Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(20)

Lizzie repressed the distaste that she knew was unwarranted and managed to return his smile. “Have you seen the men we rode in with?”

“The Murray men?”

She nodded, trying not to look too eager.

“The last I saw them, they were in the stables.”

Relieved that they had not yet left, she managed, “Thank you,” before hurrying off.

The door was opened and the earthy, pungent smells hit her as she swept through the doorway, the hay strewn on the floor clinging to the hem of her skirts.

“It's something to consider,” she heard one of her cousin's men say. “We could use the extra sword arms.” She didn't hear the reply because another man, seeing her, cleared his throat and the conversation came to a quick stop. An uncomfortably quick stop.

There was nothing worse than bringing a room to dead silence, unless it was a roomful of men who were then staring at you.

She fought a blush, feeling distinctly out of place. They were obviously surprised to see her. The lady of the keep— the role she'd assumed on the death of the countess—did not usually visit the stables to see to the comfort of guardsmen. But these weren't ordinary circumstances, she reminded herself.

Knowing that with all eyes upon her like this she would be prone to stammer, she paused and took a deep breath before she spoke. “Food and drink have been set out in the great hall.” She turned to Patrick. “And pallets are being readied for you and your men in the garret.”

“A meal is much appreciated, but we don't want to put you to any trouble. We should be on our way.”

Lizzie frowned, her eyes narrowing on his handsome face. Was it her imagination or did he look a little pale? “It's no trouble. After all you have done for us, the least I can do is see that your men have a good night's rest.” She smiled. “Surely there is no harm in waiting to continue your journey until morning?”

“No, but—”

“It's the least I can do,” she interrupted, not wanting to give him the opportunity to refuse. She had that sick feeling in her gut again, just as she had when she'd thought they'd already left. It was somehow vitally important that he not leave. Not yet, at least. She looked to the young, dark-haired man at his side for help. “I'm sure your men would welcome a dry night on a comfortable pallet, wouldn't you?”

Her encouraging smile succeeded only in further discomforting the younger man. He was probably just a handful of years younger than her own six and twenty, but compared with the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Patrick, his long, lean build looked practically boyish.

“I …” He looked helplessly to his captain, caught in the impossible position of wanting to please her and not wanting to oppose his leader.

Patrick took pity on him. He bowed in mock surrender; a crooked smile played upon his mouth. “How can I argue with such a pretty request?”

Lizzie gave him an uncharacteristically impish grin. “You can't.”

“Then it seems we will be happy to accept your hospitality for the night.”

She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful.”

Their eyes met, and she felt it again. That strange current of awareness that started at her head and shimmered all the way down to her toes. It made her feel warm and syrupy and a little bit drowsy.

“Was there something else, my lady?” he asked politely.

“No, I …” She dropped her gaze, her cheeks heating, realizing she'd been staring. Thankfully, there wasn't a roomful of men to witness her embarrassment, as most of the others had started to drift away to finish tending to their mounts and then heading to the hall. She swallowed and started over, slower this time. “You seem anxious to leave.”

He'd taken a brush from the bag tied to his saddle and began to slide long, hard strokes over the shiny black coat of his stallion. It was impossible not to notice the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles of his arms as he worked. Very muscular arms. She doubted she could span one with both her hands.

Her mouth went a little dry, and she had to lick her lips to finish. “Is there a job waiting for you on the continent?”

His gaze leveled on her, and her belly fluttered. “Nothing in particular, but there is always a market for good sword arms. Why?”

She cleared her throat nervously. “I just wish there was some way I could thank you for all you've done.”

He brushed aside her gratitude. “I did no less than any man would have done in the circumstances.”

She shook her head. Never had she met a man so uncomfortable with praise. “At least let me pay you for your—”

His gaze went cold. “That will not be necessary.”

Lizzie's eyes widened as she realized she'd unintentionally offended him. He was a proud man, and her offer of recompense had impinged his honor—an odd reaction, she thought, for a man intent on selling his sword to the highest bidder.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. It was hard and unyielding under her fingers, with all the give of steel. “I'm sorry, I meant no offense.”

His eyes were black, as dark and impenetrable as his granite-hard body. He looked down at her hand.

She released it self-consciously.

He lifted his gaze to hers and then turned back to resume his task, finishing a few minutes later. “Is there someplace we can wash before the meal?”