Highland Conqueror, page 5
“I dinnae ken exactly, but my guess, from all I have heard, is about a dozen.”
“Enough to be a threat, but nay enough to rouse concern about a dangerous raid or an English attack. Since he must ken where we ride to by now, he doesnae need to keep close to our heels, either.”
Jolene frowned as she tried to think of when or how Harold would have learned exactly where Sigimor was from. “Are you certain he will know where we journey to? I do not believe Peter would have told Harold for, by the time he sent for you, Peter was already deeply suspicious of the man.”
“E’en if Harold doesnae ken exactly where we are from or where Dubheidland is, it willnae take him long to find out,” replied Sigimor. “We may nay be rich or powerful, but most all ken who we are and where we are from.”
Sigimor had turned his attention to Nanty before Jolene could ask exactly how or why they could be so well known if they were neither very rich nor very powerful. She could not believe it was for anything particularly shocking or evil. Men who lent aid to a woman and child, especially ones from a country most Scots probably cursed daily, could not be evil. Since she had been with them not one of the men had treated her with anything less than the greatest courtesy, aside from that one kiss Sigimor had stolen. Surely scandalous men did not treat a woman in such a gentlemanly way. Yet, Sigimor had sounded absolutely confident that the Camerons of Dubheidland were well and widely known. Glancing at her six guardians, she idly wondered if the unrelenting handsomeness of the men of Dubheidland was the cause of their fame. Her idle musings were abruptly ended by what Sigimor was saying to Nanty.
“I think we need to spread the word that Harold is ahunting us and that we would prefer it if he didnae catch us unawares,” Sigimor told Nanty. “How far from here are the Armstrongs of Aigballa?”
“Ah, I see.” Nanty smiled briefly and handed a sleepy Reynard to Jolene. “Nay far. Nay far at all.”
“Good. Ride and tell them of our troubles, of how we need a close watch kept on that bastard.”
“Ye dinnae want him routed?”
“I would like naught better, but ’tis best if no one else stains their swords with the blood of an English laird. If Harold is fool enough to stay on our trail, to push this to a confrontation, we will meet him and bury him. We at least have the right to do so, if only because he threatens us. We dinnae want this fight to spread too widely.”
Nanty nodded in agreement. “If I take the right path I can spread the word to others. Mayhap the Murrays, and certainly to my brothers. Where shall I rejoin you?”
“I mean to stop a night or two at Scarglas with my cousins, then ride on to Dubheidland.”
“If I dinnae catch up with ye at Scarglas, I will join ye at Dubheidland.”
Jolene had barely joined everyone in wishing Nanty a safe journey when Reynard began to fuss. The child whimpered Nanty’s name and kept his gaze fixed upon the departing man. She felt a brief pang of jealousy, then told herself not to be such a fool. Reynard liked all the men and, after all the poor child had been through since Harold’s arrival at Drumwich, it was not surprising that he would be distressed to have any one of them leave. It was a little harder to quell that sting of jealousy when Sigimor took the child from her arms and Reynard immediately quieted.
“Nanty has a verra important job to do,” Sigimor told the boy as he settled him in front of him on his saddle. “When he completes that chore ye will see him again.”
“Nanty is my friend,” Reynard said.
“That he is,” agreed Sigimor as he nudged his horse into an easy but steady pace, “but he is also a mon with work to do. Sometimes a mon’s work means he must leave friends and family for a wee while.”
“Like Papa did.”
“Aye, just like your papa.”
“But Papa has not come back.”
“Nay, he must work for the angels now.”
“When will the angels let him come home?”
“Och, laddie, the angels cannae send him home.” Sigimor stroked the child’s thick black curls. “There is nay coming back from Heaven, I fear, but your father is watching o’er ye and listening. He will always be watching and listening to see how ye grow up into a fine, strong mon and take care of his people and his lands.”
“And kick Cousin Harold out on his arse ’cause he stoleded Drumwich and sent Papa to the angels.”
Sigimor almost grinned at the shocked look that briefly crossed Jolene’s face. “Aye, laddie, ’tis exactly what we shall do.”
Jolene stared blindly into the distance, away from Sigimor and Reynard, fighting back the tears that swamped her eyes and formed a hard knot in her throat. Reynard understood more than she had realized. He had obviously overheard a few less than genteel remarks as well. Even more moving was the gentle way Sigimor explained Peter’s loss to the small child. He was a big, strong man with no fine courtly manners who often said the most outrageous things, yet he was kind and gentle with the little boy, willing to help in the care of him, and astoundingly patient with him.
In fact, all the men riding with her were very good to Reynard. Although none of the men at Drumwich had actually been mean or abusive to Reynard, only Peter and the two men murdered with him had actually taken any time with the boy. She ruefully admitted that Peter and his friends had not revealed the great patience or understanding these men did. Why, they were almost motherly, she mused, and nearly grinned, knowing they would probably fall from their saddles in horror if she ever said such a thing.
It was how Sigimor acted with Reynard that caused her the most astonishment, however. This was a man who compared the ideal English lady to a hound, yet he spoke to a child of angels. What worried her was how that made her feel. It strengthened all the inconvenient feelings she had for him, softening her toward him when she wanted to harden her heart. The man stroked Reynard’s curls and spoke of angels, for sweet Mary’s sake. How could she harden herself against that?
“There is a village a few hours ride from here,” said Sigimor as he rode closer to her. “There is a clean inn there. We will stop there for the night.”
Shaking free of her meandering thoughts, Jolene frowned slightly. “Will stopping at an inn not mark our path too clearly?”
“Aye, if Harold follows us to that village, but I believe it doesnae matter much. Now that I realize he can and will discover where Dubheidland is, I see no reason why we cannae indulge ourselves with a wee bit of comfort when ’tis so close at hand.” He glanced up at the sky. “Aye, especially as there is a storm brewing.”
Jolene looked up at the cloudless sky, but decided not to question him about his prediction. “A clean bed and, mayhap, a hot bath?”
“Aye. Tempted?”
“Mightily. Howbeit, I would not wish my comfort to bring Harold to our door and put Reynard in danger.”
“As I said, lass, Harold will soon be at our door nay matter how clever we are. If he is determined to find us, he will. And, wheesht, where did ye come by the idea that I was thinking of your comfort?”
She glared at his back as he rode away, taking the lead next to Liam. The man was going to drive her utterly mad. One moment she was feeling all soft and warm toward him; the next she wished she was a big, hulking brute so that she could pound him into the mud.
The Twa Corbies Inn was indeed a clean one, and rather pretty despite its odd name. A very tempting smell was wafting through the inn from the kitchens and Jolene felt her stomach clench with anticipation. The only thing wrong that she could see was that everyone was staring at her with a mixture of horror and amazement. It might have been better if she had remained silent and let Sigimor request a bath for her.
“By the saints, ’tis an Englishwoman,” muttered the innkeeper before he scowled at Sigimor. “What are ye thinking to bring a bloody Sassenach into my inn? And where did ye come by her, eh?”
Sigimor crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the much shorter, much rounder innkeeper. Jolene could almost feel sorry for the innkeeper, but he was being excessively rude. Glancing at the other four big, strong men with her, she did wonder how Master Dunbar could remain so obstinate. The strength of those frowns should have turned Dunbar into a quivering puddle of obsequiousness. Master Dunbar had obviously not noticed how thin the ice was that he was treading on. Although the others in the inn were still looking at her with a distinct lack of welcome, they at least had the sense to remain quiet. Jolene felt a little hurt by this reaction to her mere presence and hoped Sigimor would not take too long in putting Master Dunbar into a more accommodating mood.
“Aye, she is English,” drawled Sigimor. “A wee, too thin, puling Sassenach lass.”
Then again, Jolene mused, maybe she would just kick him.
“I hadnae realized so many braw laddies would be set to quivering with fear by her presence.” Sigimor shrugged. “Howbeit, since she has set all your bowels to clenching—”
“Of course she hasnae,” snapped Master Dunbar, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the angry grumbling of his patrons. “A wee thing like her be no threat to a mon. Be she yours then?”
“Aye.” Sigimor was torn between the urge to grin at the cross look Jolene wore and to slap some courtesy into the innkeeper. Unfortunately, satisfying though such actions would be, neither would get him the soft bed and hot bath he wanted.
“Couldnae ye find a nice Scottish lass? Ye look a braw lad.”
“I am, but I was bound by a blood debt. Her brother saved my life.”
“He asked a high price.”
“Aye, he did.” Sigimor kept a subtle watch on Jolene as he continued, “Tisnae all bad. The English train their lasses weel. They train them to be sweet of tongue and disposition, kind to all, skilled at loom and needle, firm and alert in the management of a household, frugal, obedient, and a faithful companion to her lord, giving him peace and comfort in his home.”
“Saints! Do the fools think they are training hounds?”
“One does wonder.”
Jolene gave into the urge to kick Sigimor in the shin and ignored his exaggerated grimace. It only added to her annoyance to catch everyone in the inn grinning at her. She hoped it was because she had shown some spirit, but had the lowering feeling it was because a perfect English lady had just been compared to a hound—again.
“I dinnae think she learned all her lessons,” murmured Master Dunbar.
Sigimor bit back a laugh over the way Jolene was eyeing Master Dunbar’s shins. He draped his arm around her slim shoulders and kept her close by his side as he and the innkeeper settled the matter of rooms, baths, and price. As they followed a plump maid to their rooms, he idly wondered when Jolene would realize he would be sharing her room.
After checking the bed to see if it was as clean as it looked, Jolene settled a drowsy Reynard on top of the thick coverlet. It was going to be nice to spend a night under a proper roof and in a proper bed. She had removed her cloak and draped it over the end of the bed before she realized Sigimor was still in the room with her. He leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed on his chest, watching her with an expectant look that made her decidedly uneasy.
“The room is quite acceptable, m’lord,” she said. “There is no need to linger. You may seek your own chambers now.”
“These are my own chambers,” Sigimor replied and smiled.
Jolene blinked slowly in shock, then shook her head. “That is quite unacceptable. I cannot possibly share a room with a man. It would be highly improper.”
“And sharing a camp with six men is acceptable, is it?”
Of course it was not, but Jolene suspected she would rather have her feet roasted over hot coals than admit that. She certainly could not tell him the real reason she did not want him sharing her bedchamber. The very last thing she wished him to know was that she had been looking forward to this time alone, time away from his side, to try to tamp down the growing attraction she felt for him. It was odd, but she felt as if sharing a bedchamber with him would be far more intimate than sleeping next to him on the hard ground had been.
“There is only one bed,” she said and wondered crossly why simply saying that word should make her blush.
“Aye, but dinnae fret. Tis a big one.”
Before she could respond to that a knock at the door announced the arrival of her bath. Jolene wanted to continue discussing the matter, but instinct warned her not to do so in front of the maid and the two lads helping her. It quickly became obvious that she was thought to be Sigimor’s wife and Reynard their son. When Jolene recalled the somewhat belligerent welcome she had first received, she decided that misconception was probably for the best. When the maid set up a privacy screen before the rough wooden tub, Jolene fought the urge to scowl at it and Sigimor. She had the distinct feeling he did not intend to leave the room even as she bathed.
The moment she and Sigimor were alone again, she put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Well?”
“Weel what?”
“Should you not leave now to have your own bath?”
“Ah, weel, there is only this one. The lads will bring up another bucket or two of hot water for me in a wee while. Liam and the others wished to bathe, too, and the inn only has the two tubs.” Sigimor moved to sprawl on the bed next to Reynard and then cocked a brow at Jolene. “Weel, set to it, lass. Dinnae let the water cool too much. Oh, and try not to make the water smell like flowers.”
Jolene opened her mouth to vigorously argue, then closed it. Every instinct she had told her the man would not be moved and the hot bath she craved was waiting. Casting him a hard glare, she collected her lavender-scented soap, picked out some clean clothes, and then stepped behind the privacy screen. The screen was better protection than trusting him to turn his back as he had at the stream. This journey was proving highly injurious to her sense of modesty.
Despite her annoyance, she gave a hearty sigh of pleasure as she sank into the hot water of the bath. For a few moments she just sprawled indecorously in the soothing warmth, but then her innate sense of courtesy and fairness reared its troublesome head. The man deserved to find the water cold, she thought crossly as she began to wash, but she would have to be satisfied with thoroughly scenting it with lavender. Her mood was much improved by the time she had bathed, dressed, and rubbed her hair with the drying cloth until it ceased to drip. She sniffed the bath water, and was still smiling over the scent of lavender rising from it as she stepped around the screen.
“I smell flowers,” Sigimor said as he picked up the buckets of hot water the boys had just delivered and moved toward the bath.
“French lavender,” Jolene replied as she sat before the small fire to comb her hair dry. “A very fine soap.”
Heaving a loud sigh, Sigimor set the buckets down by the tub then stepped closer to her and held out his hand. “I have no soap.”
“I left mine to dry on the small stool by the bath.” She met his scowl with a sweet smile, biting back the urge to laugh.
Once behind the screen, Sigimor added one bucket of hot water to the bath, leaving the second to rinse the soap from his hair. He stripped off his clothes, stepped into the bath, and sighed again as the soft scent of lavender wafted all around him. If he did not avoid his brother and cousins until the scent faded, he was certain he would have to knock a few of them down to silence the teasing. He cursed when he picked up the soap and noticed how strongly scented it was, then nearly cursed again when he heard Jolene’s badly smothered laughter. As he bathed he made a vow to himself to always carry his own soap, manly unscented soap.
By the time he finished his bath, helped Jolene bathe Reynard and rinse out their clothes, their meal was brought in. Sigimor gave Jolene one hard look to silence any jests, then sat on the bed with Reynard as the bath was cleared away. It proved impossible to tear his gaze from Jolene as she nimbly braided her damp hair. He had never favored dark hair on a woman, but Jolene’s thick, shining black hair made him ache. He wanted to see it spread beneath her slim body upon his bed linen as she welcomed him into her arms. Liam was probably right. He probably did stink of wanting her. The desire to make her his was proving too strong to fight.
Concerned that his arousal would become too obvious, Sigimor turned his attention to Reynard. He helped Jolene feed the boy and settle the child on the small bed the innkeeper had provided, then turned his attention to his own meal. Just when he felt himself in control again, he looked across the small rough table to see Jolene lick a drop of wine from her lips. He inwardly groaned as his desire returned in full force.
“Did Liam happen to say just how near Harold is?” Jolene asked as she began to peel an apple with a particularly ornate dagger Peter had given her on her eighteenth birthday.
“Closer than I would like,” Sigimor replied.
“Oh. We have lost our lead then, have we?”
“Most of it. The fool must be near to killing his horses or he is changing his mounts all along the way.” He watched her pale and admired the way she kept the fear he could see in her eyes under control. “Dinnae look so stricken. I suspected that, if he followed us, he would follow hard. We cannae keep such a brutal pace.”
“Because of me and Reynard.”
“Mostly Reynard. If ’twas just ye, I would tell ye to gird your wee loins and suffer silently. Reynard is a strong, healthy lad, but still too young to endure a hard race to Dubheidland.”
Jolene looked at a sleeping Reynard and sighed. The boy was already very weary. It was but one short step from there to a fever for a child. She would like to race far ahead of Harold, but Sigimor was right. Such a small child could all too easily suffer from such a travail.
She was trying to think of some compromise when the maid arrived to clear away the remains of their meal. It was time to sleep and Jolene was sharply reminded of the fact that there was only one bed. The look upon Sigimor’s face told her there would be no compromise here, either, but she felt compelled to make her objections known to him.
