The Scotsman by Juliana Garnett Page A

it. It was my mother’s once, and I cherish it for that reason.”
    Her brows lifted slightly, and color flushed her cheeks with a rosy glow. Alex regarded her more closely. Aye, she was a true beauty, even garbed in the plain wool gown of a housewife. The leather girdle was laced snugly beneath her bosom, accenting her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The gown’s faded color was flattering, a soft yellow that somehow complemented her skin and hair. Gleaming red-gold curls softened aristocratic features: a high forehead and elegant cheekbones, the straight line of her nose, full mouth that always looked as if it had just been kissed, with a sultry tumble of lower Up that was inviting and seductive. Yet it was her eyes that intrigued him most, violet-blue and large beneath a luxuriant sweep of dark lashes, filled with mystery and shadows, bewitching and aloof at the same time, leaving him with the feeling that she held the key to all the secrets of life.
    A little nonplussed by the direction of his thoughts, Alex nodded curtly when she smiled at him and murmured her gratitude. “I am most honored that thou wouldst share such a treasure with me, sir.”
    “You must eat. I want it back when you are done.” He sounded churlish and he knew it, and was not surprised when her smile faded and she retreated into silence again.
    He ate without speaking to her, directing his commentsin Gaelic to Robbie on his other side. Yet he was all too aware of the maid, of her dainty motions as she speared her meat with his mother’s dagger, her open mouth and graceful sips of wine from a pewter goblet. Her slender fingers delicately stripped the meat from a chicken leg, tucked chunks of thick white bread into her mouth, and sopped up gravy from her trencher.
    It grew increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the direction of Robbie’s conversation, a fact he could not long hide. “Your mind is elsewhere,” Robbie said in Gaelic. His brows lifted with amusement. “Shall I hazard a guess to the direction?”
    “Devil take you.” Alex took a long draught of ale. His trencher was still full of roast pork and partridge. “It has been a long day and a long ride, ’tis all.”
    Robbie’s gaze strayed to the maid, then back to Alex. “You did not send her garments with the message to the earl. Is there a reason?”
    Shrugging, Alex toyed with the sculpted stem of his pewter goblet. “I did not wish to use all my weapons in one blow. A lock of her hair should suffice to convince them we have her.”
    “Ah, and her shift will be further proof of what may happen should they refuse our offer.” Robbie nodded slowly. “Canny enough.”
    Alex did not respond. It would sound foolish to say that he had found himself reluctant to imply violation of her. It would be a last resort, one used only if all else failed. Somehow, even the pretense of violation would seem all too real—too close to his true desires.
    Silence fell between them, and he was uncomfortably aware of Robbie’s considering gaze as he toyed with his trencher of food. The arrival of musicians was a relief, welcomed with an approving nod and a promise of a full purse. Pipes and flutes were presented, and the readymelody of a rousing ballad swirled over the hum of casual conversation. Slyly, Robbie translated the lyrics into English.
    Alex listened politely, the words of the Battle of Stirling Bridge well known to him. At his side, he felt Lady Catherine shift, and slanted her a quick glance.
    “Does the song distress you, milady?”
    She cast him a burning look from beneath her lashes. “It would be impolite to disagree with my … host … on his choice of entertainment.”
    “Yea, but you will humor me this time.”
    Her mouth thinned, and she lifted her shoulders. “As it is rather one-sided in favor of the Scots, you must know I find the ballad disagreeable.”
    “Aye, but ’tis true that King Edward was defeated at Stirling Bridge. Or were you told