king on brides if you do not venture into the villages to meet them? ’Twould not hurt for me to meet any eligible husbands too.”
She had him. If he intended to keep her with him without force, he needed her to believe his story, but he could not bear the thought of being caught with her before they reached the Bruce. He looked at her carefully, assessing those features that would most make her recognizable.
Quickly he took inventory: glossy black hair that fell, even braided, to her waist. Eyes the blue of the midsummer night sky when the sun had barely set and the colors of the world were dark and intense. Skin pale and perfect. And her mouth, soft and inviting.
His body tightened, and he fought the pleasure derived from merely looking at her. His imagination leaped, unwanted, to contemplating what it would be like to touch her.
He was doomed. He must do something. And he had to do it quickly.
“We’ll see what we find,” he said, sending a silent prayer that wherever the smoke came from it would not be upon their path. For now, he needed to get away from her before his body and his imagination ganged up on him and he did something he would forever regret. “If we find someone, we shall have to make you plain before they see us.” He turned away from her surprised look and continued on the road they had been traveling.
CHAPTER FIVE
P UNGENT PEAT SMOKE greeted Catriona long before the village came into view. Fatigue unlike any she had known dragged at her feet, making it harder and harder to lift them. Thank goodness the bard and his horse were breaking the trail for her or she would have given up miles ago.
He stopped ahead of her and waited. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that was concern on his face, but he was nearly as hateful to her as Broc, so that was impossible. He would not care if she were sinking into hellfire with a rock tied about her neck. But that wasn’t fair. If she was truthful with herself she must admit that he had been kind to her in a gruff sort of way. He had even made her laugh. She did not want to like the man, but she had to admit, at least to herself, that he was not so bad as most.
She caught up with him and was puzzled by the odd look in his eyes, almost as if he had never seen her before.
“We need to hide your hair before we enter the village, and smudge up your skin,” he said to her.
She merely nodded, wondering if she’d be able to force her feet to move again now that she had stopped. She looked up at him and saw the unmistakable mark of concern in the lines of his face and the slant of his eyebrows.
“You need not worry, bard,” she said. “I will not say anything to give myself away.”
He stared at her a moment, as if she were some odd bit of flotsam he’d found, then turned to rummage in a saddlebag. He pulled a length of stained linen from it and handed it to her.
“What am I to do with this?”
“You need to fashion a wimple, if you can, or at least a veil. The more of your hair and face that are obscured, the less chance you will draw attention to yourself. We will both regret it if you are recognized.”
Of course. She pushed the hood of her cloak back and loosened the plaid scrap she had looped about her neck. Pulling her heavy braid out from beneath her cloak, she coiled it around her head and tried to hold it in place with one hand while she wrapped the cloth about it with the other.
Just when she got the cloth in place, the braid slithered out of her grasp. She started over, and once more, just as she was about to get the linen in place, the braid escaped her.
“Here, let me hold your hair,” the bard said, his voice strangely husky.
He stepped behind her and took her braid from her hand, wrapping it inexpertly but gently about her head. Catriona shivered at the pleasing warmth of his fingers against her scalp as she finally managed to wrap the cloth securely and tie it in place at the back of her head. When she was done she
She had him. If he intended to keep her with him without force, he needed her to believe his story, but he could not bear the thought of being caught with her before they reached the Bruce. He looked at her carefully, assessing those features that would most make her recognizable.
Quickly he took inventory: glossy black hair that fell, even braided, to her waist. Eyes the blue of the midsummer night sky when the sun had barely set and the colors of the world were dark and intense. Skin pale and perfect. And her mouth, soft and inviting.
His body tightened, and he fought the pleasure derived from merely looking at her. His imagination leaped, unwanted, to contemplating what it would be like to touch her.
He was doomed. He must do something. And he had to do it quickly.
“We’ll see what we find,” he said, sending a silent prayer that wherever the smoke came from it would not be upon their path. For now, he needed to get away from her before his body and his imagination ganged up on him and he did something he would forever regret. “If we find someone, we shall have to make you plain before they see us.” He turned away from her surprised look and continued on the road they had been traveling.
CHAPTER FIVE
P UNGENT PEAT SMOKE greeted Catriona long before the village came into view. Fatigue unlike any she had known dragged at her feet, making it harder and harder to lift them. Thank goodness the bard and his horse were breaking the trail for her or she would have given up miles ago.
He stopped ahead of her and waited. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that was concern on his face, but he was nearly as hateful to her as Broc, so that was impossible. He would not care if she were sinking into hellfire with a rock tied about her neck. But that wasn’t fair. If she was truthful with herself she must admit that he had been kind to her in a gruff sort of way. He had even made her laugh. She did not want to like the man, but she had to admit, at least to herself, that he was not so bad as most.
She caught up with him and was puzzled by the odd look in his eyes, almost as if he had never seen her before.
“We need to hide your hair before we enter the village, and smudge up your skin,” he said to her.
She merely nodded, wondering if she’d be able to force her feet to move again now that she had stopped. She looked up at him and saw the unmistakable mark of concern in the lines of his face and the slant of his eyebrows.
“You need not worry, bard,” she said. “I will not say anything to give myself away.”
He stared at her a moment, as if she were some odd bit of flotsam he’d found, then turned to rummage in a saddlebag. He pulled a length of stained linen from it and handed it to her.
“What am I to do with this?”
“You need to fashion a wimple, if you can, or at least a veil. The more of your hair and face that are obscured, the less chance you will draw attention to yourself. We will both regret it if you are recognized.”
Of course. She pushed the hood of her cloak back and loosened the plaid scrap she had looped about her neck. Pulling her heavy braid out from beneath her cloak, she coiled it around her head and tried to hold it in place with one hand while she wrapped the cloth about it with the other.
Just when she got the cloth in place, the braid slithered out of her grasp. She started over, and once more, just as she was about to get the linen in place, the braid escaped her.
“Here, let me hold your hair,” the bard said, his voice strangely husky.
He stepped behind her and took her braid from her hand, wrapping it inexpertly but gently about her head. Catriona shivered at the pleasing warmth of his fingers against her scalp as she finally managed to wrap the cloth securely and tie it in place at the back of her head. When she was done she
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