Chapter Nine

“I do no’ think ’tis wise for you to leave Crag Corvan so soon, before you regain your strength. And why are we bound back the way we came?”

Tansy had gotten a good look at the wounds Sir Malcolm wore beneath his clothing—had gotten a look at nearly all of him, in fact, and a proud eyeful it had been. She’d seen her share of near-naked men, including Ossian, whom she’d once considered an example of male perfection. She’d never imagined a man as beautiful as Malcolm Montgomery.

Pleasing in every regard, he was, from his broad shoulders, well-sculpted by muscle, to the rippled stomach and tantalizing trail of black hair that cleaved it. The very memory made her fingers tingle with the desire to touch. She wondered if she might seduce him. She wondered, a bit breathlessly, if she should.

At present, he most certainly entertained a foul mood, and had ever since they left Crag Corvan. Sour and dark, he brooded, saying almost nothing. She’d need to apply a good deal of persuasion, in order to learn his plans.

So, she would.

At least now she had her own mount—a pretty little mare—and had been fitted out with traveling supplies including shoes, stockings, and a fine, heavy cloak. She’d washed herself most carefully back at the keep and braided her hair neatly. She felt like quite the lady.

Malcolm shot her a dour look. “You’ve no need to understand. You will no’ travel far wi’ me.”

Having made the pronouncement, he once more fell silent. Frustration arose and seized Tansy by the throat. She did not enjoy being thwarted. “We are no’ going far?”

“I am, indeed. You are no’. ’Twould ha’ been much easier to leave you at Crag Corvan, but you ha’ made that impossible. I shall need to divert my path and deliver you to the household of a friend, instead.” He bent a hard glare on her. “And none o’ your disobedience, mind. I’ll no’ haul you wi’ me all over Scotland.”

“But—”

“I ha’ not the time for it, nor the patience.”

Indignation followed in the wake of Tansy’s frustration. “I was more than willing to offer my services to your father’s household. Can I help it if they refused me?”

“I fear, Mistress Gant, you ha’ a woeful inability to accept direction.”

“I might ha’ been of great use in the dispensary. That foolish man would no’ give me the opportunity. As for that, I could be of great use to you now, if you’d agree to take me wi’ you.”

“Impossible.”

“Quite possible, and ’twould be a fine idea. Those wounds of yours will need tending, lest they rub raw beneath your clothing and turn poisonous.”

“It does not matter.”

“Of course it does. You ha’ no’ shared the details o’ your quest wi’ me,” she said cunningly, “save you maun attain the release o’ your brother. I do ken you needs must stay well, if you are to succeed. I could no’ help but notice the supplies that man, Matthew, gave you to bring along. I will be much better at using them than you will.”

“I am no’ taking you wi’ me. Let that be an end to it.”

Tansy fingered the strands of magic in her mind. Tempting, very tempting, to twist them together into a spell that would give him just a wee push and make him more agreeable to her wishes. Curious how back home in Slurt, despite her boredom, she’d mostly resisted using the ability that lodged within, save in giving Ossian a nudge from time to time or making Ranna spoil her fine appearance. When it came to this man, the urge seemed near constant.

She did not want him leaving her off somewhere along his way and going on to forget her. Nay, for she wanted to mean something to him.

That thought stood out in her mind. She surrounded it with a haze of magic—like light—and contemplated it.

Sir Malcolm glanced at her sharply, as if he heard the words in her mind. A bit more kindly he said, “I ha’ told you I’ve a task to perform, one that could no’ be more important. I canna’ be held back.”

“How d’ye ken I would hold ye back?”

He examined her, his dark gaze lingering on her hair before moving all the way to her newly shod toes.

“Call it instinct. You will. I just know it.”

Tansy huffed. “How far to this place where you mean to get shed of me?”

“As I say, ’tis not far. I hoped we might reach there this evening, but we got too late a start. We shall ha’ to lie over on our way.”

Tansy bit her lip. Ah, then she had a chance yet to persuade him—and given the means of persuasion she had in mind, the dark of the night might serve her very well.

****

Weariness began weighing on Malcolm long before they paused for the night. He’d not yet regained his strength after those terrible days of captivity, and Mistress Tansy was right about one thing. The wounds beneath his clothing chafed maddeningly. Not at all in a happy frame of mind by the time he called a halt to their travels, he instructed her to help make camp in a copse of trees back off the road, and unloaded their supplies.

Night had already fallen, soft and dark. To Malcolm’s surprise, Tansy set about her tasks without complaint. She gathered deadfall and built a cheerful little blaze before she unpacked the food and spread rugs near the fire, all while Malcolm tended the horses.

Before he’d finished, she had heated a mug of ale, which she passed into his grateful hands.

He drank deeply. “Ah, good. Thank you.”

“Sit down,” she ordered. “We will take somewhat to eat, and then I will ha’ a look at those hurts o’ yours.”

He did not argue but sank onto one of the rugs and let the warmth of the fire soak into him.

He remembered the penetrating cold of Latham’s dungeon and how he’d shuddered there, in his chains against the clammy wall. Suddenly his pleasure in the warm drink dissipated; how could he enjoy anything when Mercien remained there still? He lowered his cup.

Tansy seated herself close beside him. “What is it? Are you no’ thirsty?”

“Nay.”

“Hungry, then? I had these oatcakes fresh from the kitchen. I am surprised Mistress Dee gave them over; I expect she thought them meant for you.”

“No matter. You eat them.”

She bit into one with alacrity. Malcolm’s stomach turned.

“So tell me how you mean to go about this braw task of yours. Perhaps I can help.”

He glared at her. “Get that notion clear out o’ your head. You will stay wi’ my friend, Master Cunningham, and no fuss, mind.”

She widened those pale eyes at him. “Me? Fuss?”

That made him smile grimly. “I begin to learn of you, Mistress Gant. You trail trouble in your wake.”

“I do no’.”

“Deny it as you will. Evidence argues to the contrary.”

“That is unco’ harsh. You scarce know me.”

“Yet your fellow villagers found it necessary to tie you to a post, and no one at Crag Corvan would agree to keep you in his or her employ.”

She tossed her head. “What makes you suppose your friend Cunningham will be any different?”

“I tell you what; you are to become a reformed woman, Mistress Gant. When I leave you wi’ Master Cunningham, you will be docile, obedient, and accommodating in whatever tasks are assigned to you. Otherwise I will instruct him to cast you out on the street, to fare as you may.”

She stared. “Well, then, I will just follow you on to wherever…”

“You will no’. I shall be long gone.”

Her mouth grew hard and mutinous. She said nothing.

Malcolm gulped down more ale, even though the first mouthful had soured in his stomach. She crumbled her oatcake in her fingers.

At length she spoke. “So where are you bound?”

As if he would tell her that. ’Twas all he would need—this wench turning up at Castle Gunn whilst he endeavored to abduct his childhood friend.

“No’ something you need to know, given it has naught to do wi’ you. Now let us get some rest. I want to be awa’ wi’ the dawn.”

“Not yet. I maun insist you tak’ somewhat to eat.”

“You insist?”

“Aye. And there are still your hurts to tend.” She laid her food aside. “Best strip off your clothes.”

“Eh?”

Their eyes met in the firelight. Suddenly Malcolm’s breath froze in his lungs and his body tightened in a way he did not expect. Aye, he’d felt attracted to her all the while they rode the miles to Crag Corvan, sharing one saddle. But this was no’ the time, and she could scarcely be a worse choice of woman.

Still, would she be willing? Here beside the fire—might he lose himself in her wildness, in the promise he saw in those bright eyes? Might it bring him some measure of relief?

Madness. She spoke only of tending his wounds. Did she not?

She leaned closer, and his heart pounded in his ears. He wanted her so much he could barely think.

Her lips parted. She meant to speak.

“In which pack will I find the bundle from the dispensary?”

Mind still frozen, he focused on her lips. How would she taste? Warm and sweet? Spicy and dangerous? Why did he long so to know?

’Twas like some measure of enchantment.

She smiled, a woman’s smile, a cat’s smile, and scrambled to her feet. “I will just look for it, shall I?”

As soon as she stepped away from him, the desire eased. Yet the remnants had him unfastening the front of his leather jerkin and unlacing the tunic beneath.

“Ah, here. This salve smells of comfrey and yarrow. ’Twill serve.” She returned with the bundle in her hands, moving in that light way she had. Malcolm steeled himself for her touch.

She laid the bundle at his knee and untied it.

“Aye.” He barely knew what he said. He watched through narrowed eyes as she dipped her fingers into the pot of Matthew’s salve.

“Will ye remove your clothing, or shall I?”

Their eyes met for another blinding moment before Malcolm looked away, shrugged out of the jerkin, and eased the tunic over his head. She reached for his shoulder.

This had been a painful procedure when Matthew undertook it back at Crag Corvan. Now, before her fingers met his flesh, he felt a little whisper pass over his skin, the merest flicker of air. Where he expected pain, pleasure instead ensued.

“What was that? What did you just do?”

Concentrating on her task, black lashes lowered, she failed to answer. He seized her wrist. “Mistress Gant, did you just use magic on me?”

“I told you, I am no witch.”

Doubt assailed Malcolm in a tumble. Davey Cunningham, a godly man, kept a Christian household. How could he foist this imp upon him?

“Aye,” he muttered, “so you said.” Was he a fool? By all that was holy, her own people had wanted to send her away to the Commission.

Before he could question her further, she observed, “These are gey ugly wounds, and no’ mistake—inflicted over a number o’ days. Do you wish to speak o’ it?”

“’Tis no story for your ears, that.”

“This is what the monster, the one you call Latham, did to you.” Her fingers glided over his skin, spreading healing and leaving a flicker of arousal in their wake. Across one shoulder, down his neck, onto his chest, plowing a path through the hair, patches of which had been singed away. All at once he could no longer remember the pain.

Ah, God! Her touch felt like heaven.

Still he did not speak, and her eyes engaged his. “If your brother, Sir Mercien, has endured the like o’ this, or worse, I do no’ wonder that you worry for him. How do you mean to win him free, though? I am thinking ’twill be no easy task.”

“Not easy at all, no.” Suddenly Malcolm wanted to unburden himself to her, bleat out all his doubts like a child. He could not, he would not.

She whispered, like an invitation from the devil’s lips, “Tell me all about it. ’Tis but the two o’ us here, and no one else to listen. Wha’ harm is it, to confide in me?”

Aye, but he could scarcely bear to put into words the terrible thing he had to do. He recalled the look in his father’s eyes when Murgo bade him undertake the betrayal of Catha, a dear friend who trusted him. For Mercien’s sake—naught existed now, save ransoming Mercien. No honor, no other loyalty, no attraction to this wee lass who knelt very nearly in his arms.

He shook his head, bitterly.

She went on speaking her words like a song. “I ken, me, wha’ it is to lack a confidant. Back in Slurt, there was no one in whom I could confide. No one else like me. If there had been, I sometimes think it might ha’ acted to reduce the mad impulses that so often rose to my head.”

Aye, well, there was that. If he told Mistress Gant what he went to do, and she—with her questionable morals—found exception to it, might he not then need to think again?

He watched her fingers dip back into the jar, anticipating where they would next meet his flesh. He wanted to lie back and feel not only her fingers but her lips on him.

“I canna’ leave Mercien in that place. Not at any cost.”

“I quite see that, aye.”

“My wounds are as naught to what he has endured. I maun free him.” Sickness twisted Malcolm’s gut again. How could he think of her touch, or anything else? “So you see I canna’ let aught interfere.”

“I see, aye.” Her fingers moved again, brushing downward across the muscles of his abdomen. “But you canna’ possibly expect to free him on your own.”

“Aye, but I can, Mistress Gant—provided I make Latham the right payment.”