Chapter Thirteen

No smoke came from the tiny, stone-stacked cottage. Grasses grew up through the thatching on the roof, giving it an abandoned look, and colorful leaves rained down over the dwelling. They rode closer in silence.

Shaw’s blood thrummed inside. All day, he’d been struggling to put distance between himself and Alana, which was not possible physically, but their discussions had started off erecting barriers.

But nothing about the lass sitting before him was simple. She was brave and lethal with a dagger. Despite being trussed up and thrown into a burning castle, she hadn’t cried in panic when his men had grabbed her. She was beautiful with curves and softness to explore. And she was honest. He could tell from her questions and reactions, which she didn’t try to hide. But she was a Campbell, the chief’s sister, and a virgin. When he’d at first realized that he could use her to bargain for his home if the bairn died, he thought the circumstances were fortunate. Now, though, he couldn’t shake the feeling of doom waiting to fall on his head if his discipline gave out against the assault of her softness.

After staring at her multi-hued tresses for hours, he’d counted the red and gold strands woven through the dark, rich brown, following it down to her trim waist. He’d remembered the details of each of her curves in the darkness of their lean-to, the scent of her arousal, the soft mews she made as he stroked her willing body.

He leaned forward, inhaling her unique scent before he remembered to guard against it. His damn jack jerked awake, and he adjusted it, his mouth hovering an inch from the gentle slope of her ear. “I will go inside first, to check that no one is home.”

“You are injured,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hardly,” he said, steering Rìgh around to the side where a small window was cut into the logs and covered by a stretched animal skin. Primitive, it was likely an old hunting cottage, forgotten over the decades. Maybe there would be leaves and dirt inside. Mo chreach, he hoped not. Damnation. His resolve was already close to dissolving.

“Stay here,” he repeated. He leaned into her, willing himself to keep moving instead of pausing to enjoy the contact. He raised his injured leg behind him over Rìgh’s rump to dismount and pushed off, landing smoothly but taking most of the impact on his good leg.

“Again,” she whispered down at him. “You are injured.”

“I am still lethal.” He drew his sword, cursing low when he saw her throw her leg over to dismount as well. Creeping toward the closed door, he strained to hear any sign of inhabitance. The wind blew, the gentle rustle above his head, and more leaves floated down as if trying to bury the old cottage until it became one of the fairy mounds his mother used to tell him about.

A crunch of leaves made him pause, glancing back. Alana had unfastened and dropped her skirt, leaving her in the black woolen trousers and her short smock. She had put it back on at dawn after finding her purchased smock dirty with his blood that had seeped past his bandages while they slept against one another. They’d been ripping away at the garment, a strip at a time, until it rested at her perfectly curved hips, looking like a lace-edged tunic. She looped Rìgh’s reins over the limb of a thin tree.

Short sword in hand, he grasped the rope pull coated with fuzzy moss and yanked. With a shove of his shoulder against the door, he pushed inward, blinking to bring the dark interior into focus.

Two windows, lit through the watertight skins over them, looked like two eyes, one on either side of the small, sparsely furnished room. There was a stone hearth, a wooden bucket, a shock of dried sticks tied together like a broom, a rickety table, and…a bed, a rather large bed.

He heard Alana come up behind him. “Anyone home?” she whispered, the hush of her voice sounding breathy like the moan against his mouth as he stroked her to climax last night.

“Nay,” he said, his voice rough as he struggled to replace the breathless sound of her with the memory of Logan, Mungo, and Alistair stripping down to wash in the lake near Girnigoe. The power that had surged through him at the possible threat inside the abandoned house mixed with the passion that he’d been suppressing all day. It was like the rub of the brittle kindling between them sparked with each of her words and touches. He took a deep breath. “Looks dry, too.”

Sword before him and the lass behind him, he pushed into the dark room. She stepped around him, brandishing the sgian dubh he’d given her. She circled the room. “Cozy,” she said and ducked her head into the hearth, peering up into the chimney. “Hopefully it is all clear up there.” She backed up, brushing her hands, and took up the broom. “Just a quick dusting and sweep, and it will be quite nice for a night. Now if only there were a bathing tub.” A small frown puckered her lush mouth.

“I will see where the water source lies. Likely a cistern for rainwater or a well if the place was used as a hunting cabin.” He watched her whisk the broom around; stopping at the first window, she reached to unlatch the swinging stretch of leather that acted as a shutter. “I saw a lean-to in the back for Rìgh.”

She turned around, a slight smile on her mouth. “What a quaint little place. I would like living here.”

“In a tiny cottage when ye now live in a grand castle?” he asked. He currently lived in a cottage this size, and although it was snug, it didn’t afford him any privacy since his men were also sleeping within it.

“A place of my own,” she said with a shrug. “I do not mind if it is small, as long as I am the lady of it.”

“Now that I completely agree with. Logan snores and Alistair is always sneaking a lass inside after we are asleep.” Her eyes grew round, and he hurried to finish the thought. “As soon as the lass realizes that she’d be tupped with four other men sleeping around her, she leaves pretty quickly.”

“I would hope so,” she said and began sweeping again in earnest.

He turned to the door. “I will set some traps and bring in some water and anything that will burn in that hearth.” He strode out into the growing twilight, which seemed bright after the darkness of the cabin. “Come along,” he said to Rìgh, releasing his tether, and the horse followed him to the structure behind the house. A roof, three sides, and a fourth that he could prop over the opening. It wasn’t much, but it would keep the animals away from his faithful mount.

The cistern on the side of the house was covered with leaves, but he hefted a square lid next to it, happy to find a chained bucket there. A well, and from the dripping sound coming from it, it was full. Scooping the leaves off the cistern water to reveal what appeared to be fresh rainwater, Shaw brought Rìgh over to drink his fill. The horse grazed on some grasses that he found under the leaves while Shaw unhooked the rest of his tack, setting it in a corner of the barn.

On the outside, he found a wide wooden trough and stared at it for a moment. Aye, it could definitely work as a bathing tub for a lass. He tipped it over to wipe it free of leaves and spiders, a smile breaking through a day of frowning. He would make Alana very happy with a warm bath and a place to wash out her clothes. The work of cleaning the trough out and carrying it inside was very little to pay for the smile she was sure to show.

…

“A bath?” Alana’s voice pitched high with excitement. Maybe she had been spoiled living at Finlarig with a bath every day, for the idea of getting clean was exhilarating. “In a trough?” She laughed, her smile reaching high to encompass her face. “It will do perfectly.” She raised her gaze from the tub sitting before the fire to find him watching her. “Thank you,” she said, joy still heavy in her tone. “I have missed being clean.”

He looked pleased. “I will help ye haul the water in from the well and ye can set one to boil on the rack in the hearth.”

“And then I am washing out my clothes, at least the parts that are stained.” Blood, dirt, ash, and odors permeated both her short and long smocks, trousers, skirt, and stays. When she reached Finlarig again, she would need new clothes, for these were being sorely abused. “I can wash some of your clothing as well.”

“I will take care of them outside in the cistern. And bathe out there, too, so the cottage is yours until I can catch something for us to eat.”

“We still have two bannocks in my satchel and Fiona’s sleeping roll,” she said and waved her hand. “Do not eat the one with the currants on it.” She smiled. “In the morning, I can look for mushrooms and edible berries.”

“I set two traps behind the barn earlier. Hopefully the hares around here have gotten used to no human predators.”

The thought of hot, roasted rabbit made her mouth water. Her stomach growled, sounding loud and demanding in the quiet. “Now look what you have done,” she said, a bit of teasing in the rebuke. “The bannocks will never do after you put the idea of roast rabbit in my head.”

A slight smile touched his mouth, the same mouth that had driven her mad last night. He nodded and headed out into the night for her water. She looked at the trough. Was it a truce for his damnably true words this morning?

Shaw carried a bucket inside, lowering it to fill the wooden tub. They both bent at the same time to peer underneath for leaks. Alana huffed in relief when the floor stayed dry. She met his gaze. “I would have still used it even if it leaked. It would have just been a fast bath.”

He chuckled and walked back out. He limped, but his hip seemed much improved despite the full day of riding. Perhaps it was as he’d said that he spent most of his days moving, living in the saddle. Hiding and warring. How hard that must be, the strain on him, especially since he was the chief.

She grabbed up the bucket by the hearth. It was made of cast iron and very heavy, but she would be able to sit it right in the flames to heat. Grabbing it to her chest, she rushed outside. Darkness had come on, making the shadows thick. She stepped around the side and ran into a mountain and gasped.

“’Tis me, lass,” Shaw said, his hand coming out to steady her. It was warm through the thin linen of her smock. A simple touch to keep her from falling, but the shock of awareness that flew through Alana was not simple at all.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I will carry the water, especially in that pot.”

The heavy pot strained to fall, and she let it down to the ground between them. With water in it, she wouldn’t be able to lift it. “I think that will work better.”

He stepped around her to the door. She could hear the splash of the water into the tub, and he returned.

“All a woman’s strength seems to be focused on birthing babes. A little more muscle would help in life,” she said.

Stopping before her, he picked up the heavy pot like it weighed no more than the other. “I know a woman, a Sinclair, who lifts stones with my men. She is determined to be a mighty warrior, and she is stronger than Rabbie and maybe Alistair.”

A tug of jealousy tightened her stomach, and she frowned. “Perhaps I should start lifting stones?” She cringed at the petulance she heard in her voice.

“I am merely saying that determination can make one overcome pretty much anything.”

“Even winning back their castle?” she asked, her voice lower.

He leaned in as if telling a secret. “Especially winning back one’s castle.” He nodded slowly as if teasing. He was so close that he could have kissed her, but he slid to the side, turning to continue toward the well. She watched his large frame fade into shadow.

It felt like they were dancing around each other, trying not to collide. Of course he didn’t kiss her, wouldn’t possibly kiss her after their discussion during their ride. He was determined to cleanse the Sinclair name. Stealing away a chief’s sister was bad enough, but returning her without a maidenhead could possibly ruin any type of peace he might win from delivering the king’s daughter safely to St. Andrews.

But Shaw didn’t realize how unimportant Alana was to the Campbell clan. Yes, she was Grey’s sister, but her brother would never ask her to wed for an alliance, and with the English monarchy supporting the Highland Roses School, he didn’t need one. Most people ignored her around Killin. Had the Roses even noticed that she was taken from the festival? She snorted, noting the self-pity and ridiculousness of the thought. She strode back into the cottage.

Also, Alana had ridden horses much of her life. She’d heard numerous girls swear that they’d lost their maidenheads in the saddle. She shuttered the windows that she’d opened to air the room and stopped before the snapping flames in the hearth, hands resting on her hips. She should be allowed to choose to whom she gave herself.

She turned when she heard Shaw step inside. His muscles strained against his linen sleeves as he hefted the pot filled to the brim with water, carrying it over to set in the flames.

Yes, there was nothing to stop her from sleeping with a man of her choosing except…the man himself.

…

Shaw stood on the outside of the cabin at one of the shuttered windows. The faint sound of splashing water seeped from behind the taut leather seal. By now, the lass must be washing her clothes. He’d given her time to herself while he set two more traps, emptied the first two, skinned the hare he’d caught, and plucked the pheasant that had wandered into the second trap. Then he’d bathed with water from the cistern and washed his own clothes, hanging them to dry in the small barn with Rìgh. He’d given the horse his bannock and plenty of water and let him graze outside the barn for the entire time he was out of the cabin before shutting him in for the night.

He held one of the blankets from the back of his horse loosely around his hips as he walked up to the door. Alana would want to check his wound. He sighed, gritting his teeth. Maybe he should sleep in the barn. Although he’d have to lay on top of his horse, for there wasn’t enough space on the ground that wouldn’t see him trampled during the night.

I control my actions. Alana is not for the taking. All for the honor of Clan Sinclair. Holding the blanket tighter, he rapped.

“If you are Shaw Sinclair, you may enter,” she called through the door.

He opened the door and walked inside. Alana stood before the hearth, wrapped in the second blanket that he’d carried with them. Her bare shoulders and arms were covered by the flow of her damp hair, the tresses already starting to curl with drying.

Holding the blanket before her, Alana threw one arm out. “See, it is cozy.” It was only then that Shaw noticed anything other than the near-naked siren smiling at him.

The room was aglow in firelight, and Alana had found two half-burned candles which were lit to sit on the table. The meager contents of her satchel sat with them, their flasks, her ointment, another bandage, and what looked like a pack of playing cards. The room was warm and smelled of flowers and freshness. Her trousers, skirt, stays, and smock hung like a curtain on a rope that she’d fashioned across the room. She had cleaned the dust from the table and the ash from the hearth. It felt rather like a home.

“Much improved,” he said and held up his catch. “And I have dinner.”

Alana’s smile grew until the happiness flooded her eyes. They were dark in the shadows, but the firelight gave them a sparkle. “Thank you, God. I was about to start chewing the leather of my boots,” she said.

“It seems this forgotten cabin sits in the middle of easy hunting grounds.” He had already spitted both animals and walked across to prop them on the iron grate in the hearth, high enough that they wouldn’t burn. He dodged her wet clothes. “Maybe I should hang some of this on the porch. There is a beam by the front door.”

She took down her trousers and her shift. “Fresh air will dry these faster if they are under the overhang where the dew will not fall on them.”

Tucking the end of his blanket tightly into the edge at his hips, he hung them across the beam and came back inside. She was sitting on the bed and pulled the table up to it, using the bed as a second chair. The one chair in the room sat on the opposite side. “Do you play at cards?” she asked, splaying the painted rectangles out on the surface of the table.

“My mother taught me whist years ago,” he said, the pang of her memory like an old scar. He went to the bird and hare, turning them on the grate. It would take an hour or more to thoroughly cook them. When he turned around, his breath caught. Did the lass know that the blanket had slipped just enough to show the top of her cleavage, her breasts propped up on the edge of the table?

“How about cards up? Have you ever heard of that game?” she asked, dealing out five cards to each of them, their faces down on the table. “My friend, Cat, says it is the favorite card game at the London court right now.” She smiled, even though her gaze was turned toward the cards as she spread her five out evenly. She gave a little tug up on the blanket, and Shaw’s inhale came easier.

“I have never heard of it,” he said, standing there. Bloody hell, she must look smooth and lush under that blanket. He scraped a hand through his damp hair.

She gestured toward the chair. “Sit. It will keep our hunger at bay while we wait for our food to cook.”

He doubted very much that the hunger that was gnawing at him would be held at bay by sitting across from the beautiful lass who now smelled like flowers more than ever. Pulling the seat out, he nearly flung the puny chair across the room with his pent-up strength. “It may not hold me,” he murmured and sat, making it creak under his weight.

“We can switch places?”

He shook his head. “Tell me, lass, do ye always carry flower soap with ye?”

Her brow furrowed. “You do not like the smell?”

Like the smell? Hell, he wanted to roll around in that smell. “Aye, it is bonnie, but I did not know ye had it with ye.”

Her frown faded, and she glanced at the remaining clothes. “I washed everything in it after I washed myself.”

The stilted silence continued as she gently touched the tops of the painted cards. Memories of those fingertips skimming him made his eye twitch, and he raised his gaze, taking in a full inhale. “My wound is still fine. I cleaned it when I washed and re-bandaged it.”

“Good, but I should still put some ointment on it.” She moved to stand.

Blast.

“I thought we were playing cards,” he said, to delay his torture. “This cards up game that is so popular with the English fops. How do ye play it?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she settled back down. “We take turns flipping our cards. If you flip a black suit, then you must tell me something about you. If you flip a red suit, then you can ask me a question. And the reverse for me.”

“A question about anything?” he asked. Did she love anyone back at Finlarig? He didn’t think the man who’d escorted Alana and her Roses was anything to her since she hadn’t mentioned him. Or he could ask her about her family, what her mother looked like, but that might make her suspicious.

Alana curled her hand into a fist. “Nothing about war or the defenses of the Campbells.”

Fok. What was wrong with him that questioning her about Campbell weaknesses hadn’t even come to his mind? He grabbed the back of his neck, squeezing it. “Do the numbers mean anything?”

“Yes,” she said and pulled a card from the deck, turning it face up. “The higher the number or royal, the more secretive, important, or prying the question or answer should be.” She tapped the ten of hearts lying up. “So, if you turned this up, you could ask me a question that was rather…sensitive.”

“Such as?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

The glow of candlelight painted her face in gold, but he still saw the slight darkening of a blush. “Such as if I like to be kissed or…” She cleared her throat. “If I enjoyed last night.”

“Enjoyed the quiet terror of almost getting pissed on by Dixon’s men?”

A small laugh came through with her exhale, her smile returning. “As long as I tell the truth, I might take the question any way I wish.”

He nodded. “Ye go first.” He stood to turn the hare and pheasant and returned to see a three of spades upright before her. Relief made it easier to sit in the rickety chair.

“Hmmm…” she said, her pretty lips twisting as she thought. “What is your favorite tart flavor?”

“Tart,” he said without hesitation.

“Yes, what flavor?”

“Tart flavor. I have no favorite.” When was the last time he’d even eaten a tart? Years of squatting and moving about so Campbells didn’t catch him hadn’t given him time to bake. “I would gobble any tart offered.”

“Have you had a honey tart?” she asked.

“That is a question ye can save for the next card.” He smiled at her frown. Baiting her was fun and kept his mind off the memory of her fingers on him. Aye, the night would be one big battle for Shaw.

He flipped up a card. It was a black six. “I have never had a honey tart,” he said and smiled.

Her frown deepened. Was the game not going well? He thought it was.

“A six should be something that is a little more personal,” she said.

“Personal? Well, I have never had a honey tart because no one has ever made me tarts before, and I have not had a chance to learn how to bake.”

“No one?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Not your mother?”

His smile slipped. “The answer is no one.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Alana searching his gaze, but she wouldn’t find any answers there. She looked down and flipped her second card. A red jack came up, and Shaw leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

Alana folded her slender fingers together over the card. “Well.” She clicked her tongue in her mouth, and he tried not to think of what else that little tongue could do. She thought herself not very powerful, but she might be able to cripple him with that tongue.

Her gaze lifted. “A jack is pretty high.”

And getting harder with each inhale of her flowery scent.

“Well,” she repeated. “My secret is that…I am not a virgin.”