By noon, Jane was ready to walk in spite of the blisters on her feet. Never had she sat so many hours idle, simply wasting the daylight. It was a sin.
Sloth…
However, she was more concerned with the threat to her sanity, feeling sure she would go daft long before any true threat to her immortal soul took hold.
They’d reached a village, and Diocail was being greeted by his tenants. They lined up, some with goods and even livestock to offer as payment for their rent. They also took the time to swear their fealty to the new laird of the Gordons.
She sat through it all. Gratefully.
Still, by midday, she was ready to strike out and resume her journey. More than one person cast a curious look her way. Jane could hardly blame them. She could only imagine how she looked huddled beneath the cloak. Without a comb, her hair must be an unruly mop, and she doubted there was a clean patch of skin on her face after a week of walking through the wilds of Scotland. As the day warmed, the cloak became too heavy. She shrugged it off and then regretted doing so when more than one woman’s eyes rounded with alarm as she hurried her children away.
Diocail turned to discover the cause of the commotion. Heat teased her cheeks when she realized she’d interrupted him. It was his captain Muir who came over to deal with her.
“I didn’t mean to draw attention to myself.” Honestly, they had insisted she stay with them, so in truth, she didn’t owe them an apology. Unless she was being realistic and honest about how much she needed their help.
Muir wasn’t nearly as cross with her as she’d expected. The captain eyed her for a long moment before he ambled off. His sword was strapped to his back, his kilt swinging behind him as he went. He wore boots that had rows of antler-horn buttons running up the sides to his knees. Any Englishman would have called them rough, but she noted they were likely very warm and waterproof.
Something well suited to Scotland. Her own shoes had left her toes frozen for a good portion of the day, but she preferred them to bare feet, and that was a fact. Still, she admired the sturdy boots.
Muir disappeared and then came back into sight. He’d pulled something from the first wagon and offered it to her.
“It’s a length of wool, naught more, mistress.” He spoke in a voice kind enough if a bit uncertain. He had a dark beard kept better than she’d have expected, and he looked at her with a pair of blue eyes. “I thought ye might…” He made a motion with his hand. “Fashion it around yerself somehow…”
He lowered his gaze to where her breasts were and turned red, looking away when he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, lass…mistress. I’ve no’ known many women of…yer station.”
He seemed unable to stand still in his agitation. “Ye’ll be needing a belt.”
Muir latched onto that as a means of escape and nearly ran away. Jane took the time to consider the fabric he’d given her. It was a fine piece of wool in a light mulberry hue. She pulled it through her fingers and draped it around her shoulders so that it dropped down her front. Muir appeared again, relieved to discover her more clothed.
“Aye, no’ too bad at that.” He dropped a belt over the tailgate of the wagon. She pulled it around her waist and buckled it to hold the wool in place, working at the fabric to move it around her body and form a rather rough sort of skirt. Muir surprised her by remaining where he was and nodding when she finished.
“The cloak was too warm,” she offered by way of explanation.
Understanding dawned on him, and he nodded again before cocking his head to one side and looking as though he was judging her. Something was on his mind, and she waited for him to decide whether to voice it.
“I was wondering—” He stopped, clearly waiting to see what she made of his comment.
“Yes?” The truth was her day had been so boring she couldn’t curb her curiosity.
“Me laird thinks ye are a woman of some education. In womanly arts.”
“I suppose so,” she answered. “My stepmother insisted on devotion to my studies and the skills of housewifery.”
The first hint of a glimmer entered his eyes. “Can ye sew shirts?”
The eagerness in his tone befitted a boy more than a huge, burly Highlander. It brought a smile to her lips and made her realize how long it had been since she’d been charmed by something simple.
“Mind ye,” Muir was quick to add. “I know that, well, making shirts is a…private thing…between man and wife. But seeing as how ye are widowed—”
“I would be happy not to waste the daylight,” Jane assured him.
Muir’s lips curved into a wide smile. He held up a finger before disappearing once more. This time when he came back into view, he looked at his comrades before he turned to face her and pulled a bundle from the front of his doublet.
“Ye see, I’d nae ask, except for…I had a friend who promised me a new shirt. Her being a widow, it was no’ a difficulty…and I always brought her some linen for her own use.” Muir pushed a leather-covered bundle over the tailgate. It fell into her lap with a little plop. “However, seems she wed again this last year and, well, has her hands full with the two young lads her husband brought to the marriage for her to mother. Sorry she was to disappoint me, and I do nae wish to burden ye.”
His face was flushed once more due to the nature of the topic. Shirts were an intimacy because they lay against the skin. Tailors made them only for the elite, and the rest of the population had to either wed or hope one of their female relations would gift them with one. Sewing was one of those refined skills that fathers often listed among their daughters’ attributes when negotiating wedding contracts.
It was a skill she might trade for her supper and gladly so. “I sit here doing nothing,” Jane told him, eager to have something of worth to offer.
Muir flashed her a smile before he reached up and tugged on the corner of his cap. “Just ask if ye need anything else.”
He was gone in another moment. It was strange the way he wanted to be gone from her company as quickly as possible. Well, it wasn’t as if she needed to understand her companions.
What mattered was letting her feet heal and regaining her strength and doing so without being kept, but by bartering her skill.
Sewing shirts, well, there was something she knew well how to do, and she wasn’t being overly proud in acknowledging her skill in working the needle. She’d bloody well earned the right through hours and hours of practicing her stitches as a child. Unrolling the bundle, she felt a great deal of tension easing from her shoulders as she at last had a purpose.
Perhaps her companions would even take her farther down the road toward England. For the moment, though, she would simply have to be patient while her blisters closed. She opened the tie that held the leather around the cut pieces of a man’s shirt, a small needle book, and some thread.
She’d never made a shirt start to finish because sewing was something done when the rest of the day’s work was complete. It would be mindless work and yet not so wit-numbing as doing nothing at all.
At last, her luck was changing for the better. At least that was what she would believe. The alternative was to think herself forever stuck in the Highlands of Scotland.
* * *
“Ye have her making ye a shirt?”
Muir smirked at Diocail. “Ye are just jealous on account of the fact that ye did nae think of doing it yerself.”
Diocail contemplated his captive as she plied a needle and grunted at his captain. “Have ye checked to make certain she is no’ ruining yer cloth?”
Muir only continued to smirk as he nodded. “She’s what ye thought. A decent woman who has been taught how to sew fine, even stitches. It’s going to be a good shirt, and with her no’ being able to walk and naught else to do, well, I’ll have it before the week is out.”
Muir was downright giddy.
“Bastard,” Diocail grumbled. His captain’s grin brightened.
Diocail was jealous. Shirt linen was expensive, and not many females knew how to handle it well. Sewing was a skill that required practice, the sort a well-tutored girl might receive. His captive was humming as she worked the needle with ease and confidence. A wife made shirts for her husband as a sign of affection. It was an intimate thing.
The afternoon sun was teasing her hair, turning it into a glowing copper mass. In the morning light, she looked like a little brown bird. Nothing unique about her features. Ah, but when the sun kissed her hair, she became a flame. Even her eyes were a mixture of colors. Greens and browns and ambers.
She looked up and caught him staring. Perhaps he should have looked away, but the truth was, he just didn’t want to. She still wasn’t afraid of him or his men. Sat there in the wagon, using her delicate fingers to work thread into fabric as contently as if she were in the solar of her own home. Never mind that her circumstances were clear in her bedraggled condition. Not a whimper out of her, and she clung to her persistent need to leave them.
Of course she did. He was a Scot, a savage to her way of thinking.
Diocail chuckled as he turned back to his tenants. Little did she know how barbaric his home was and how much he longed for a woman like her to transform it into something more comfortable. Not that his idea of a home and hers were likely the same. Still, it was an amusing idea. He reckoned she’d take to running, blistered feet or not, if he made mention of it in her hearing.
* * *
“I thought…” It was Niven who had ventured closer to her but stopped, tongue-tied, as he faced her. He was younger than Muir but still a man. He reached up and hastily tugged on his bonnet. “I thought ye might enjoy some soap and water, mistress.”
He set down a bowl and a bucket and flashed her an eager smile. “I’ll fetch up some water from the river and then bring the kettle from the fire…” He was gone in a flash of bare knees and pleated wool.
“The lad is hoping to make friends with ye before the others beat him to it.” Diocail came closer, stopping with one foot propped on a rock near her.
It was strange the way she felt when he was close, as though her breath was tightly lodged in her chest. She caught herself smiling and tried to force her face back into a neutral expression, but the corners of her lips simply refused to remain that way. When she looked into his brown eyes again, she was smiling once more.
“He wants a shirt as well.”
“Oh.” Understanding made her nod. “It seems a fair enough exchange. He need not worry about asking me.”
Diocail contemplated her from behind the stern expression she’d come to expect on his face. It spoke of a harsh life in which he hid his feelings. She noted his sternness as Niven came back with a bucket, easily grinning at her without concern that his enthusiasm might make him appear weaker.
Well, weak was not a word that suited either man. Even the younger Niven. Perhaps approachable was better. She was looking at Diocail again and caught herself smiling at him.
Again.
She looked away as Niven poured some of the water into the bowl. He was off again toward the fire and the promised kettle.
“It’s a skill no’ every woman has. Do nae speak of yerself so.”
She drew the needle up, knowing the feel of just how tight to make the stitch without having to look. “A fair exchange for feeding me then.”
“Aye, it is a fine barter, I’ll agree.”
Diocail spoke in that low tone that he used. She found it oddly enticing, like some sort of promise. He knew his strength was great and therefore held himself in check. Her husband had always shouted to gain his way.
Stop it. You cannot trust him…
Or any man, ever again.
A snap drew her attention back to Diocail. He’d shaken out a leather hide and laid it on the ground. He placed the bowl on it, making a clean place for her to stand while she made use of Niven’s gift.
It was certainly that. She was itching just thinking about removing some of the grime from her skin.
“The men will go down by the horses.” He spoke quietly as Niven returned with the kettle, steam trailing from it. “So do nae cry out unless ye fancy company.”
“Of course.” She was starting to shake with excitement.
She hadn’t dared long for a way to clean herself. Muir suddenly appeared, two buckets in his hands. He nodded before placing them near the bowl. Niven had paused to consider his work, grinning at his accomplishment.
“Come on, ye puppy.” Muir reached out and tweaked the younger lad’s ear. “Ye don’t gawk at a decent woman like her.”
The captain tugged on his bonnet before he turned and followed Niven. They passed the fire and went over a small rise before disappearing.
“None will peek at ye, lass. Yet we’re close enough to defend ye. The horses will tell us if anyone comes near.”
Diocail offered her another rolled length of canvas. He might have dropped it onto the leather, but she realized he wasn’t going to allow her to be so timid. If she wanted it, she would have to reach for it.
“Thank you.” She closed her hand around the canvas, but he held it for a long moment.
Their gazes were locked, and his went hard. “There is worse out there, lass. For all that I ken yer reasoning for wanting to leave, do nae do it. Me men will no’ care for treating ye harshly.”
But they would. The threat was clear. It was a promise that flashed in his eyes before he released the bundle and turned around to leave.
Jane realized she’d been holding her breath. It came out in a little sound that betrayed her. She thought she saw him hesitate between steps when he heard it, but he kept going until he’d disappeared from sight.
She should run.
But the moment she stood up, pain went through her feet, reminding her how little protection her pride was against the hard ground of the forest. What she wanted and what might be were, once again, two vastly different things.
So it had been for most of her life.
She laughed softly at herself and unrolled the newest canvas. It was a clever way to hold smaller items for traveling, and this one held lumps of soap and even a comb. She pulled a folded washcloth from one side and realized she as was giddy as a child who had just received a treasured toy.
She cast a last glance toward where the men had gone. They might be peeking, but the opportunity to clean herself was simply too enticing to hold up against her shredded modesty. Honestly, they had seen her nearly bare already. Better to make use of what she may while it was available. Who knew what tomorrow might bring?
That thought sobered her as she unlatched her belt and laid the wool off to the side. Her life had ever been one full of consequences and disappointments, her marriage the biggest of those. Henry had never made her giddy with excitement, not in word or deed, and if he were standing there, he would have declared loudly how superior he was to the Scots keeping her in their midst.
And yet Niven’s thoughtfulness was a larger kindness than her own husband had ever thought to bestow upon her.
Stop it…
Lingering in the past was no use at all. If it were, she’d have cultivated a childhood of happiness from the memories of the time when her mother was still alive.
Instead she would concentrate on the present moment, which pleased her, restoring her humor. She took a last glance around before pulling her smock off. Fishing with it had cleaned it somewhat, but she still wrinkled her nose at the thought of putting it back on.
Well, there was nothing to help that.
So she grasped the linen cloth and plunged it into the bowl, carrying water up to wash the dirt from her limbs. The sun was a glowing ball on the horizon, making the experience a chilly one, but being cold paled in comparison to the exhilaration of being clean. The soap smelled slightly of rosemary, and she dug the remaining pins from her hair so she might wash it. There was even a longer length of linen to dry herself with. She ended up wrapping it around her head as she dressed again, grateful for the wool to put over her smock. Working the comb through her wet hair took patience, so much so she failed to notice when Diocail ventured back into sight. She noticed him walking toward her though, and there was no way she might have torn her eyes from him.
The man was impressive.
He was also dangerous, and she would be wise to remember it. His men might be trying to be kind to her, but they answered to him, and his command was absolute. Whatever he decided, it would be done.
“The sun is going down, lass.”
She looked up at him, realizing no man save her husband had ever seen her with her hair flowing. It was a strangely intimate thing because her father had insisted on modesty caps. She suddenly felt as if she understood just why too. Diocail’s attention was on her hair, his eyes narrowing just a bit as his face softened in a purely male manner. He liked what he saw—the appreciation was impossible to miss. It was not about being vain, no, more of an awareness that he found her attractive.
And you liked knowing it…
“I’ll carry ye over to the fire.”
He was already reaching for her when she shied away. He frowned, clearly taking it personally.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “It’s just that my hair is down, and no one except my husband ever…well, I suppose I don’t really have any choice in the matter.”
Diocail’s expression eased, and he stood with his hands crossed over his wide chest. The position made him appear even larger than he was. “What was yer husband doing in Scotland? To leave ye here with no one to look after ye?”
He’d tempered his tone, but a glint in his eye betrayed how little he thought of her husband. Many might have told her that she should refuse to answer, owing Henry some manner of respect, but the truth was, Jane felt no such loyalty.
“He was a wine merchant, delivering a large order of French wine, and no one else wanted to risk the journey so far into Scotland and—” Jane stopped and drew in a deep breath. “He drank too much while gambling, and…I was a widow by morning light. I really do not wish to speak of it at any great length.”
Diocail made a sound in the back of his throat that made it clear he judged Henry harshly.
“Ye’d mourn for a man who left ye in such circumstances? Who brought ye along when he knew full well it was no’ a safe place for him, much less a woman?” He shook his head. “Ye have too kind a heart. It’s a man’s duty to think ahead and make certain his wife is no’ left in dire circumstances. The road may be lonely, but better to suffer lack of companionship and leave yer wife at home where she is sheltered. That is the true duty of a husband.”
“Your heart is soft too,” she countered before she realized she was rising to his bait. It was difficult to be meek in his presence. “Others would have left me to my plight. Doubly so, since I am English.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Ye have a bold nature, mistress.”
From him, it was a compliment. Jane realized she enjoyed it too. He wasn’t a man easily impressed.
“Yet I believe I am bolder than ye are yerself.” Diocail scooped her up, cradling her against his chest as he carried her toward the fire. “For I’ll no’ allow modesty to outweigh sensible thinking. Ye’ll catch a chill if ye do nae dry yer hair. Ye’ll have to content yerself with practicality tonight.”
His men made way, clearing off a rock so their laird might settle her on it. The heat from the flames made her realize how cold she was. There was silence around her for long moments before one of the retainers cleared his throat and started to tell a story. He seemed to be searching his memory for the details of the tale, and Jane realized it was a childhood one. Something suitable for her company.
The effort they employed to cater to her gender charmed her. But it also made her realize how little happiness there had been in her father’s house.
For the first time, she dreaded the need to return.
But yet again, she had no choice, for happiness was the stuff of stories told by firelight. The harsh light of day always defeated them. What was she to do? Stay in Scotland, where her blood was hated, and it had already been proven that many would stand by while she was turned out to starve?
For the moment, she had landed among kind-hearted men, but she would be a fool to forget that they were in their country, and she was far from her own. While Alicia’s house was stern and strict, it had made her strong, and there was family to protect her against men like Gillanders. Happiness had to surrender to logical thinking.
Tomorrow she would put the subject firmly to Diocail.
* * *
Jane’s feet healed slowly, keeping her in the wagon while Diocail kept to his duties.
She’d finished Muir’s shirt by the time they were done with another village. Niven was quick to present her with a length of cloth, and in spite of her being behind him while she measured him, she was almost certain he was smirking at his comrades. They stood watching her, making her fight to keep her hands steady while she carefully noted the length of his arms, the width of his shoulders, the size of his wrists and collar. She used a bit of chalk from the sewing bundle to write the numbers on the board of the wagon so she would cut the fabric correctly. The length of creamy linen had likely cost a large chunk of the retainer’s pay. He also entrusted her with a small leather pouch with buttons in it. They were well used but still very serviceable.
“Thank ye, mistress.” He tugged on the corner of his cap and left her with a flash of a smile that made him appear very handsome, if still rather young.
He’d barely made it back to the fire before one of his fellow retainers launched himself at Niven, and they went rolling across the ground. The rest of the men decided to place wagers as the two wrestled, calling out encouragement to their man of choice.
Jane shook her head before considering just where she might cut the fabric. The table the secretary used suddenly moved. Jane gasped, turning about to discover Diocail behind her.
“Seems ye’ll be needing this.” He offered as he began to set it up.
The fight died down. Jane didn’t look behind her because Diocail was far too mesmerizing. He set the table up and pulled the leather hide out to place on the ground. It was a welcome escape from the wagon, a chance to stand and stretch her legs. She hummed as she laid out the fabric, making sure it was neat and smooth without a single wrinkle to make the pieces less than perfect.
It would never do to waste fabric.
She heard a scraping sound and looked over to see Diocail using a sharpening stone on a pair of shears. He held them up, checking the edge before testing it gently with the tip of his finger. He caught her watching him, and once more she was smiling at him before she thought of it. A strange twist of sensation went through her belly, making her turn her attention back to the cloth, lest she appear witless before his keen stare.
She realized there was a space in the canvas sewing kit for those shears. Clearly, Muir had removed them. It was rather nice to know they considered her a threat, even a small one. She decided she liked that far better than being nothing more than their foundling.
Jane looked at the numbers and measured the cloth twice before drawing careful lines on it with the chalk. The white lines were faint, and when she was finished, there was not a single bit of fabric unused. She marked the place where she’d open the neck and made sure she had two gussets to sew into the corners to round the opening before attaching the collar. There was even enough to put a box-pleated ruffle into the neck. She circled it, making sure she’d marked the fabric correctly before cutting into it.
She used the shears slowly, ensuring that no threads pulled while she was cutting. Her shoulders tightened as she concentrated, not allowing her thoughts to wander until she’d finished and neatly stacked the pieces in the bag she was using for her sewing.
She stood back, pleased with her efforts. But she also caught sight of the Gordon retainers. They’d come close during the time she’d been so intent on the fabric, watching her quietly.
“It is only a shirt,” she muttered, quite unaccustomed to having her efforts so closely watched.
“Aye, but a fine shirt,” Muir offered with a glint in his eyes. “I’ve never had a better one.”
“You are being kind.”
The captain shook his head and moved back toward the fire, his comrades following.
“Some men might take exception to ye questioning their word, lass.” Diocail reached past her and took the shears. He noted her watching him as he tucked them into his belt. “Best I keep these for the now.”
“Don’t trust me, Laird Gordon?”
He offered her a grin. “Do ye trust me, lass? Perhaps ye might care to tell me yer name?”
His voice had an easygoing tone—he was toying with her, expecting her to refuse him.
“It seems to matter not at all.” She sat down on the bed of the wagon once more. Her feet were healing, but she still felt the blisters, reminding her of her circumstances.
“And yet ye would return to the house of a man who wed ye unwisely.”
Jane discovered herself scoffing at him. “And what would you have me do? Expect you to feed me? For naught? What choice is there except to return to my father’s house since, as you noted so very correctly, my husband failed to ensure my well-being? Do you truly need another person looking to you for their bread?”
She’d given him pause. He considered her for a long moment, unable to form an argument against her words.
“Muir considers it a fair trade,” Diocail replied after a moment. “Niven will likely join him now. They will no’ quibble at sharing the supper with ye.”
“Yet you are their master,” she replied. “To you, I am a burden.”
His expression tightened. “Is that the way ye were raised, lass? Thinking ye bring naught to those ye live with?”
She offered him only a raised shoulder. “I was a fourth daughter, quite the disappointment to both my parents. My stepmother made it clear I should be grateful for anything she chose to give me. I don’t expect you to understand. You were born a son.”
“Aye,” he replied. “But to me uncle’s brother’s wife, and he did nae care to have a new branch of the family threatening his own bloodline. Burden, threat—both are challenges that test a person. Such circumstances can make a person stronger.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I admit I learned to have finer stitches than my older sisters.” Heat teased her checks when she realized she was boasting. “Prideful of me to say such.”
“Honest too,” he answered with a jerk of his head toward his men. “They may be rough, lass, but make no mistake, they know quality stitching when they see it. They’d no’ be fighting over Niven’s boldness if Muir’s new shirt was no’ something to be envious of.”
“I never imagined they’d take to fighting.” The skirmish was over now, Niven enjoying whisky as money changed hands over the wagers. “My apologies for disrupting your ranks.”
“Disrupting me ranks?” He chuckled at her formal speech. “Christ, woman, ye know precious little about men. That”—he jerked his head toward the men behind him—“was good fun. Naught else.”
“I doubt Niven would agree.” In fact, the young retainer had blood running down one side of his face from a cut in his scalp.
“He’d be the first to do so,” Diocail answered her confidently. “Because he knows the lads wouldn’t bother if they were nae envious, and he knows he’s stronger for being tested by his comrades. Fate knows what it’s doing at times, placing us where she will. There is a reason ye are a fourth daughter. Me men are grateful for it, for if ye were of higher station, ye would certainly no’ be here.”
Grateful. No one had ever described her in such a manner. “And you are laird, no matter what your uncle thought.”
It surprised her, that they had something in common. It was a strange feeling, to say the least. One she enjoyed a great deal.
He choked out a bark of amusement. “Aye, Fate has a sense of humor, it would seem.”
“Enjoy it. I have very recently seen the harsher side of Fate’s workings.” She was telling him what to do, offering her opinion when it had not been asked for. But he didn’t bristle, didn’t mutter “woman” at her as a reminder of her place.
“I know those as well.” He nodded, once again appearing as though they had much in common. She savored the sensation because it made her feel less alone.
But that brought a prickle of guilt. She had no right to chastise her circumstances. Loneliness was certainly better than starvation or worse, and his men shouldn’t have to sensor their conversation because she was near. They did enough for her.
“Good night, Laird Gordon.”
She crawled back into the wagon and pulled the sewing bag into her lap. There was little light left, but she would make good use of it and earn her place. Diocail watched her for a long moment. She would have sworn she felt his gaze on her, which was impossible, of course.
And yet she was keenly aware of him.
She felt a teasing of heat on her cheeks as she drew a length of thread off the wooden bobbin it was wrapped around.
Blushing…
She knew what it was and still couldn’t recall ever having done so in response to a man before. Even if it was ill timed, she found it curious. Looking up, she found Diocail still standing there, watching her with his warm brown eyes, captivated by her.
She drew in a stiff breath and held it, feeling as though something had shifted between them. She must have annoyed him because his eyes narrowed before his expression tightened, and he granted her a half nod and turned his back on her.
Disappointment needled her.
You are being quite ridiculous…
There was a solid truth if ever she’d heard one. The man likely thought her a mouse, to be gasping just because she’d met his gaze. He was not a man to suffer timid females.
No, and she found that a pleasing trait in him.
Diocail Gordon was who he was because he had pitted himself against the odds and survived.
Likely it was better that she’d disgusted him.
So why did it bother her so greatly?
Because she longed to be something quite different than she’d been raised to be. Jane looked back at the fabric, drawing the thread through it in a careful stitch.
Careful…
Such was everything in her life. Years full of days dedicated to becoming the ideal set forth to her by the men around her. To deviate was unacceptable. She spent hours on self-directed lectures. Had gone to sleep with her mind full of how many mistakes she’d made that day and the need to dedicate herself to doing much, much better the next day. Because men did not tolerate shrewish behavior. They craved submission and duty in their wives.
And her purpose was to please the men around her so greatly that one of them would honor her with a marriage proposal. Well, she’d accomplished that goal, and what did she have to show for it? An ill fate. Damned if she didn’t feel cheated by God.
Diocail Gordon wouldn’t be satisfied with a mouse for a spouse.
He hasn’t asked you to marry him either…
It was a sinful thought, one that stirred up something in her belly. She allowed her mind to contemplate what manner of wife Diocail might enjoy. He chuckled when she argued with him, grinning when she expressed her opinion without being asked.
Men enjoyed brazen harlots too and let them die in the gutter. Discarded mistresses when the excitement faded. Scots also enjoyed ransoming women, a fate she didn’t fancy.
Such were the lessons of her youth, repeated over and over, and still she sat there thinking about how all her proper behavior had yielded was a mean-hearted husband who had squandered her dowry and her dreams of love.
There was a bitter taste on her tongue, left there by the knowledge that she must return home. Decency demanded it. She wished she’d reaped the rewards of behaving. The truth was she was sorely tempted to toss all of the rules out in favor of doing exactly what she pleased.
She smiled brightly as she thought about just what Diocail Gordon might make of such behavior. Very brightly indeed, even if she knew in her heart it was nothing but a fantasy.
* * *
“Take me son.”
Jane wasn’t in the habit of watching Diocail while he was dealing with his tenants. She cringed, though, as the woman’s voice reached her ears.
Another village and another line of tenants paying their due. The first wagon was almost full now after another week on the road.
“He’s a fine, big lad who will grow into a retainer who will show no fear.”
The woman was rushing and had to stop to drag in a breath.
“I do nae take children,” Diocail replied in that soft tone of his. But his neck was corded. Jane could see his fingers gripping his shirt where he had his arms crossed over his chest.
“Ye must,” the woman’s voice came out in a thin whine. “Me man died a few weeks ago. I have naught.”
And she was dying herself. Jane stared at the horrible truth as the woman began to cough. The effort shook her thin frame. She had a dirty piece of cloth in her hand that she pressed to her mouth. When she lowered it, the bright spots of fresh blood were clear.
A small face peeked around her tattered skirt. Jane felt tears sting her eyes as she recognized the boy who had built her a fire. The woman reached down and gripped his hand. “Here…ye must…he’ll starve…when I follow me husband…”
She changed places with her son, stepping back and leaving him standing in front of her in his dirty shift with his knife. “Show…the laird…how much…courage…ye have…”
The boy gripped the handle of his knife. He looked up at Diocail, blinking. There was a slight tearing sound as the fabric of Diocail’s sleeve gave way under his grip. He grunted, releasing the sleeve and letting out a long breath.
“Aye,” Diocail spoke.
He looked down at the boy as his mother dropped a kiss on the top of his matted blond hair and whispered something in his ear before hurrying away.
The boy did have courage, but he was still tender in his years. His eyes welled up with tears as he stood facing a man three times his size. The Gordon retainers were frozen, looking at the boy with confusion. Jane wasn’t sure when she decided to move, but the mother was gone, the sound of her hacking cough drifting on the wind from behind some of the rough walls of the village homes. It grew fainter, and the boy’s lower lip began to tremble.
Her feet were almost healed now. Jane walked over to where Diocail stood and lowered herself before him. There was still a line of tenants watching to see if he’d abandon the child. Jane held out her hand to the boy. He looked up, his lips curving as he recognized her.
Jane led the boy back to the wagon, and the laird made no complaint. Muir sent her a relieved look before the business resumed.
“Are ye going to be me mother now?” the boy asked after Diocail went on collecting rent and oaths without a glance in their direction.
“For as long as we’re together, I suppose.”
He nodded. “Me name is Bari.”
“And I am Jane.”
And they were an oddly suited couple, both dependent on the will of Diocail Gordon.
* * *
“So the lad gains yer name.” Diocail stopped and placed his foot on a rock near her. “I suppose ye think me a monster for allowing him to be given to me.”
Bari was sound asleep in the wagon. Jane could walk away from it now, providing she was careful where she stepped.
“You were being kind,” she answered Diocail. “His mother won’t last a month.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Think so?”
Jane nodded. “I’ve seen it. That disease of the lungs. You likely saved his young life, for it passes easily between members of a family. If he’d stayed near her and tried to help her, I doubt he would have escaped.”
“Do ye think he has it?”
Jane saw the distaste in his eyes, but he asked anyway, clearly concerned for the welfare of all his men.
“I see no signs.”
He sent her a hard look. “Ye must tell me if ye do, Jane. I can nae take him into the tower if he has it. I will ask ye again before we make it back.”
Her name was oddly intimate on his lips. It felt as though they were becoming more and more familiar with each other. She had no idea why it unsettled her, and yet her belly was twisting once again.
“Surely you understand,” she began. “I should be long away by now. However grateful I am, I cannot stay.”
Diocail let out a long sigh. “And ye should clearly understand that I can nae leave ye in yer shift on the side of the road.” He was back to gripping his shirt, tearing once more. He grunted and muttered a word beneath his breath. “Perhaps ye think because I’m Scottish, it makes it acceptable for me to see ye starving. How long will ye last before ye turn to prostituting yerself to avoid dying? Maybe I am no’ English like yer husband, but—”
“I thank God for that,” she exclaimed. “My English husband placed my favors on a gaming table and cheerfully rolled the dice and expected me to honor his loss. You are nothing like him.”
She’d said too much. Far too much.
She’d known Diocail was a dangerous man; now she watched his expression turn deadly. “He did…what?”
She felt too much on display, her pride too torn and shredded, and tried to turn away. The only solace available was to keep her shame secret. Diocail reached out and locked his hands around her biceps, pulling her in front of him.
“Jane?” he demanded softly, but there was no missing the rage in his voice. “Explain yer words.”
“There is no point.” She looked him straight in the eye. “What’s done is done, and he was beaten to death for his excess at the dice.”
“He’s damned lucky he was,” Diocail exclaimed, “for I’d have broken his legs and left him alive.”
Oh, but she liked the sound of that.
For a moment, they stared into one another’s eyes, and he was absolutely everything wonderful in the world. A man of honor, one she might depend on to do all of the righteous things she’d been raised to believe good men did. She was so close she could smell him. Henry had never pleased her senses the way Diocail did. She liked the way he smelled and felt herself trembling as she watched his attention shift to her mouth. Everything else seemed to dissipate, leaving her with only the feeling of his hands on her and a tingle across the delicate surface of her lips while he contemplated them.
I would like his kiss…
“Is she yer strumpet, Laird?”
Diocail released her in a flash as young Bari’s voice came from behind her. Jane fell back from him, realizing she had been nearly in his embrace and completely captivated by him.
“Is that why she wears no skirts?”
With the innocence of childhood, Bari asked what was on his mind. He rubbed his eyes and cocked his head to one side as he waited for an answer.
“No, lad.” Muir was suddenly there, taking Bari up and back toward the wagon. “She’s a decent woman. No’ the sort ye say a word like strumpet to.”
“But why has she no skirts?” Bari wasn’t ready to let the matter go. “I heard the women in the village call her a strumpet and a doxy. I’ve never heard that word before, doxy.”
Jane’s cheeks heated as she heard Muir hushing the child.
“The next village is a larger one,” Diocail explained. “There will be an inn with a proper bed, and I’ll find ye something to wear or at least the cloth to be sewn.”
“I really can’t accept more from you.”
He drew himself up and sent her a look she doubted many argued with. “As I have told ye before, mistress, ye best reconcile yerself to our company. For I’ll bring ye back if ye are fool enough to try me.”
A wise woman would have let the matter be. But wisdom had led her to where she was, and something inside her snapped. “I am quite done being told what to do by men.”
Diocail had turned, meaning to leave her with those final words, but he snapped back around as her comment hit his ears. “Is that so, Jane?”
He was using her name on purpose now, trying to impress on her how little choice she had.
“And just what will ye be doing under yer father’s roof?” he demanded as he stepped close enough to whisper. “But I am no’ fool enough to send ye back to a man who has no sense when it comes to who he weds ye to.”
“I refuse to allow you to pity me.”
He liked that comment. Jane stared at him, confounded by the way his eyes lit with enjoyment. No man enjoyed a woman who was too free with her tongue.
Except for Diocail Gordon, it would seem, for he was grinning as though she was the most fetching female he’d ever set eyes upon.
She let out a huff. “You make no sense. Why do you let me tell you what I think? And speak when I have not been asked to?”
He slowly chuckled. “Because I like ye with the flames dancing in yer eyes, lass.” He reached out and hooked her by her upper arms, pulling her toward him. His attention dropped to her mouth a moment before he pressed a kiss against her lips.
She recoiled, but not because it was unpleasant.
Quite the opposite, really.
For a moment, her belly twisted, and anticipation gripped her so tightly she was breathless. Never in her life had she realized her body might experience such a level of bliss. It overwhelmed her, making her yank away from him and the uncertainty he roused in her. She struggled to comprehend the way he’d made her breathless.
Was it right?
Wrong?
A sin?
A shame?
His lips curled, and he flashed his teeth at her while his eyes flickered with a satisfaction that made her cheeks burn. She was lifting her hand and laying it across his jaw before her thoughts cleared. The hard smack of flesh against flesh shattered the strange moment like a bubble that had landed on a thorn.
Diocail Gordon released her, backing away as he chuckled. “I deserved that, ’tis a fact I did.” He opened his arms wide and offered her a slight lowering of his body in a courtesy. “And I enjoyed kissing ye full well.” He straightened, and his expression tightened into one of promise. “Jane.”
She snarled, stunning herself with how passionate the sound was.
What was happening to her? Was Scotland truly turning her savage?
It defied rational thought, and yet her heart was thumping so hard it felt as if it were hitting her breastbone, driving her blood through her veins so fast she felt light-headed and fought to stand in one place. It was exhilarating and unsettling on a scale she had never experienced.
Henry had never kissed her like that…
Disrespectful to the dead, perhaps, and yet it was a solid truth. One that left her wondering just what else she might discover if she embraced the heat licking at her insides.
* * *
“Now I’m jealous,” Muir muttered as he nursed a flask of whisky. “I only asked her for a shirt, but ye get a kiss.”
His captain had joined him on watch sometime after midnight and clearly had no reservations about discussing what he’d seen.
“I took a kiss,” Diocail said, admitting to his sin. “And damn me for doing so when others might see. Jane deserves more respect than that sort of behavior.”
“She’s a decent woman,” Muir agreed. “And knows a thing or two most females don’t as well.”
He offered the flask to Diocail, who shook his head.
“The lads are thinking it’s a fine thing we have her to bring back home with us.”
Diocail cast a narrow-eyed glare at his captain, realizing Muir had been plotting to say his piece to him, no doubt with a bit of discussion among the rest of the men too. As laird, he would have to become accustomed to having every last detail of his life debated.
But that didn’t mean he was going to accept the will of his clan when it came to personal matters. “Christ, man,” Diocail exclaimed. “She’ll no’ be pleased by that idea.” He opened his hand, and gestured toward the wagon. “She’s English.”
“Aye,” Muir agreed. “Ye can nae miss that when she opens her mouth.” He drew a long sip of whisky, clearly fortifying himself before he spoke his mind. “And yet she has a fire in her belly. Those feet of hers were torn up and no mistake. Yet she was nae giving in. Likely why ye stole that kiss. Heard the smack she gave ye all the way over by the horses.”
“That’s the part ye should be thinking more about,” Diocail pointed at him. “I’m a savage to her way of thinking.”
Muir slowly grinned. “Scores of Englishwomen live their lives without sampling passion. Now there is something ye might give her that she’ll enjoy full well after tasting a cold English marriage.”
“We are no’”—Diocail stressed the “no”—“talking about that.”
“Glad to know ye’re no’ thinking about it, Laird.”
Diocail grunted and left Muir to the duty of watch. He rolled himself in his plaid and closed his eyes, but sleep was still elusive. Jane invaded his thoughts, and her taste lingered on his lips.
He was a rogue to have kissed her. Yet he didn’t truly regret it. Even if that thought shamed him.
And that was surprising because it had been a very long time since he’d been shamed. It made him chuckle, easing the tension that seemed to have been in his shoulders over the past year. Coming down from the north to Gordon land had always been in his mother’s plans for him, but the reality had been damned difficult.
He slept lightly because there were plenty of Gordons who coveted the lairdship. His life had become one where he’d been forced to prioritize what he had time to worry about. Manners hadn’t been high on the list. Not when he’d been focused on surviving.
Jane was a breath of fresh air. Or maybe he just understood how it felt to have Fate hurling more challenges at a person than it seemed possible to meet.
Indeed, he knew that path surely enough. Some might say that was why he refused to let Jane go, but the truth was he just couldn’t stomach the idea of what would befall her on the road, and not because he pitied her.
No, it was far worse than that.
He wasn’t going to let her go because if she was going to land in anyone’s bed, it was most definitely going to be his.
He would be shamed by his thoughts if he wasn’t so distracted by the idea of just how bright the flames would flicker in her eyes if he told her what was on his mind.
Rogue…
But at least it was better than letting her become a sad victim of harsh reality.
* * *
Jane was turned about.
She realized she’d lost her way completely when she stood facing the inn where Gillanders had so cheerfully turned her out.
To be honest, she almost missed the sign because the rain was pouring down, the sky dark with black, swollen clouds. But she caught sight of the sign as she was encouraging Bari to hurry inside where Diocail and his men were setting up to receive the tenants who had come to pay their due.
Bari scampered inside as she stopped, oblivious to the downpour, blinking at the name of the inn.
Niven ran right into her and mumbled a word in Gaelic that needed no translation, and she went pitching forward through the open door, ending up sprawled on the tavern floor.
“What the devil?” Lachie asked from where he was setting up his paper and quill.
Another retainer reached down and hooked her by the arm, hoisting her up and off the floor while she was still trying to absorb the fact that she’d come full circle.
“She just stopped,” Niven explained in bewilderment.
“Yes, I did,” Jane stammered as she pulled at her meager coverings. “It was my fault. I’m sorry, Niven.”
One of Gillanders’s daughters was serving ale. She stood with eyes as round as full moons before she realized Niven was looking at her curiously and snapped her attention back to the mugs she was filling.
“Always happy to have the laird under me humble roof.” Gillanders said as he came down the stairs. He was laughing as he spoke to Diocail. “Ye’ll not find a finer-laid table in three villages! Mark me words, me wife knows how to put the supper out!”
He caught sight of Jane then, freezing in place as his wife and daughters all drew back so that they were flat against the walls of the common room.
Gillanders was just as pompous as Jane recalled. He let out a snicker and slapped his thigh. “So ye found yerself a place with the laird’s men.” He sent a look at Diocail. “Right nice to have a bit of company along on the road when the wives are all back at home.”
The tavern owner indulged in a round of snickers as his gaze swept her from head to toe.
Muir slid up to her side, moving in front of her as the tension in the room increased. Even Lachie looked disgruntled, rising from his bench.
Gillanders didn’t miss it. He glanced around, taking in the disapproval being cast his way while his wife snapped her fingers at his daughters to send them scampering into the kitchen, the topic being too scarlet for their youth.
“Here now,” Gillanders exclaimed. “What’s the trouble? She’s an English bitch, ye can nae mean to tell me ye’d argue with me over her?”
“Ye put her out?” Diocail asked. “In her shift?”
“Well, now, her husband left a debt that had to be settled, and since the man was dead, she was the only one to be doing it with. Can nae fault a man for taking what is owed to him. I’d have lost this tavern long ago if I failed to collect on what me family’s hard work was worth.”
Gillanders gripped his wide belt. He’d buckled it beneath his fat belly and looked ridiculous while attempting to be impressive.
“Besides, I made her an offer,” Gillanders continued. “Thought herself too good to work for a Scot.”
There was disgruntled muttering behind her from the men waiting to pay their rent and greet their new laird.
“You offered me a position as a whore.” Jane likely should have kept her mouth tightly sealed, but wisdom seemed to be lacking in her at that moment. “I most certainly did decline.”
There was a snort from the line behind her and a snicker. Diocail didn’t miss it. He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Gillanders. “The lady,” he said, stressing the last word, “is under our protection now.”
“Aye.” Their host offered Diocail a wide smirk, which made Jane’s cheeks burn scarlet. “I see that, Laird. No trouble at all.”
“Good.” Diocail looked past him to where his wife was wringing her apron. “Show the lady above stairs and produce her belongings.”
“Here now,” Gillanders argued, but his wife was already lifting her skirts and nearly running up the stairs. “There’s the matter of the debt owed by her husband. I took her things in payment.” He pointed at Jane.
“Well, now, as to that question,” Lachie interrupted as he came closer with the large account book in his arms. “It would seem the Hawk’s Head Tavern, owned by one Gillanders, has not paid rent in more than five seasons.”
Gillanders opened his mouth and closed it several times as he tried to formulate an argument. “There is the cost of burying her husband as well. Couldn’t let him rot on the side of the road. I’m a Christian man.”
“Of course ye are,” Muir muttered. “Only allowed the man to be murdered.”
“It was none of me doing.” Gillanders exclaimed. “He wandered out, likely because of the cold bitch he had been saddled with for a wife. She turned him away, she did. More than one heard it.”
“Because Henry brought his gaming companions up to our bed with the intention of having me settle the loss through the use of my body,” she retorted. “Christian man that you are, you stood at the door intending to watch.”
Niven growled. For all that she’d needed to stand up against the tavern owner’s remarks, the anger on the faces of the Gordon retainers’ faces made her regret her words. There was a fight brewing now, and she’d tossed on the fuel.
“Enough.” Diocail’s voice cracked like a whip. He looked over his shoulder at the men waiting, and they stopped their snickering. “He’d no’ be the first man who discovered himself on the receiving end of violence after ill-placed bets, but that is a matter between men, and I’ll no’ stand for it being applied to his wife more than any of ye would have me taking me business to yer wives.”
The inn was suddenly filled with the shuffling of feet against the floorboards and nothing else.
“Aye,” Gillanders agreed. “Business between men. That’s the way it should be.”
Diocail nodded. He cut a quick glance toward Muir. The captain nodded once before reaching over and grasping Jane by the upper arm. He tugged her gently toward the stairs. She cringed at the idea of going back to the place where she had last seen Henry, but staying behind wasn’t appealing either. So she climbed the stairs and went through the door at the top.
“Stay in the room, mistress,” Muir replied. “I think it will be best that way. Until the business is finished.”
The captain tugged the door shut, leaving her listening to the heavy fall of rain on the roof. Despite the chill in the air, she turned and looked at the door, longing simply to run.
What made her quell the urge was the sight of young Bari. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a barrier of hot coals. The room was only a loft, and as such, didn’t have a hearth. He was happily shoveling stew into his mouth with the aid of a chunk of bread and had to swallow before he spoke. “It’s very fine of the laird to make certain we are nae sitting in the rain, is it no’, mistress?”
A rap on the door saved her from having to answer. The door swung inward as Gillanders’s wife pointed two of her daughters into the room. They carried two large bundles and stood for a long moment once they’d entered.
“It’s all here,” she muttered. “Except yer wedding ring. Me husband already sold it for the gold.”
The Gordon retainer standing outside the door was named Aylin. He frowned as he listened, clearly taking note of the details. He turned and headed down the stairs.
“I’ve recently learned to appreciate more useful things over items that only feed vanity,” Jane said.
Such as her clothing. The bundles were plump, hinting at a reunion with the things she’d taken for granted. She trembled with anticipation of being decent once again.
“Aye,” Gillanders’s wife said as she snapped her fingers. The two girls placed the bundles on the floor and left.
“Are ye nae going to dress, mistress?”
Bari stopped to ask her the question as he was crossing the room toward the door. The boy had taken to standing by Niven during the times when rent was being collected. The Gordon retainer would give him tasks to do, such as carrying smaller items to the wagon or helping to collect firewood. As much as she longed for company, seeing Bari finding a place made her happy.
His mother would have wept for joy.
“I’ll be fine, Bari,” Jane responded. “Go on and attend to your duties.”
He flashed her a smile before he scampered toward the door. He stopped, turned around, and reached up to tug on the corner of his bonnet. “Mistress.”
His manners attended to, he took off toward the door and it banged shut behind him, leaving Jane facing her past. She ended up laughing until tears rolled down her face. Sinking onto her knees, she tried to make sense of what Fate was doing to her.
Even after her amusement was spent, she sat there, contemplating the bundles that represented her past. She still couldn’t make herself reach for them because she wanted nothing to do with any of her former belongings.
Of course, that left her sitting on the floor, defeated by circumstances. Which wouldn’t do either.
The difficulty was she was held in the grip of some strange mood that refused to allow her to move as she sank deeper and deeper into her thoughts. She was neither happy nor sad, nor really anything else as she fought against the sheer amount of feelings trying to drown her.
What made her reach for the first of the bundles was the fact that Diocail was providing for her.
Oh yes, he was an honorable man, but some things were simply facts in life. No one received anything for nothing.
She didn’t want to be a whore, but Diocail was buying her. The bundles represented too much to be afforded to Christian charity or kindness. Sewing a few shirts were fine payment for feeding her and taking her along while her feet healed. The bundles were an entirely different matter.
Diocail was exchanging rent due for them. He had people to provide for with that rent, men such as Muir and Niven and even young Bari.
The only choice Fate seemed to be allowing her was what she wanted to make of her circumstances. She might simply allow Diocail to shield her, but she would carry the shame of knowing that she was taking advantage of his honor.
That stung.
He deserved better. Had certainly treated her too well for her to use him. It was hardly his responsibility to see to her needs.
That is not the only reason you are looking to leave…
Her shame doubled because there in the loft room where she’d last seen her husband, she realized she had never enjoyed his kiss the way she had Diocail’s.
Never longed for more of them…
The harshest truth was she needed to leave before she allowed herself to become his. Not because he insisted on it, but because she liked his touch and remaining was a simpler path than making her own way. Diocail would allow it because he was not a mean-spirited man.
She mustn’t be weak.
She’d made herself that promise the day her mother had died. Her sisters had taken to holding her, and she knew when her father married again she couldn’t allow them to coddle her. They were all at the mercy of their new stepmother’s whims. They all had the same amount to worry about, and she would not add to any of their burdens. Such was the truest test of love among them.
At least her stepmother’s frugality had a purpose. Jane began to pull her clothing from the first bundle and found it plain, yet serviceable and sturdy. She’d learned to sew a fine line because Alicia didn’t waste her coin on tailors for her stepdaughters.
No, they were fortunate to receive cloth and needles. Jane’s older sisters had sat her down and made her practice her stitches over and over and over again until she had them perfect. They’d traded time stitching for the tailor in exchange for learning how to cut the garments in the newest fashions.
So her clothing was nice, if serviceable. Considering her circumstances, it was a blessing. Knowing Diocail had paid for it made her hesitate, but she realized her choice was clear.
Accept the gift of her clothing, which would allow her to be on her way, or stay, or reconcile herself to the fact that she was allowing the man to care for her with no recompense.
And wait for him to kiss you again…
What bothered her was not the fact that he’d kiss her again, but that she’d kiss him back.
Willingly…
Wantonly…
Whore or mistress, they were very similar indeed.
Jane stripped her smock away and washed with some water. She scrubbed her skin as best she might before turning back toward her clothing and lifting a clean shift from it. Two shifts. One of those things she’d taken for granted until now. One to wear and another to wash.
Stockings.
She smiled as she pulled them on and found relief from the chill that had been her companion for too long. Next came her shoes. She looked at them and happily slipped them on her feet. They weren’t made of thick leather like the Gordon retainers’ boots, but they were far better than bare feet.
Her hip roll was nestled in with her skirts. She tied it with a firm knot—she’d lost weight around her hips, and the knot was sitting in a different place on the tie.
Her underskirt was a nice wool. A cheerful green that made her smile when she saw it. The overskirt was a muted blue that wouldn’t show the mud easily. The bodice was a simple one that closed up the front so she needed no help with dressing. The feeling of the sleeves covering her arms made her smile.
Henry had railed against the lack of trousseau Alicia had provided her stepdaughters. The complaints had prompted the gift of a fine length of wool. Jane had thought to make the fabric into a surcoat, but Henry had kept her busy tending to his needs, and she had not found the time to make anything for herself.
Today she picked up the wool and draped it over her shoulders and head as the Scottish women did. They called it an arisaid, and Jane saw the function of it. By day it might serve as a cloak and shield from the rain, while at night it was bedding, since it was not sewn.
Today it would allow her to slip away.
Looking at the other things, she slipped her comb into a pocket sewn on the underskirt and made sure she tied it closed tightly. She was wiser now about what she would need to make her way back to England. She didn’t dare take time to indulge the regret making her rethink her actions.
Instead, she turned her attention to the second bundle. Henry’s things were inside it. If she were wise, she’d clip the buttons off the doublet and shirts and take them to sell, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. In fact, she wanted nothing of his, retying the bundle so she didn’t have to look at it.
The belt Muir had given her was a fine one. It would be very useful on the journey, but she couldn’t find it in herself to take it, so she folded the length of wool and laid the belt over it on the bed. She turned and wrapped her spare stockings and chemise together. Somewhere, there was a chest with her second dress and the wine Henry had been delivering. Part of her would have enjoyed telling Diocail about it, but Gillanders would only claim Henry had owed enough to cover the value of it all.
Better to stick to her choice not to burden the Gordon laird with her keep any further. She ate the bowl of stew left for her and peeked out the door. The landing was clear, so she slipped through, cringing at how much noise her shoes made on the wood planks. She walked on her toes as she descended the stairs. Diocail was facing the line of tenants, Lachie poised over the account book as Muir looked on. The other retainers enjoyed sitting at benches and tables while they ate their fill. Gillanders’s wife and daughters were hurrying in and out of the common room, bringing more bread and cheese to those waiting in line. Gillanders himself was off in the far corner, a gleam in his eyes as he collected money from the customers the laird’s visit had brought him.
Jane turned and moved toward the kitchen. Gillanders’s method of shouting at his staff ensured that no one took the time to look up from what they were doing to investigate her presence. They assumed she was a member of the family and stayed focused on their own tasks. As she passed, she took a fresh loaf of bread from the table without a moment’s reservation. He’d taken plenty from her. She stopped in the doorway to push it into her bundle before she raised the wool up to cover her head and ventured out into the rain.
They were the hardest steps she’d ever taken.
Which was ridiculous. She chided herself as she moved away from the tavern, sternly lecturing herself on the correctness of her plan. Her options were clear, and she didn’t have the right to place Diocail in the position of conducting himself in an honorable way because Fate had dropped her in his path.
The best solution was to leave. So why did she feel so very torn?
The gray sky offered her no answer. At least the gloomy weather meant the window shutters were closed on the houses she passed. It was a good-size village, with shops and two-story buildings, and the road she traveled was brick. She noted the little splashing sounds her feet made as she went, enjoying the fact that she had shoes on despite their thinness.
But Fate wasn’t finished with her yet, it seemed. She’d made it only a few blocks from the Hawk’s Head Tavern before she ran into a camp at the edge of the village. Men who had come to pay rent to Diocail had been filtering into the village for days awaiting his arrival. Some had finished their business and returned. Two of them recognized her, emerging from beneath their tents as she passed by.
“Where are ye going, mistress?” one questioned her.
“Back to my father’s house.” It seemed a simple reply that wouldn’t needle the man.
His comrade frowned. “After traveling with me laird?”
“He was simply being kind, offering me safe passage.” She started walking again, but more men appeared, standing in her path, so she turned and faced the first man.
“As I am widowed, I must return to my father’s house.”
“No’ after ye have been traveling with our laird,” the man replied. “Hearing Gordon business.”
She felt the tension tightening all around her. “I am no one of any importance.”
“Ye’re English,” one man declared. “Of good family. Heard yer husband bragging about yer blue blood and how he was going to use his marriage to ye as a way of gaining an office from the nobles.”
Henry would have done something that foolish, she didn’t doubt it. And he’d left her to face even more of his unwise choices.
“Ye’ll no’ be spying on us,” one declared.
His comrades agreed with a round of growling that sent a chill down her spine. She started to back up, but the man in front of her only frowned.
“And ye’ll no’ be going back to spy more on me laird,” he declared. “Toss her in the cell—we’ll hang her once the laird has gone.”
“Are ye sure?” one man questioned. “The laird seemed rather protective of her.”
“Aye, he’s a right honorable man. About time we had a laird worthy of our rent and loyalty,” the first man declared to those surrounding her. “Which is why we’re no’ going to let some English spy prey on his nature.”