you.”
Silence.
“In truth,” he added, “You could dance naked about the room and I would be naught but bored.”
She still said nothing. Her face was as somber as a stone.
“Well, perhaps I would be a mite… surprised,” he said, and in that instant he thought he saw the slightest hint of a smile and the dimmest shadow of a crescent dimple. “Maybe…” He shrugged, feeling breathless as he watched that foreign expression ebb and wan. “Maybe I would be a bit… repulsed.”
The corner of her mouth lifted a quarter of an inch and then she dropped her head, as if she could not trust him to see such a dastardly weakness as humor.
“So I am to believe you have no interest in other men, MacGowan?”
“Interest?”
She shrugged. ”There are those who favor their own sex. Men dallying with their servants. Knights…enjoying their squires.”
He stared at her.
“Surely you’ve heard such tales.”
He could not help but grimace, and perhaps she could not help but laugh, for she did so and the sound tantalized him; it was hardly the deep chuckle of a warrior, but the silvery laughter of an untried maid. ‘Twas little wonder she hid behind those dour expressions and low mutterings if she wished to feign masculinity, for it was an utterly feminine sound, light and joyous and filled with iridescent beauty.
Lachlan stared transfixed.
She cleared her throat, dropped her gaze, and lowered her brows. “What are you looking at, champion?” Her voice was low again. He yanked himself from his trance with an effort.
“Think of this. If your wound festers you will need to have it seen by a healer of some sort. Surely then another will learn your secret. But if you let me help you…” He shrugged. It was becoming a familiar gesture, disarming, he hoped. But then, the word disarming was a bit disconcerting now that he thought about it, for she still held the knife, and though her laughter may be utterly feminine, her fighting skills were not.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you wish to see me wound?”
He scowled. “What are the possibilities here?”
“There is no reason you should help me.”
The statement made him pause. “I suspect you are right, laddie, except for the fact that you are another human being and it be me Christian duty to do so… and that you were unjustly attacked and did your part to rid Scotland of rabble that may have harmed others in the future… and that you once saved me from-”
“Very well.”
He stopped abruptly and turned his ear toward her for he was certain he had not heard correctly. “Your pardon?”
“You can see to me wound,” she said. Drawing a deep breath, she sheathed her knife and set her fingers to the clasp at her throat. Knot work was etched into the fine silver.
Lachlan nodded once. “‘Tis good.” he said, but though his tone was casual, he felt an odd tightening in his chest. “Sensible. Wise.”
She stared at him strangely. He cleared his throat, and ID a moment her cape was laid aside. Setting her fists to her hips, she turned away.
“Well?” she said. “Well?”
“See to it.”
“Oh! Aye,” he said, and stepped quickly forward.
Padded and protruding well past her shoulders, her sleeveless jerkin was made of thick, rough bull hide, but the brigand’s blade had sliced easily through it. That much Lachlan could see, though he could discern little else. “You must remove your garments.”
She said nothing, but merely glanced over her shoulder at him. No emotion showed on her face.
“I can see nothing like this,” he explained.
“Tell me, champion…” Her voice was low and quiet.
“Do you think me a fool?”
Her expression was absolutely sober, as if her question were one he was to answer, and for some foolish inexplicable reason it almost made him smile. Almost. But she still had her dirk close to hand and he liked to think he wasn’t an absolute lackwit.
“Nay,” he said.
“Then mayhap you think I find you
Silence.
“In truth,” he added, “You could dance naked about the room and I would be naught but bored.”
She still said nothing. Her face was as somber as a stone.
“Well, perhaps I would be a mite… surprised,” he said, and in that instant he thought he saw the slightest hint of a smile and the dimmest shadow of a crescent dimple. “Maybe…” He shrugged, feeling breathless as he watched that foreign expression ebb and wan. “Maybe I would be a bit… repulsed.”
The corner of her mouth lifted a quarter of an inch and then she dropped her head, as if she could not trust him to see such a dastardly weakness as humor.
“So I am to believe you have no interest in other men, MacGowan?”
“Interest?”
She shrugged. ”There are those who favor their own sex. Men dallying with their servants. Knights…enjoying their squires.”
He stared at her.
“Surely you’ve heard such tales.”
He could not help but grimace, and perhaps she could not help but laugh, for she did so and the sound tantalized him; it was hardly the deep chuckle of a warrior, but the silvery laughter of an untried maid. ‘Twas little wonder she hid behind those dour expressions and low mutterings if she wished to feign masculinity, for it was an utterly feminine sound, light and joyous and filled with iridescent beauty.
Lachlan stared transfixed.
She cleared her throat, dropped her gaze, and lowered her brows. “What are you looking at, champion?” Her voice was low again. He yanked himself from his trance with an effort.
“Think of this. If your wound festers you will need to have it seen by a healer of some sort. Surely then another will learn your secret. But if you let me help you…” He shrugged. It was becoming a familiar gesture, disarming, he hoped. But then, the word disarming was a bit disconcerting now that he thought about it, for she still held the knife, and though her laughter may be utterly feminine, her fighting skills were not.
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you wish to see me wound?”
He scowled. “What are the possibilities here?”
“There is no reason you should help me.”
The statement made him pause. “I suspect you are right, laddie, except for the fact that you are another human being and it be me Christian duty to do so… and that you were unjustly attacked and did your part to rid Scotland of rabble that may have harmed others in the future… and that you once saved me from-”
“Very well.”
He stopped abruptly and turned his ear toward her for he was certain he had not heard correctly. “Your pardon?”
“You can see to me wound,” she said. Drawing a deep breath, she sheathed her knife and set her fingers to the clasp at her throat. Knot work was etched into the fine silver.
Lachlan nodded once. “‘Tis good.” he said, but though his tone was casual, he felt an odd tightening in his chest. “Sensible. Wise.”
She stared at him strangely. He cleared his throat, and ID a moment her cape was laid aside. Setting her fists to her hips, she turned away.
“Well?” she said. “Well?”
“See to it.”
“Oh! Aye,” he said, and stepped quickly forward.
Padded and protruding well past her shoulders, her sleeveless jerkin was made of thick, rough bull hide, but the brigand’s blade had sliced easily through it. That much Lachlan could see, though he could discern little else. “You must remove your garments.”
She said nothing, but merely glanced over her shoulder at him. No emotion showed on her face.
“I can see nothing like this,” he explained.
“Tell me, champion…” Her voice was low and quiet.
“Do you think me a fool?”
Her expression was absolutely sober, as if her question were one he was to answer, and for some foolish inexplicable reason it almost made him smile. Almost. But she still had her dirk close to hand and he liked to think he wasn’t an absolute lackwit.
“Nay,” he said.
“Then mayhap you think I find you
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