Mare de Déu, everything she'd heard from his men had been true. 'Why won't you admit that to me? Why did you let me believe that you and your men were out stealing and killing?' She put her chin up. 'You know what I suspect? That you're not nearly as brutal as people think.'
He reined his horse in, cutting hers off, and stared her down, looking very brutal indeed. She swallowed and caught herself leaning back in the saddle away from him.
'You've been clever in our dealings, I'll give you that, but your first major mistake would be attributin' traits to me that are no' there. I am that brutal. I'm just selective in who enjoys it.'
With that, he rode ahead, but not far away. He'd given her another warning, but this time she took his words the opposite of how he intended them. Perhaps she should stop attributing malice and studied murder to him, and see that he wasn't a fiend like Pascal.
She hadn't been completely mistaken about MacCarrick. He had killed easily and could be terrifying. The look on his face when he'd been about to question that one today…She shivered. She'd never seen anything so frightening—it was as though borrowed from a nightmare. No, she would never underestimate the seething power she'd sensed in him, a power that he'd proved he could unleash in the beat of a heart. But it was what was in addition to these traits that puzzled her.
Every one of the preceding nights, he'd seen to her wound, forcing her to remove her blouse, to undress in front of him. During these times, she'd been so full of hatred and grief that she'd thought his actions were just another indignity, a chance to see her in only her chemise. Now, thinking back, she saw other things. She recalled how he'd gone to one knee in front of her and how if she winced or hissed in pain, he grated, 'Doona want to hurt you.'
The night she'd been shot, she dimly remembered that he had talked to her on the jostling ride to France, sometimes in rough Gaelic, most times making no sense even in English, but it was as if he'd known she hadn't wanted to hear silence. She remembered that afterward someone had stroked her hair—someone with very callused hands….
She sighed, realizing that she was both free of any real grounds to hate him—and in need of his help in this perilous time. Lost in thought, her mind a whir of ideas, she scarcely noticed the first drop of rain. Or another splatting directly afterward.
When a full torrent swept down and she lagged behind, he rode back for her. 'We need to stop under the next bridge.'
'MacCarrick!' She blinked against the rain. She was freezing in her light jacket and only one thought was getting her through this ride. 'I want a hot bath and I want to drink tea when I'm in it!'
He raised his eyebrows at her tone, then seemed to study her and the situation as if he didn't quite know what his next step should be. She could swear he was struggling to make a decision. The second she thought he might have, he plucked her from her saddle.
'What are you doing?'
He placed her sideways on his lap with her back against his arm, pulling her close so he could wrap the edges of his jacket around her. After he grabbed her horse's reins, he gently used his whole hand to turn her face into his chest.
'Hold on tae me,' he murmured, 'and mind your arm.'
She was still protesting when he spurred the horse and they flew down the road, until she was forced to put her arms around him. His body was so incredibly warm in his jacket that soon she was, too. The rain no longer stung her face.
Out of the blue, she remembered one of her nanny's sayings. A bear is only a bear till you rub his belly. A wolf will eat from your hand if the treat is sweet enough….
Chapter Seventeen
After four miles riding through blindingly dense rain, they reached the inn, and Court dropped down with Annalía to race inside. The interior was bright and cooking smoke wafted from the kitchen. The innkeeper was up and looked harried, but still acted as though he didn't recognize Court.
'We need a room,' Court said.
'Rooms,' Annalía corrected, shimmying out of his arms. 'We need two rooms.'
The innkeeper, John Groot, peered at her hard. 'Nobility,' he muttered under his breath. 'Don't have two. Just have the one,' he informed them in an English accent. 'Nice one, though, once we get it cleaned up. The rain, you see. Made sure we had a full house.'
Two women, one older and the other obviously her daughter, marched out of a back kitchen. 'Another couple, John!' the woman exclaimed with a thick French accent. 'Well, get the poor girl a seat by the fire and something to drink while we fix their room.' She called to someone unseen to tend the horses.
Court led Annalía to a fireside bench, peeled her little wrapper from her, and pulled her down to sit beside him. He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to him. She was pale, her pupils dilated.
When Groot asked, 'What will you have to drink?' Court answered for her, 'Whisky.'
She glared at him, but said to Groot, 'No, thank you. I'm fine. I don't drink spirits.'
The innkeeper shrugged and poured a generous draught, which Court retrieved and took to Annalía. Under his breath, he said, 'You bloody well did before, now drink it or I'll pour it down your throat.'
Her back went even more rigid. She gave a polite smile to Groot and took the glass between two fingers, as if it were distasteful, but she did drink.
Court returned to the innkeeper for a glass for himself. The liquid burned going down. As soon as he emptied it and put it back on the bar, Groot filled it again.
The bartop was freshly polished, and the place was cleaner and more organized than before. 'New wife?' Court asked under his breath, as he motioned for another refill, then set to drinking it. He'd been here six months ago, and Groot had been alone.
'That she'd be,' he answered in a proud voice. He should be proud. Groot, a gangly Englishman with ruddy skin and no visible chin, had somehow married that bonny French matron. Why did that seem encouraging to Court?
He had Groot pour another for Annalía, then traded her the full glass for her empty one.
The mother descended then, regarding Annalía and talking in French. Court's French was not as strong as it could be. When he'd kicked in the door to the boardinghouse with Annalía limp in his arms demanding help, he could just as likely have been asking where they could do a spot of ice fishing.
'Is she your lady wife?' the mother finally asked him in English.
'What?' He took his eyes from Annalía once he made sure she'd gotten enough into her belly. He didn't like how pale she was. 'Uh, aye, she's my wife.' The liquor was beginning to hit him. He'd forgotten he'd lost a stone of weight.
She squinted at him. 'You had to think about it?'
'Newly married,' he bit out, looking over the woman's head at Annalía. Her wet hair hung heavy, her wee ears peeking out from the thick mass.
'In any case, you have treated her poorly,' the woman informed him. 'She's too delicate for treatment like this.'
He raised his finger and corrected her. 'She appears delicate.'
'Certainly too slight to cover the miles you have tonight.' She said over her shoulder to her daughter, who was just descending, 'They are newly married.'
'For shame, monsieur, riding with a new bride in such weather! That's not the way to have a babe settle within her.'
He made his face impassive. There'd be no chance of that even if he'd taken her once for every time he'd imagined bedding her. He would never have a chance.
'My word!' the mother exclaimed as she drew Annalía to her feet to go upstairs. 'She's bandaged under her blouse. And bleeding!'
'It's a scratch,' Annalía mumbled. Both women cast him stern looks.
