Chapter Three

Nathaniel paused just inside the doorway at the sound behind him. “Cat,” he murmured and pivoted on his heel to push back outside. His head whipped around, but he didn’t see her. “Cat?”

A muffled curse came from the other side of the horses, and he rounded Stella who nodded her head as if applauding his deduction of the woman’s location. Cat sat in a puddle of mud and snow, head thrown back onto the cobblestone road. “Blast,” he said, jumping forward to help her sit up. “Did you fall off?”

“Nay,” she said, her voice snappish. She lifted a hand to shove back the wild curls that fell from her dropped hood.

“Hold still,” he ordered and gently touched the back of her head where a bump was already forming.

“Cac,” she cursed in Gaelic, ducking forward to evade his light touch. “My bloody legs gave way.”

He glanced at his fingers in the dim light of an oil lamp in the window. “You are bleeding.” She cursed again, touching the spot to see for herself. He yanked out a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand for her to hold to her head. “Let’s get you inside and up to a room.” He lifted under her arms, and she huffed, her legs flailing out as she tried to make them work. “Enough,” he said.

“What?” She tipped her head up, her gaze connecting with his. The usual tightness of anger in her eyes was muted by something else. Embarrassment? Pain?

Without another word, he lifted under her legs, pulling her up against him. “Put me down,” she said, her words in a soft huff.

“For you to fall on your arse again,” he answered, pushing into the inn. The entire room, filled with rough looking Scots, turned to stare, the laughter and talk dropping off almost immediately. Nathaniel ignored them as he gazed toward the bar keep. “A room for the lady,” he said, his English accent making the barkeep frown.

“We doona’ serve the English,” he said, nearly growling.

Nathaniel knew better than to produce his bag of coins with the ruffians looking on, and even though he’d fair just fine outdoors, he wanted Cat warm and clean before she had to spend the night camping. “I am from Finlarig, friend to the Campbells, brother-in-law to Grey Campbell, the chief.”

“And I am a born-and-raised Scot,” Cat said, shifting in his arms to grab something strapped to her leg. Without warning, her blade whipped through the air, its lethal tip embedding in the beam next to the barkeep. “And I would like a bloody room.”

Their audience sat silent for the space of a heartbeat before several men, who were obviously well into their cups, hooted, pounding their tankards on the scarred, wooden tables. “Give the lass a room, Gus, before she pokes ye full of holes,” one yelled, and several others agreed with boisterous words in broken English and Gaelic.

Traveling in the Highlands, speaking with an English accent, dressed in English style garb… Damn, he should have borrowed one of Grey’s kilts. Instead of protecting Cat on this crucial journey down to help the king and queen, she was protecting him. His eyes narrowed as he followed the barkeep toward the steps.

Cat wiggled her feet. “I can walk,” she whispered, and he set her down gently by the stairs. When he was sure she wouldn’t fall, he left her to retrieve her blade, all the time feeling the room watch him. His hand itched to draw his sword. Would he have to kill someone to prove his mettle? He’d rather not give the Scots another reason to hate the English, but if any of them attempted to harm Cat, he wouldn’t hesitate.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and slowly pivoted back to the hushed room, his gaze sharp as it connected with each set of staring eyes. He’d inherited the dark, promise-of-death stare from his father, one of the most cutthroat of Charles’s parliamentary ministers before the king dissolved the system. Some said it was enough to stop a man in his tracks.

He let a small grin touch his lips. “I would not tempt the lady. She is a wee bit bloodthirsty.” With the warning, he turned to follow Cat up the steps into a narrow hallway. The floor slanted to one side as if the building was slowly falling over.

The vacant room sat at the end of the hall, with no back stairs that he could see. He frowned. No way out except the front stairs and possibly a window inside. “Is there a place to wash?” Cat asked inside the room, and he followed her into the small interior. One medium-sized bed took up the length of wall on one side, and a privy pot stood by the grime-covered window with a ripped curtain. A charred stone fireplace stood cold and empty.

“We will need peat to burn, clean water, ale, and a meal,” Nathaniel said, producing several coins that should cover the cost and then some. He flipped Cat’s blade in the air, catching it by the middle of the blade to hand back to her. The innkeeper grumbled something but bobbed his head, pocketing the coins.

He closed the door behind them, and Nathaniel went to the window, unlocking it.

“Ye sound so bloody English,” Cat said, sitting on the edge of the grey mattress while checking the blood staining his handkerchief.

“I am English,” he said, unlatching the old hinged window to push it outward. The drop was two-stories straight down to the packed dirt. He’d bring up a rope after he sheltered the horses. No one could filch Gaspar, because the animal would kick and bite a thief trying to take him, but Nathaniel didn’t know what Stella would do. He’d need to pay a stable boy to sit with them all night.

“Sounding so English will get ye killed up here. Or at least ignored and likely attacked.”

He shut the window, turning back to her. “And throwing knives at people and cursing at them will likely get you attacked at court, though perhaps not in the same way.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t say anything.

He went to the door. “I will see to the horses and our provisions.” Shutting it, he paused to stand for a moment in the darkness, breathing in the staleness and aroma of cooking mutton that wafted up from below. He’d told Evelyn that he didn’t mind going back down to court. At one time, he’d thought he preferred it to the quieter life of Hollings Estate. But since he’d spent time up in Killin, the sourness of the elite had grown distasteful.

The more he imagined Cat being subjected to the stricture and social conventions that had ruled his life, the more tense he became. She was not someone who would be tamed, nor would he want to see her ever locked in a cage, no matter how gilt it was. But court life was dangerous, especially for someone used to speaking her mind. Damn, he didn’t even know the present mood at court or who was in power while the king convalesced.

“Hell,” he said to the darkness as he strode to the splash of light coming up the steps. Because whether she liked him for it or hated him for it, he was going to keep Cat Campbell safe.

…

Cat’s eyes flicked open to dawn light filtering in through the dirty window. Gray and under clouds, it barely lit the room, but she could see the bulk of Nathaniel sprawled across the floor. His large frame took up almost every inch of space. He was turned toward her, and she studied his classically formed features. Even in his sleep, his brows were furrowed as if his dreams were dark. His longer hair and short beard made him look less civilized, more rugged like a Highland chief. And his lips, och, they looked frigging perfect.

Idiot. Although she wasn’t sure which one deserved the label more. She, for her foolish thoughts, or he, for not taking comfort by sharing a bed when he had the chance. Although he’d probably thought she’d stab him if he startled her by climbing into her bed. Before succumbing to exhaustion, she’d washed as best as she could, scrubbing the dirt from the backside of her white leather trousers and pouring the cleanish water through her hair to wash the wound on her scalp. He hadn’t returned until after she was asleep.

Her fingers dabbed at the scabs on the back of her head, her hair still damp from her quick wash. At least blood would blend in with her red-hued tresses. She sighed. Good God. What had she gotten herself into? To benefit the queen, she’d need to blend in with the courtly ladies, especially if she was to discover an assassin. Would it be obvious from the moment she rode up on Stella that she was no lady? Even if she donned petticoats?

She watched the slight lift of Nathaniel’s shoulder with his inhale. He’d grown up with the pristine, genteel ladies, full of flounce and etiquette. Ladies who knew how to ride a horse and serve tea without clattering the cups. As out of place as Nathaniel’s accent and dress had made him last eve in the tavern below, she would be even more so when they arrived in London.

His nose scrunched in sleep as if it tickled, and he inhaled. Should she confess that she’d never ridden a horse before, or was it obvious? Falling on her arse in a mud puddle pretty much screamed that she was weak and ignorant on that front.

Her legs ached, and she stretched them along the lumpy mattress, wiggling her toes and rubbing her bruised backside and sore inner thighs, which were clothed in the black woolen trousers that she’d changed into for sleeping. How would she journey all the way down to London without losing her ability to walk?

“Are you well?”

Nathaniel’s voice startled her, and she twisted to frown down at him. “Ye could have slept in the bed, too. We are beyond the sight of wagging tongues, and I know that ye know I could slice ye open if ye tried to take liberties.”

The side of his mouth quirked upward, making the tense set of his brows relax. “Morning threats?” He nodded. “You are well then.” She narrowed her eyes, and he continued, his hand coming up to scratch his beard. “You were sleeping so soundly that I could not gain permission without yelling in your ear. And I wanted you to sleep after enduring your first day of riding.”

Cac. He knew. He definitely knew. He was just too gentlemanly to say it outright. Cat straightened into a sitting position, her legs crossed akimbo. “My family had only enough to live on while I grew up. There was no money to keep a horse, so I was never given an opportunity to learn.”

His smile faltered, and he pushed up on his hand, the blanket falling away to show his naked chest. Her breath hitched for a beat. Hell, she’d seen his naked chest before. First when she’d patched him and Grey Campbell up when he’d arrived at Finlarig and they’d tried to kill one another. Second when the bastard, Captain Cross, had shot him and she’d nursed him back to health over weeks of fever. But the sight of him, the muscles that he’d acquired from obvious training with a sword, made her feel slightly weak. She looked down at her hands in her lap for she could not stand weakness, especially in herself.

“You have never been on a horse before?” he asked.

She shook her head without looking up, her shoulder hitching in a half shrug. “Only once when we rode back from saving the queen, though someone else steered the beast.”

“And yet you rode all day yesterday without one word of complaint,” he said. She met his gaze. There was no pity, only surprise. He pushed up to stand, and her mouth went dry at the sight of him in his low-slung trousers, hugging his narrow hips. She forced her gaze upward away from the obvious bulge in the front. “With that resilience and lack of complaining, you will never fit in at court,” he said.

The corners of Cat’s mouth tilted upward as her grin grew to match his. They stared silently at one another, their smiles flattening. He cleared his throat and turned away, grabbing his shirt to throw on. “I will wash outside and check on the horses.” And without looking at her again, he jammed his feet into his boots and walked out the door.

Cat climbed from the bed, ignoring her protesting muscles, to watch out the window where Nathaniel appeared. He strode across the back courtyard to the stables and shoved his arms into his short cloak. Lord help her, he was brawny and walked with the power of a warrior. Her cheeks warmed, and she plopped back onto the bed, grimacing at her bruised backside. Had he caught her perusing his naked chest and manhood and fled before she had a chance to attack him? What would she have done if he had climbed into the bed with her? Bloody hell.

She hastened to use the privy and wash her face and hands. Opening her bag, she dug out the glass bottle containing a paste of rosemary ash and peppermint and rubbed some on her teeth with a damp cloth, enjoying the reviving taste as she rinsed and spit out the hinged window. One of the most important ways to keep healthy was to keep the teeth clean, something that many overlooked.

Quickly braiding her wild curls to lay over one shoulder, Cat dressed again in her white leather clothes for riding and bent forward to stretch her sore muscles. She groaned softly as she worked each hamstring back and forth. Straightening, she grabbed her bag, checked her hidden daggers, including the hair spike she’d stuck in the top of her braid, and left the room. With a full inhale, she stepped lightly down the stairs. Best to get started. The faster they traveled, the faster she’d get through the ordeal of silks, lace, and gilded halls. And the sooner she’d stop embarrassing herself around Nathaniel Worthington.

…

Striking. Nathaniel watched Cat glide along on her horse in a canter beside him. Her heavy braid shifted against her shoulder, curls escaping around her face to dance in the winter air. The white leather hugged her form, contrasting with Stella’s black coat. “Riding comes naturally to you,” he called over the wind flying between them.

A smile lit up her face, but she kept her gaze forward. Every time he was able to win a smile, she drew him in. Which he absolutely couldn’t allow. Not if he was to uphold his father’s will with regards to Hollings Estate. Even from the damn grave, Benjamin Worthington, Viscount of Lincolnshire and parliamentary advisor to both King Charles I and II, was controlling him. He forced his gaze away from her as if plugging his ears against the song of a siren.

They slowed, entering another copse of trees where the road narrowed and wound. “Where shall we sleep tonight?” Cat asked. She leaned forward to stroke Stella’s neck. “Is there an inn?”

“No more inns until we reach the border, several days ahead.” The sun was already starting to dip below the tree line. “We should set camp well away from the road to avoid bandits.”

“Wise,” she said, following him off the trail.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. He’d never heard Cat utter a compliment to anyone other than her young sister. He guided them through tall pines and bare oaks and birch in a southwest line with regards to the setting sun until he heard the burble of a creek. The forest was alive with winter birds catching the last of the day. “Here,” he called as they rounded a boulder to find a full outcropping of bramble dotted by winterberries. The thickness of it could hide the glow of a small fire. A narrow ribbon of water snaked through the snowy landscape.

Nathaniel dismounted, leaving Gaspar standing as he strode to Cat. “Let me lower you down.”

“I can…” The denial faded, and she pursed her lips.

“Until your muscles are used to riding all day, they will not hold you at first,” he said, raising his hands to wrap around her trim waist. He almost expected her to slap them away, or more likely, punch him in the nose, but she didn’t. She was light and easy to pull from the horse’s back without a woman’s full skirts hiding her legs. Touching down, he held her there. She looked directly at his chest. “Stretch your legs while I steady you,” he said, his voice low.

Cat circled her feet one at a time and shifted back and forth. He felt her wince, but she didn’t complain. “Here,” he said and led her toward a boulder.

“Thank ye.” He helped her sit down. “But I will help with Stella,” she said and leaned forward to stretch the back of her legs, lifting them to stomp on the ground. “As soon as feeling returns.” She shook her head. “How do ye ride all day and jump right down to run about?”

A small smile grew on his mouth as he returned to tether the horses and grab their bags. “Years of numb legs and a sore arse as a lad. Then muscles develop, and riding becomes like walking.”

“I do not have years,” she grumbled, shaking one leg and then the next. She leaned forward to rub her calves and thighs.

“By the time you reach Hollings, you will likely be able to dismount on your own, and we can take a carriage to London.”

“The horses will be faster,” she said.

Nathaniel unrolled a tarp, woolen blankets, and food. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cat step tentatively to take up the pot they’d brought. She gathered fresh snow to melt. “I will take the horses to the stream,” she said and untied Stella’s lines. Cat hobbled some but held her head high while she walked the horse.

Nathaniel set up a tent and started a small fire. He rammed a fresh, pointed stick through the meat he’d brought with them and set it in iron stakes that he carried when sleeping out.

“Ye brought meat from Finlarig?” Cat asked. She lowered gingerly on the other side of the fire, having finished with the horses.

“You deserve to taste the boar you downed,” he said, staring over the growing flames at her.

Her mouth opened for several heartbeats and turned upward into a smile that reached her eyes. “Ye had them cut off a piece before we left?”

He nodded and looked back to the roast. “It seemed the right thing to do since you were only given time to use the privy, wash your hands, and gather your weapons.” They sat in silence while the meat cooked, dripping into the fire, which crackled and danced. The night was calm around them, yet tension muffled the air. There had always been tension between them. Perhaps it was just his own foolish thoughts that kept him stiff near her, in more ways than one.

Cat uncorked a bladder of ale and drank, and he watched the slender column of her throat work as she swallowed. His mouth went completely dry, so he uncorked his own bladder. When he lowered it, their gazes connected across the fire, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do ye want to kiss me again?” she asked, making him freeze. Her tone gave no hint of her own desires. “Do ye even remember the first?”

Of course he remembered it. He’d been feverish with the gunshot wound, and she’d been hovering over him, wiping his brow and cursing at him to fight his way back to health. “Yes,” he said.

“To which question?”

“I remember, even if I cannot guarantee how accurate the memory is. And you have no need to worry over me taking liberties. I was raised to—”

“I did not ask if ye were going to kiss me again. I asked if ye want to?” She dropped her gaze, her face tight. She waved her hand between them. “Because whatever this…uncomfortableness is between us is going to make this journey feel even longer.” Wisps of copper curls stuck out of her thick braid, her fingers toying with the end. Her freckles shone in the firelight, looking as if an artist had flicked her with paint. Her nose had the most perfect tip over a full mouth. She resembled a mythological wood nymph or fairy.

“Do you want me to kiss you again?” he asked, his voice low.

She shrugged, making him frown. “I could go either way.” She canted her head as if they spoke about the taste of a fresh batch of ale instead of the kiss he couldn’t purge from his mind. The softness of her lips, the way her hands had come up to his head, threading her fingers into his hair, even if it was only for a moment before she remembered that she was his healer and he her patient and had yanked away.

“I just wonder,” she said. “How it will be seen that we have traveled alone all the way down to court.”

“Jane Pitney will chaperone us to court. No one will know we are traveling alone until then.”

She nodded, and they sat in silence, her eyes trained on the pork. She took nibbles of the bannock he’d passed her earlier.

He stretched his back, standing. “Well then, completely platonic.” He turned to head into the woods.

“Where are ye going?” she asked.

“To piss about the perimeter. Helps to keep the animals away.” He didn’t mention the need to shove some cold snow down his trousers. Yes, it would remain a very uncomfortable journey, but it was for the best. There was no sense in tangling with a Highland lass when it was very clear that he must wed for gain, else lose everything for his sisters and himself. Life was about sacrifice and strategy. Kisses just interfered with success.