Heat Of The Knight. Jackie Ivie

rain was thicker; not breath-stealing, like it had been the previous evening, but it was making plumes of mist rise from the ground in front of them, and making the castle look like it belonged in a fairy-tale.

      “It sure is beautiful,” she said.

      “Aye. That is it. Come along now, lass. I’ll slice you a bit of ham, on a biscuit. It’s ever so tasty, and I’ll not tell a soul it’s for you. My word of honor.”

      He stood and held out his hand. After a moment, Lisle took it.

      The girl was stubborn to the point of obnoxiousness, and still she was in his every thought. It wasn’t her attitude toward him, although Langston had never had a woman simply dismiss him before. Never. He scrunched his eyes tighter, bringing her more fully to mind. There was something about the MacHugh woman. It wasn’t her pale, perfect complexion, highlighted by sky-blue eyes that showed every emotion so clearly he could almost feel them; it wasn’t her rose-shaded lips that did nothing but spout hatred at him; it wasn’t the long, auburn mass of curls that caressed a very slender waist before ending at well-rounded hips. It certainly wasn’t those hips.

      “Damn it!” Langston swore and gave up sleeping. He rarely slept for lengthy periods. He’d long ago found it to be a nuisance and a waste of time. Too much happened in the dark hours, when everyone was supposed to be oblivious; too much that couldn’t be stolen or bought back—at any price. It was almost dawn; dawn on the second day he’d given her. The luscious Mistress MacHugh might be wakeful, too. He hoped she was feeling something—maybe even the same anticipatory sensation he was, although hers would probably be colored with dread.

      He was just finishing tying his cravat into an intricate design only a valet was supposed to know the execution of, when the door burst open, surprising him. He didn’t let it show, and took his time to turn and face the man there.

      “Come quick, my laird! The tunnel’s collapsing!”

      Langston lifted an eyebrow in reply. “I’ve an appointment with the MacHughs to keep, Etheridge,” he replied in his usual bored fashion. He watched the man’s lip tighten.

      “We doona’ have enough men to shore it up.”

      “Call on more.”

      “Already done.”

      “Report to me when it’s done, then.” Langston reached for his cloak.

      “The design was the flaw, sir.”

      “Impossible.” Langston turned his attention to sliding his hands down the cloak’s folds, prior to shaking it out.

      “I warned you not to go near the moat, but would you listen?” Etheridge was definitely smirking as he said it. Langston stopped his motions.

      “I have an appointment with the MacHughs today.”

      “It may not take all day to correct,” his valet said.

      “And…if it does?”

      “Sweeten it with gold. You wish water in the dungeons, too?”

      Langston sighed. “The Mistress MacHugh is a very stubborn woman.”

      “Most are. Hurry!” The words came over the man’s shoulder as he ran through the door.

      Langston swore, yanked the cravat open, ruining the self-absorbed perfection of the knot that had been at his chin, and then he was running, too.

      And it took more than one day to correct it. It took five.

      Chapter Three

      The moaning and groaning, crying and complaining, anger and spite, and looks of incredible maliciousness lasted four days. That was all the longer Lisle could put up with every last one of the ungrateful, back-against-the-wall remnants of the MacHugh Clan. She announced as much over a tasteless dinner of broth. That was what the ham had been reduced to; a flavoring of such little impact. Any barley the soup still contained tasted flat and bland, and you couldn’t detect what the soup was flavored with even when standing atop the pot inhaling the steam.

      They all knew it was her fault. She didn’t need anyone remarking on it. They didn’t. Their looks were enough. Lisle looked from her own bowl of barley-enhanced, steamed water to the cold fireplace, which wasn’t making her feel as guilty. That was probably because the weather had decided to change, bringing chilled mornings followed by brilliant sunshine, followed by freezing nights, making not only Aunt Fanny, but her frail twin, Aunt Grace, ill again.

      In fact, Fanny was so ill she didn’t seem to have the strength to cough, just so she sat there, her body jerking with the motions. Lisle put down her bowl and stood. “All right. All right! Stop looking at me like that!”

      “Like what, Lisle?” It was Aunt Mattie.

      “Like I’ve taken everything from you and without reason. I have a reason. I doona’ want him in this house. I doona’ want to sell out to the devil!” I doona’ wish to suffer through the strange sensations he makes me feel!

      “We’re tired of hearing what you want.”

      Lisle’s mouth dropped open at the insult from her eldest stepdaughter, Angela. “Stepdaughter” was a stupid title, since Angela was larger, sturdier, and the span separating their ages was less than six months. But Angela was still the child, while Lisle was the parent. She raised her head, put her hands on her hips, and faced them with both eyes, although the injured one wasn’t quite opened to its full extent.

      “I’m not deigning to answer that, Angela, and you’d best be grateful that I’ll not send you to your room, either.”

      “Good thing, for I wouldn’t have gone.”

      “Hush your mouth, Angela!” Angus championed her.

      Lisle gave him a smile, and then she had to force it to stay in place as he continued. “The lass has something to say to us, and I, for one, think it’s what we’re waiting to hear. Go on, lass. Say it.”

      She gulped. “It’s not my fault.”

      “He dinna’ come when he said he would, did he?” Mattie asked.

      “Well…nae, but—”

      “And there was nae more logs, and nae more food, and nae more letters of offer left, either, was there?”

      “That is not my fault, either!”

      “What is your fault, then?”

      “That I dinna’ read what he wanted when I had the chance! I’m going to correct it, though. That man is not getting away with this!”

      “How are you going to do that?”

      “By marching over there on the morrow and finding out why he dinna’ come when he said he would, and what he wanted. That’s how!”

      The entire assemblage brightened. Lisle watched it with a detached part of her she could learn to dislike. A wall of non-emotion rose, making her feel like a bystander, instead of a participant. It was easier to deal with it that way, she decided, watching everyone smile and chat and look at her with pleasure instead of the black looks they’d been using. She couldn’t hear a thing they were saying for several moments as her heartbeat rose to cover the noise. That was probably a good thing, too. “I’ll find out what he wants, and if it’s not so dire, I’ll consider it,” she said.

      “Doona’ sell him the loch. Nae clan can exist without such.”

      That was Angus. He was helping himself to another bowl of the broth, and acting like it was thick with ham, barley, and every sort of delicious, nutritious vegetable.

      “What if that’s what he wants?” she asked.

      He set the bowl down and looked at her. All of them had the same expression, too. Pained. They knew it was going to be dire and hard to live with. At least it would be