Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(35)
“Very well, if you are sure—”
“I am.”
Their eyes met for an instant before she suddenly dropped her gaze. For the first time, he noticed her clothing. She was wearing simple clothes—a rough woolen kir-tle and plain linen sark. They suited her. Without the farthingale, he could see her trim waist and the slim curve of her hips. She was a tiny thing, and the stiff lace and layer upon layer of skirts drowned her natural willowy figure. A large basket was draped over her arm, and he noted the tips of her sturdy leather boots peeking out from below her skirts.
“Are you going somewhere, my lady?”
“I thought I'd collect some of the wildflowers that grow on the top of the brae.”
He frowned, looking in the direction of the hill she'd pointed to. “You shouldn't go outside the castle gate without an escort.” Particularly when his brother was likely lurking nearby, waiting to meet with him.
“It's no farther than a few hundred feet—”
“I will go with her,” Finlay volunteered.
“That won't be necessary,” she interjected, perhaps a little too quickly. “You are needed here with the men. But if you can spare Patrick for a short while, there is something I would like to discuss with him.”
Patrick caught the flash of animosity directed his way before Finlay covered it with a sycophantic smile. “Of course, my lady. Though with his injury I'm not sure how much use he'll be to you. Maybe we should send another man along just to be safe.”
Patrick's reaction was instantaneous. He stepped forward. The muscles corded in his arms and shoulders as one hand clenched in a fist as if he had it around the other man's thick neck. Finlay didn't know how close he was to finding himself flat on his back. Patrick had more strength in one arm then most men did in two. Weakened or not, if Patrick let loose, the square, heavyset guardsman would stand no chance in a contest between them.
Blood pounded through his veins. It was one thing to ignore a subtle challenge and quite another to ignore an outright slur of his warrior's abilities. Nor was he one to duck from a fight.
Sensing the dangerous undercurrent running between the two men, Elizabeth stepped between them, putting a staying hand on his chest. It proved surprisingly effective, the gentle touch more powerful than the edge of a claid-beamhmór.
“I'm sure that won't be necessary, Finlay. Anyone who has seen Patrick fight would never doubt his abilities. You forget, he defended all of us admirably while injured. Should the need arise, he should be able to handle a bow well enough.” She looked to Robbie for assistance. “Isn't that so?”
“Aye. Here, Captain,” Robbie said, handing Patrick his bow. “Take mine. It appears I have little use for it anyway,” he added with mock derisiveness.
The men laughed, welcoming the release of tension. Elizabeth took the opportunity to lead him away before Finlay could find more reasons to object or slurs to cast.
Patrick slung the bow over his shoulder and followed her across the barmkin and out the gate. She slowed to allow him to walk up beside her. They walked in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the sun and fresh air. It was a beautiful day. After so much rain, the colors of the landscape seemed even more vibrant against the clear blue sky.
It didn't take long to reach the top of the hill. Bending down, she began to collect the colorful bluebells. A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile as he noticed how much care she took in choosing each one, examining the petals and testing the strength of the stem before plucking the flower from the ground. He shook his head, wondering at the attention to detail and the obvious pride with which she attended even the smallest of her duties.
It wasn't that she was a perfectionist, but simply that she took pride in her task and possessed an uncanny ability to make everyone comfortable.
From the short time he'd spent in the keep, he'd noticed that very little escaped her attention. She took her role as lady of the castle seriously. It was also clear that she'd been groomed to the position from birth. Again, he thought of what she would be giving up. But the thought of Glen -orchy's son was enough to keep any residual pangs of conscience at bay.
Seeing that this was going to take a while, he sat down, resting his back against a tree, content just to watch her as she flitted around like a wee sprite, her fair hair shining like white gold in the sun and her eyes sparkling with excitement.
It was rare to see her smile so freely, without restraint. He'd noticed it the first time he'd seen her. Happiness tinged with uncertainty. The smile of a person who never knew when disaster would strike but knew that it would. Something he could understand, and one of the things that had drawn him to her. He assumed it was the result of her stammer and her previous romantic disappointments. And like him, she'd lost her parents at an early age.
From the furtive glances directed his way, he could tell that she was aware of his eyes following her.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching you.”
“I can see that. But do you have to do it so … intensely?”
He cocked an eyebrow, enjoying her discomfort. “It's my job.”
She scowled. “Well, if you are simply going to watch my every move with that enigmatic expression on your face, at least come over here and make yourself useful,” she said, holding out the basket.