle press of her lips on his.

A smattering of applause brought him back, and the kiss ended. Alana remained close, and their foreheads leaned into one another. “Shaw,” Alana whispered. He held his breath, waiting for her next words.

A hard bump jarred his arm, and Shaw jerked his head up to see Alistair smiling at him, though his eyes were narrowed. “Pardon me,” he said loudly. “Did not see ye.” He held a tankard of ale and nodded to them. What the hell was he doing out in the open? Even though he wore a felt hat down over his tattooed forehead, he still had a memorable swagger and caustic tongue.

“Why?” was all Shaw had to say, his voice low. The man, despite his apparent infatuation for Alana, wouldn’t ignore Shaw’s order to stay out of town without a reason.

Alistair made a small flourish with his tankard and bowed his head to Alana. “Pardon, milady.” With his face turned toward the ground, he continued in a whisper, “English soldiers, eight of them with muskets, on the outskirts of town. I didn’t get a good look at them.”

Damn. Was Major Dixon leading them?

“Pardon accepted,” Alana said. “Husband, I need to feed baby George.” She bent to kiss the top of Rose’s head as if she were fussing.

“I can take the bairn,” Alistair said under his breath, but both Alana and Shaw walked away from him toward the inn.

Measured steps, which felt way too slow, brought them finally to the door, and they stepped inside. “Gather the bairn’s things upstairs,” he said. “I will get the horses, or whichever ones are done. I will act as if I am buying them from Logan if he is there.”

“Let’s hope they are done, and we can go, else leave them all.”

He met her worried eyes. “If questioned, we met at a Hogmanay dance two years ago, married, and had our baby boy five months ago.”

“And our clan is Campbell,” she said. “In case they have information about the babe being handed off to Sinclairs.”

If Dixon led the soldiers, he would know Shaw and his group of Sinclairs, but it was too much that he didn’t want to explain right now. He dipped his chin with a quick nod, their gazes still locked. “Ye are a wise woman, Alana Campbell.” A small smile touched her lips, the softness of them imprinted on his memory like a healing scar.

“I will get some milk from the kitchens, too,” she said as she turned, arms around the bundled bairn, to hurry up the stairs.

Shaw strode out of the empty inn, his gaze drawn immediately to the soldiers clothed in red who stood at the gingerbread booth, speaking with the old woman. He didn’t see Major Dixon, but only four of the eight were there.

He turned to the blacksmith’s barn where the farrier would be working on shoeing the three horses that Logan and Rabbie had brought in. Hopefully his two warriors were already there. He hadn’t seen them since arriving except to note that their horses were being shoed.

He looked toward the backside of the inn and paused. “Mo chreach.” Alistair was standing under their rented room window. Maybe Shaw should have punched him before. He changed directions, his boots crunching in the quiet of the late morning. “What the fok are ye doing out here?” Shaw asked, coming up to the man.

“If Alana climbs down to me with the bairn, I can ride them away. Get a few miles behind us in case ye need to dispatch the English with Rabbie and Logan.”

“I will take her and the bairn out of here,” Shaw said, his voice gruff. “Or have ye forgotten who is ultimately responsible for the bairn? And who is in charge of your clan?” He stared hard into Alistair’s eyes. Shaw had grown up with Alistair, the two of them braced against the cruel world, always working together to reclaim the Sinclair lands. But since Alistair’s father had been killed at the hands of the Campbells last spring, the man had become impatient for an end to Edgar Campbell. Impatience could lead a man to disaster.

Above them, Shaw heard a gasp. Both he and Alistair looked up to find Alana’s face in the window. But it was the other face, leaning out over the sill, listening to every word they’d said that tightened his gut. Fiona Murray straightened, lips pursed, her eyes squinted in suspicion.

…

“Fiona? What are you doing in my room?” Alana asked, her gaze moving between the woman and the two Sinclairs standing below them. What had they been discussing with the nosy woman listening?

Fiona crossed her arms. “And what are those two arguing over? It sounds like they are arguing over the bairn and ye. Yer husband, or perhaps not?” she said, her voice heavy with questions.

Alana’s spinning thoughts had been out of control since Shaw had kissed her outside with such tenderness. A whirling, bordering on panic, that wouldn’t slow down. She took a full inhale, hoping the breath would help her to think as she looked out the window. Little Rose had begun to stir and would start to cry for milk soon. There was no time for anything.

“He was my lover,” Alana blurted out, pointing to Alistair. Both men stared up at her, Alistair’s jaw dropping open. “He followed us here, thinking the babe is his.” She leaned slightly over the window sill, holding Rose against her. “Little George is not your babe. Now be gone before my husband runs you through.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

“Ye bastard,” Shaw yelled, pulling back his fist and smashing it right into Alistair’s face.

“Good God!” Fiona yelled, hand pressed against her bosom as she nearly fell out the window watching the drama unfold.

“Get your arse out of this town before I slice ye open from your gullet to your jack,” Shaw continued.

Alistair wiped his lip that bled. “She can choose who she wants, even if the bairn is yours.” He held his fists before him as if ready to fight.

Good God, indeed! What were they doing? Alistair should just leave, and Fiona would have a juicy tidbit of gossip to impart to her sister.

“Do you happen to have more milk below?” Alana asked Fiona, trying to distract her from the window, but the woman wasn’t taking her gaze from the two men.

Alistair ran at Shaw, but he sidestepped at the last second, tripping Alistair so that he fell as Shaw spun around, waiting for him to rise. He jumped up, running forward to swing at him. Even though Shaw moved his face, Alistair’s other fist came up to sock him in the stomach.

Fiona turned from the window, her eyes wide. “Does this lover of yours like girl bairns?”

Did she think that Alana would just leave her husband and run off with her lover even though the babe was not his? Although…she had told the woman that she was hoping her husband would be killed in battle before Little George grew into a girl. And she might even use Fiona’s poison on him.

Alana squeezed her eyes shut for a second. What did it matter? It was all a farce. She opened her mouth but didn’t know quite what to say. “I…I do not know…how he feels about girl babes.”

Fiona looked back out where the two of them were trading punches with realistic enthusiasm. “I mean your husband is the brawnier of the two, and…highly trained in fighting. Oh my,” she said, her neck and cheeks growing red with a flush. Alana looked back out the window and saw the muscles in Shaw’s arm mounded up, pressing against the seams of his shirt, his massive strength evident. Alistair’s tunic had dirt and blood marring it. Shaw held his fist back, waiting for Alistair to rise, which the man did slowly.

Rose had begun to cry. “Stop it,” Alana yelled down to them. “Shaw Campbell, I think it is time for us to leave, together. And you,” she yelled at Alistair, her voice sharp, but then she hesitated. There was pain and humiliation in the man’s eyes. His hat had fallen off, and Fiona was murmuring something about the skull tattoo behind her.

Alana huffed. “And you, my amazing lover. I will forever remember your prowess and mastery of passion, but my allegiance belongs to my husband in the eyes of God. Return to your home on the western sea, sweet man. Find a lass you can love well.”

With that she turned from the window sill. Fiona stared at her, her mouth hanging open like a fish. “He will beat ye,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“He will not,” Alana whispered back.

Fiona stared, her eyes still wide. “I will get it ready just in case.”

“And the milk for the babe?” Alana reminded her. “She is already stirring from all the yelling.”

“Aye. I will warm some right up.” The woman lifted her skirts and hurried out of the room.

Alana grabbed up the baby’s basket and their few articles, including the glass bottle. “Shhh now,” she crooned, kissing Rose’s head. “I will have your milk ready in a moment.” She glanced out the window, but both Shaw and Alistair were gone. What were they thinking, putting on a show like that? The scuffle could have drawn the English soldiers.

She hurried down the steps and froze, her hand clutching the finial at the bottom. Her already running heart began to beat like a thundering drum. For the common room was full of them, their red coats like fire engulfing the space. As if sensing danger, Rose began to wail, and they all turned to look her way. Good bloody hell.

Willa stood behind the bar pouring tankards of ale. Her eyes were wide and looked slightly damp as if worry was making her weepy. Technically, the English and Scots were not at war, but anytime they mixed, there was often bloodshed or abuse in one way or another. Neither side respected the other. Respect must be earned, and those carrying muskets usually didn’t take the time or have the heart to be kind and considerate.

One man stood out from the rest, the brighter red of his jacket and his gold-edged hat marking him as a commander of some rank. He walked toward her at the base of the stairs. “She sounds hungry,” he said, staring at the little head.

“He is a boy, and yes, he is hungry. Excuse me so I can go nurse him,” she said, her heart in her throat.

The man’s eyes narrowed even though he held his smile. “How old is your…lad here?”

“Five months.”

“And yet you are traveling with him? I thought babes were quite fragile when born. New mothers rarely let them out of the house or far from the hearth until they are past a year.”

Alana’s throat felt tight. The man was obviously trying to figure out if the baby was truly hers. “He…he was born away from home, and we are trying to return. He is quite healthy as you can hear,” she said over Rose’s squawks.

The man smiled, stepping aside so she could pass. “I am Major Dixon of His Majesty’s army. And you are?”

“Mistress Alana Campbell, sir.”

He bowed his head, smiling, but the friendliness did not reach his eyes. “If you should need assistance in traveling to St. Andrews, I can be of help.”

Alana inhaled slowly, turning back to the man. She pinched her face slightly into a look of mild confusion. “My husband and I are headed to Stirling, but thank you.” She turned back around and walked to the bar where the men all stared at her. The heaviness of the major’s gaze pressed on her stiff back.

She met Willa’s worried eyes and smiled, wishing she could stay with the woman to help her serve. Alone, she was vulnerable, but Alana must get Rose away. Major in the royal army? And he knew they were headed to St. Andrews.

But if he claimed allegiance to the king, why then were they hunting for the king’s babe to kill? “Shhh, little love,” she whispered and followed the back hallway into the brick-lined kitchen where Fiona rushed around, the woman’s hands gesturing wildly.

“A room full of English.” She tsked. “A brutish husband. A bleeding lover. Can this day get any stranger?”

Alana certainly hoped not. “Actually, my husband has been quite kind, and I assure you that he would never beat me.”

“Yet ye hide that wee George is actually a lass?” she asked, her eyes rising to the door behind Alana.

Her breath hitched.

“Excuse me,” Major Dixon said, making the ache in Alana’s chest turn to fire, and she drew in a shallow breath. “I wish to rent the room above for the night.”

Somehow, she made her feet move forward so that she walked over to Fiona, her gaze traveling around the hot kitchen. Was there another door leading out? None magically revealed themselves.

“Aye,” Fiona said. “’Tis a small room with a bed big enough for two or three.”

“Mistress Campbell?” Dixon said, and Alana had to turn to meet his gaze. “Are you in need of assistance against your…husband?”

Blast. Her throat worked hard as she swallowed, but she forced a serene smile on her lips. “No, not at all. Thank you, Major.”

His smile was just as false, his sharp gaze moving down to Rose. “So, the babe is a girl?”

Alana’s arm squeezed a little tighter around the bundle. Rose was strapped against her, but could the Major somehow cut her free and whisk her away? Or just order them both shot through bound together?

Her lips squeezed together as she frowned. “How now? No. My sweet George is a little lad, Major Dixon. Rest assured that I have provided my husband with a strapping boy to lead our family one day.”

Rose was outright crying now, wails of hunger that wouldn’t be assuaged with Alana’s gentle sway side to side. Fiona brought over the glass bottle filled with warm milk.

“You are not nursing your son, milady?” Dixon asked.

“’Tis a personal matter,” Fiona said, chastisement in her voice. “The lady’s milk hasn’t come in well, and she must feed her son with both breast and bottle. We women do what we must.” She wiped her hands on her apron and walked forward. “Now if ye will follow me, I will show ye to your room.” Bless Fiona.

Dixon paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “I would speak further with you, Mistress Campbell, you and your husband.”

Alana smiled as she held the bottle for Rose to drink even though the poor little thing was still tied against her. She didn’t dare loosen her with a murderer of children close, not that the man would admit to such treasonous acts. “Certainly, Major. We are not planning to leave until late in the day.” A lie, she hoped. As soon as she could find Shaw, she would fly from Kinross, with or without him. Even though the major hadn’t said he was hunting for the child, saying he was a loyal soldier in the king’s army, his keen interest and suspicion marked him as an executioner.

Alana stood in the kitchen, just inside the door as she listened to the sound of Fiona leading Major Dixon up the stairs. She counted five steps before walking into the common room, smiling and nodding to Willa as she headed out the front door. Some of the wedding guests remained in the square talking, and Alana hurried around the corner of the common house. The crunch of pebbles behind her alerted her that at least one of the major’s soldiers was following.

Her gaze scanned the woods bordering the back of the common house. Where the hell was Shaw? Or Alistair? She’d even take skipping Mungo, who was a damn good fighter. Battling a soldier would be hard enough but battling one with a babe strapped to her would get them both killed.

Alana’s steps increased, but she held herself back from running. Turning left toward the blacksmith’s barn, she spotted Shaw with the three horses. Alistair was nowhere in sight. Her gaze on his strong back as he inspected the black mare, with the crunching pace increasing behind her, Alana could hold back no longer. She broke into a run, one arm holding Rose flat against her chest while the other hand, clasping the glass bottle, pumped at her side. “Shaw,” she yelled.

He spun around, his gaze meeting hers before lifting to whoever followed behind her. She flew toward him, and he caught her shoulders, pulling her behind him. “Why the hell are ye chasing my wife?” he asked.