Chapter Four

M acInness stood and stared at the still-soaked, bedraggled woman asleep in the hay.

Did the lass lose all of her sense when she was hit on the head? What was she doing out of bed? What was she doing out of her chamber in the middle of the night during a storm?

He tried to rouse her. “Lass, can ye hear me?”

The woman moaned and Winslow cursed. “Dinna tell me, ye’ve taken ill, too,” he ground out. “I already ken ye’ve lost yer mind.”

A soft whinny sounded from the stall to the left of him. He replied, “Aye, she is a stubborn one at that,” he said to the horse.

Lifting her into his arms, he shook his head, and fighting the urge to bellow the words, rasped, “Ye’ll catch yer bloody death, lying about, soaked to the bone.”

A flash of lightning illuminated her face. Black eyelashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She squirmed in his arms, and he wanted to reassure her, “Yer safe now, lass.” He stroked a hand across her forehead.

He drew back his hand in shock expecting her to be cool to the touch, but her body was hot as blazes. She had a fever.

“Why, in God’s name, are ye lying out here, when ye’ve a perfectly good bed in Lady Jillian’s solar?” Anger sharpened his tone. She winced and tried to turn her head away from him.

MacInness touched the tip of his finger beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. “ Och , don’t mind me, lass,” he said in a gentler tone. “I was worried for ye. I have to find Lady Jillian; she’ll know what to do for yer fever.”

Making his way back across the bailey, he cursed whatever fates had placed her in his path. He did not want to have these feelings stirring around in his gut again. She irritated him and intrigued him. An all too familiar combination that had nearly led to his downfall a year ago.

He’d learned his lesson well. At nine and twenty, he had fallen in love for the first time… though the one he loved was pledged to another. No amount of persuasion on his part had convinced Lady Jillian that he was the one she was destined to love.

Now here he was in danger of repeating the same mistake, only this time, he did not know who the woman was. For all he knew she could already be married! That black thought had him cursing beneath his breath and tightening his hold on the slender woman in his arms. The need to shelter and protect her overwhelmed him because whoever her husband was had failed to do so. Why else would the poor wee lass have been under attack?

He clenched his jaw to keep from blurting out questions he knew the woman could not answer. He’d not fail in his bid to protect her. And if she were married, he thought, he’d let her go, but not until he’d taken the mon aside and given him the benefit of his years as a warrior and instructed him in how to take care of his wife.

As he walked, she settled against him and a nagging thought prodded at him. Would he be able to protect his heart from her? Making his way across the bailey and up the steps to the hall, he realized what he had to do until he found out more about her.

Distance, he thought. Distance from the distraction was the answer.

*

Two days later, MacInness stood in the doorway of her chamber. “How is the lass?” he asked in low tones.

“The fever still has her,” the young woman answered.

“I’m verra sorry, but I dinna recall yer name,” MacInness said, walking into the room.

“Simone,” the young woman answered.

“I havena seen ye here before,” MacInness observed.

“I came with Angelique and usually work in the kitchens,” she said, smiling up at him. Wringing the linen cloth, she placed it back upon the woman’s brow. “Sara is helping Lady Jillian deliver a babe,” she said. “Gert could spare me so here I am.”

MacInness nodded, wondering who Angelique was but he had other worries right now. His gut knotted up, as he asked, “Did Lady Jillian say anything about her fever?”

“Nay,” Simone answered. “But two days is not so long to have a fever,” she paused in her ministrations and glanced up. “She is strong; her body is still fighting it.”

MacInness could not speak past the lump in his throat. Clearing it, he thanked the young woman. He wondered briefly if this was how the lass felt, not being able to speak.

He shook his head. “Distance,” he muttered to himself, slipping back out of the chamber.

Three days later, he was enjoying a cup of mead with Garrick and Patrick when their conversation was interrupted by a resounding crash from above. All three men paused, a heartbeat later another crash followed.

Rising to his feet, MacInness sprinted toward the stairs. The woman’s fever had broken and she was on the mend. What could possibly be wrong now? He took the stairs two at a time with Garrick and Patrick coming up the stairs behind him.

He paused at the door to the solar long enough to catch an armful. The young woman’s startled expression changed to one of indignation, “She just started throwing things at me,” she said with a quiver in her voice.

“Who did?” MacInness asked steadying the young woman on her feet.

The serving girl started to answer, but instead darted behind MacInness, as another object was hurled from across the room.

MacInness growled low in his throat and stalked into the room. The sight awaiting him robbed him of his ability to breathe. The flushed young woman, standing atop the bed, commanded all of his attention. Her midnight hair hung about her shoulders in wild disarray, her gray-green eyes sparking with temper. God, she was beautiful. His breath whooshed out and his tongue got tied. Watching the emotions rioting across the woman’s face he realized, while his reaction to Lady Jillian had been similar, no other woman had ever affected him quite this way before.

Garrick pushed past him and walked toward the bed. Patrick nudged him aside and muttered something under his breath about women and half-witted Scots.

“What are ye thinkin’, lassie?” MacInness asked approaching her. “Surely ye didna mean to throw that bowl at the poor wee thing?”

The scowl that the woman leveled at him was hot enough to singe his hair. He walked over to her, and she plopped down on the bed. Her quick glance at the other men told him she must have finally realized they were not alone. She yanked the covers up and glared at him.

MacInness shook his head.

She looked him in the eye and mouthed a curse that curled his toes. He shook his head; he must have imagined that she was cursing him.

He crouched down next to her, so that they were eye level. “Are ye in pain, lass?” he asked, concerned.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and huffed.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” MacInness said. He started to turn around to speak to Garrick, when he saw her move her mouth again. This time he was certain of it, she called him a bloody bastard. He stood very slowly and walked over to where Garrick stood speaking to Patrick. “I think the lass needs a change of company,” he said carefully. “I’ll be down to join ye shortly.” The two men nodded and left the room.

MacInness paced from one side of the chamber to the other, still reeling from the realization that the woman would feel compelled to rain a curse down on his head. He shuddered to think of where she had heard the first curse she uttered. Turning back to face her, he was surprised to see her watching him intently.

“We’ve no’ had the chance to be properly introduced, lass,” he began. “My name is Winslow MacInness.”

She nodded her understanding.

“I am the one who brought you here,” he added.

Here? her lips formed the words, though no sound came forth.

“Aye,” he said slowly, “Merewood Keep is in Northumbria, not so far from the Scottish border.”

The woman shook her head, she seemed amazed.

“Why did ye throw those things at Sara?” he asked. “She was only trying to care for ye,” he added.

The woman grabbed his hand in both of hers and pulled hard. She had his full attention. He tried not to be distracted by her beauty but it was nearly impossible. “Is there somethin’ ye need then, lass?”

She nodded, and patted her throat, her eyes welling up with tears.

In spite of his decision to stay away from her, he was drawn in by the silent pleading in her gray-green gaze.

“Yer throat pains ye?” he asked, knowing that it should. Though it had been more than a few days since she was injured, he reasoned that the force of the blow should require more time to heal.

She nodded her agreement and opened her mouth to speak, then, as if realizing the futility, she closed her mouth and bowed her head.

MacInness had the overwhelming need to do something. He needed to help her find a way to communicate with others.

“Mayhap, I can help ye, lass,” he said softly. “Are ye willing to try?” he asked, needing to know that she had the desire to work with him.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and her lashes heavy with unshed tears. The longing in her gaze cut right through his decision to maintain his distance from her. He was sucked in by her undeniable need. For the first time in MacInness’s life, he was the sole focus of someone who desperately needed him. The feeling was not unwelcome; daunting, but not unwelcome.

He pulled the stool closer to the bed and patted her hands. “To start then, lass,” he said. “How would you tell me yer hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head, but refused to open her mouth.

“Weel now, if ye canna speak, have ye another idea?”

She glared at him and mouthed another colorful word that MacInness swore no lady should know.

He shook his head. “I dinna think a lady would know such words, lass,” he chastised her.

The woman dropped her gaze toward her lap, but not before he caught a wisp of a smile.

“Why can ye not put a hand to yer stomach?” he suggested.

She tilted her head to one side, as if considering and then patted her stomach.

“Fine,” MacInness said encouraging her. “I’ll know yer hungry.”

“If yer thirsty,” he asked, “what then?” he urged.

She put a hand to her throat, but MacInness shook his head. “I’ll think yer throat pains ye.”

She blew out a breath, crossed her arms in front of her, and frowned grumpily.

MacInness could not help smiling. “Ye could pretend to hold a cup and drink from it,” he offered.

The woman smiled then. With her eyes sparkling and her face aglow, she was a sight to behold. MacInness felt his control slipping as he gazed at her. The cleft in her chin and tiny mole by her upper lip practically begged to be kissed.

He had to clear his throat to speak. “That’s fine, then, lass,” he said quietly. Taking the time to study her and knowing he’d be damned for his next words, he rasped, “Yer a welcome sight at the end of a long day, lass.” Longing suffused his weary soul.

She placed a hand to her breast.

“Are ye surprised?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well, ye shouldn’t be,” he admonished. “Ye’ve a rare beauty.”

He paused, then mumbled to himself, “I wish I knew yer name.”

She grabbed his arm and rapidly mouthed a few words.

MacInness shook his head, unable to understand what she was saying. Curse words, well now, they were more than familiar to him…but names, he’d have to work long and hard to figure out what she was saying.

“Can ye try again?” he urged.

He sat closer and concentrated on the movement of her lips, but instead of focusing on what she was saying, all he could do was think of kissing her rose-tinted lips. Imagining their fullness beneath his own set off a chain reaction that started with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and had him shifting on the stool.

“I’m verra sorry, lass,” he said in a gruff voice. “I canna understand ye. Is yer name not Saxon then?”

She shook her head.

“Is it Scots?”

She shook her head again… this time she started to huff with impatience.

“Are ye Norman?”

She hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

MacInness laughed aloud. The woman had a sense of humor. “All right, then, tell me again…just one name this time.”

Her mouth moved, and he was almost too distracted to follow what she was saying. It was no use; he could not make out what she was saying.

“I am verra sorry, lass,” he took her hands in his. “I canna sort it out.”

At her crestfallen look, he added. “There is a Norman maidservant working in the kitchen, mayhap she can help ye.”

The woman’s tremulous smile was all the reward he needed. She patted a hand to her stomach and then held an imaginary cup to her lips.

“Aye, lass,” he said smiling. “I’ve a powerful hunger and thirst, too.”

She pushed back the covers and started to swing her legs over the edge of the bed.

“ Och …nay, lass,” he said placing his hands on her knees. “Ye canna—” he started to say, but the rest of the words stuck in his throat.

The edge of her sleeping gown had caught beneath her and flashed a hint of creamy-smooth skin before she covered it. His hands tingled where they touched her petal smooth skin. His gaze shot up and waited for her to look at him. She stared at his hands, then raised her gaze to lock with his. Her skin was not as pale as the women in his family. Hers was a deeper shade that was turning a dusky rose along her high cheekbones, as he watched her breaths became shorter and more frequent. She was as affected as he.

The need to take her in his arms stopped him cold. He had been too long without a woman. She was a stranger. He didn’t know who she was or where she came from. The only thing he did know was that he desired her with a passion that was growing out of control.

“I’ll bring ye food and drink,” he mumbled, pulling the covers up to her chin.

She nodded, folded her hands in her lap and tried to smile. MacInness did not miss that fact that her hands shook, and wondered if he had been quick enough to hide that fact his did, too.