Chapter Eleven

It must be enchantment; Malcolm could think of no other explanation. He should be focused completely on the difficult and morally fraught mission before him—abducting a woman he admired in order to ransom his brother. Instead he kept finding Tansy Bellrose Gant pushing her way into his thoughts: how she had felt in his arms, how she’d tasted. The sensation that rushed through him when she placed her hand against his cheek, like claiming, like recognition and desire all in one.

She must be an enchantress, to turn his thoughts so. That meant he’d likely liberated a witch from her just fate, at that crossroads. But how could such a fate—of pain and fear and forced confessions—possibly be just?

His heart told him it could not, just as it argued there must be more to Tansy Bellrose Gant than met the eye. She might well be able to enchant him with her kisses.

Just imagine how lying with her would feel.

He banished that thought from his mind, or tried to. Desire remained like a seed inside him, and he caught quick glimpses of things that had never happened: Mistress Tansy by firelight, naked and spread before him like a banquet. Mistress Tansy applying that clever tongue of hers to his skin. Her black hair loose and twined around them when they moved together in an exquisite storm of completion.

None of it had occurred; none ever would.

Curse it.

She must have used magic to make him want her so. He needed to think of Mercien. Of Catha and what he would say to her when he arrived at Castle Gunn.

Tansy, Tansy, Tansy. Her name whispered over and over in his mind. He saw her again, standing, gazing up at him, her eyes peering into his soul.

Best he was shed of her. Had they remained together, it would have progressed beyond kisses. He—noted for his superb control—would have broken like a weir before the floods. And he couldn’t afford that, not now.

He called up Catha’s countenance in his mind. How long had he loved her? Forever. How long had she loved Mercien? Just as long. Sold by her father as little more than a child, she’d escaped the cruel union upon her husband’s death and chosen to come home, an heiress.

Malcolm had no doubt Latham wanted her wealth. Latham also wished, no doubt, to break her, for that was what Donald Latham did.

Could Malcolm hand her over to that fate? And what to tell his father, if he failed?

So caught up in thought was he, he almost missed it when his mount stumbled. So far, the beast had proved faultless, answering every demand, but now it slowed and began to limp.

Malcolm’s heart sank. At the side of the road he pulled up and dismounted, speaking to the beast reassuringly.

The horse blew and rolled its eyes in distress, favoring its left front hoof. An examination left blood on Malcolm’s hands and chagrin in his heart. A sharp stone had worked its way deep into the foot, and the shoe welled with blood.

A disaster for a knight in any circumstances—for him, doubly so. He tried to remember a smith located nearby and failed. He would either need to dislodge the stone himself or turn and limp back to Donald’s.

Twenty minutes’ labor with his dirk left him sweating and the horse uncooperative. Unwilling to hurt the loyal beast, he’d just accepted the need to turn back when he heard another rider coming up behind.

Nay, two riders. Dared he hope they might be Christian souls willing to offer assistance?

He straightened just in time to see them round a curve in the road. Ah, but there was but one rider after all—the second animal came led by the first.

Recognition hit him like a blow to the gut—quick and hard. How could she have known what road he’d taken?

And had she come because he kept her at the forefront of his mind?

Mistress Gant drew up her mount—the little mare she’d ridden away from Crag Corvan—in the road and looked at him. She’d wrapped herself close in her cloak; very little of her countenance showed, just those uncanny eyes and a few stray wisps of black hair.

She flung her gaze at his disabled mount and seemed to ponder what to say, a first in their acquaintance.

Malcolm, having no such hesitance, barked, “What are you doing here? Did I no’ bid you stay wi’ Master Cunningham?”

“Aye.” She cocked her head like a wee black bird. “But you ha’ need of me. Did no’ get very far wi’out me, did you?”

He grunted, near stupefied by the emotions that filled him: anger, amazement, and—if he were honest—a measure of relief. Mayhap, with her arrival, he would not have to turn back after all.

“How did you ken my horse was in trouble?” He narrowed his eyes. “Did you hex him so he’d pick up that stone?”

“Do no’ be foolish,” she bade with notable lack of respect. “I would do naught to harm that fine beast—or you. I am here to help.”

“Aye, so. Give me your mare and lead my mount back to the Cunninghams’. Master Davey will see a blacksmith tends him.”

She slid down from the back of the mare and approached Malcolm. “The mare will never carry your weight and that of all your gear.”

“She will.”

“’Twould be cruel. I will no’ countenance it. You maun use this other mount I ha’ fortuitously brought.”

He bent a hard stare on her. “You will no’?” Indeed, and she took far too much upon herself. “Where did you get that other horse?”

“He is one of Master Cunningham’s.”

Malcolm went cold. “You stole him?” Aye, she would hang for sure.

“I did not. I secured his loan from Mistress Cunningham, who proved a most reasonable and supportive confidant. She said her husband would surely supply you with aught you might need if asked.”

“But he was no’ asked.”

“He was not at home. And the situation seemed too dire for us to wait.” Her tone turned petulant. “You might at least admit you are glad to see me.”

He took a step toward her and attraction reached out like a snake to curl around him. By heaven, he never should have kissed her. Now the desire would not stay where it belonged.

“You ha’ not said, Mistress Tansy, how you knew I would need another mount. You must have left shortly after I did, in order to follow so close.”

“I left as soon as I could persuade Mistress Cunningham and prepare the horses. As for how I knew…” She paused and again contemplated her thoughts before going on. “I just did. It came to me all in a flash, the moment you rode away. Something would befall your mount—”

“Something you claim you did no’ help to cause.” He made his voice stern. “By enchantment.”

“You accuse me of witchcraft?”

“Let us at least be honest wi’ one another, Mistress Tansy. You are as your townsfolk named you.”

“There is no harm in it. And I can be of great use to you.”

He snorted. “Aye, you can.” Before her eyes had a chance to light, he went on, “You will take my hobbled mount back to Master Cunningham’s house, along with my thanks for the loan of this other.”

She drew herself up. “I am coming with you.”

“Mistress, we have already had this discussion.”

“I owe you my service in return for rescuing me. Not your father or Mistress Cunningham. If you bring me along, I will be silent and biddable.”

“Ha!”

“And I will no’ interfere with your quest. But I will come. If you turn me awa’ now, I shall merely follow as I ha’ been doing.”

Christ. What had he done to deserve her hung about his neck like an anchor? Rage crashed over him, swiftly followed by lust. If he brought her along, might he then have her here on the road, and assuage his desire before undertaking the impossible? Ah, such a temptation!

She stepped closer, and he caught her scent, which seemed to have infected him back at the Cunninghams’, when he kissed her.

“What of my mount? Someone needs must take him back to Aberdeen.”

She smiled a cat’s smile, a cat with cream on its whiskers. She thought she’d won. “I can whisper a wee spell, one wi’ no harm in it, and send him back safely to the Cunninghams. I promise no ill will befall him.”

Aye, and she admitted what she was. Had she also whispered a wee spell pushing him to accept her?

“You make a lot of promises.”

“And I keep them.”

“Do you?” He challenged her with his gaze. “If I bring you along, Mistress Tansy Bellrose Gant, do you promise to place yourself in my hands? To be completely obedient? To do whatever I ask?”

Her tongue came out and wetted her lips. All at once he could taste her again, sharp and vital. He went hot and began to sweat.

If she agreed, he could always send her away later. After he’d had her, perhaps. She would be completely in his power—by her own volition.

She eyed him slowly from the top of his head downward, lingering at a few places on the way. She drew a ragged breath.

“Aye, Master Knight. So I do promise.”