Page 6 of The Story of his Highland Bride
She has to be a witch. Nay ordinary lass could be so beautiful.He had beheld and enjoyed his fair share of women, but none were so dangerously captivating as the woman in his arms.
She had smooth, pale skin, flushed pink at her plump cheeks, with a dusting of freckles that reminded him of the constellations. A dainty chin and a small, upturned nose made her look like one of the porcelain dolls that wealthy Lairds gave to their daughters, trying to imitate the behaviors of their English counterparts. And the tousled mane of brown, curly hair, so shiny and thick that it did not look like it could be real, only added to his impression of her being otherworldly.
He wished he could see her eyes, for he had not been able to gauge their color when they were open. Yet, her eyelashes were thick and dark, and there was a strange, bronze shadow over her lids that glistened and sparkled like magic in the lantern light. A similar sheen glowed from the apples of her cheeks, though his gaze kept returning to her full, dark red lips. How could a mouth be such a color? Was it a berry stain—a mark of the coven she hailed from?
With some difficulty, considering her limp body, he managed to sit her in the saddle and climb up behind her. Slipping his arm around her waist to hold her to him, he was suddenly hit with the most delicious scent—sweet and powerful, and like nothing his nose could recognize.
I might be savin’ ye from gettin’ trampled on the road, Lass, but ye willnae bewitch me,he told himself, though he did not know how he was supposed to ignore that potent aroma, all the way to the castle. No matter how he turned or lifted his head, he could not escape it.
“Yer grandmaither is goin’ to box yer ears, M’Laird,” Lennox muttered, climbing back into the saddle. “What did she tell ye about bringin’ waifs and strays into the castle?”
Jackson smiled. “She was talkin’ about animals.”
“And what is a witch but a beast in disguise, eh?”
Inhaling the sugary scent of Eloise, Jackson could not believe there was anything beastly about her at all, and that made her a danger of a different kind. A witch could steal a man’s soul if he was not careful, and this witch already had his curiosity.
“Well, she’s nae pretendin’. I ken that for certain,” Jackson said, watching the sleeping woman from near the fireplace of his finest guest bedchamber.
Lennox sniffed. “A lass can pretend she’s dead if she doesnae want to speak with ye. I’ve seen it with me own eyes.”
“Were ye tryin’ to flirt with some poor lass?” Jackson teased.
His Man-at-Arms blushed slightly. “The flirtin’ had already been done, among other things. Och, I nearly sent for the priest, but then she opened her eyes and told me to get out. Nae me finest hour.”
Jackson chuckled, grateful that he rarely dabbled in such things. But as he looked back toward the bed, Eloise stirred in her sleep, causing her woolen blankets and thick furs to slip down. His eyes widened as the traitorous fur revealed a delicate collarbone; some part of him willing the blanket to slide further down. It obeyed, exposing the strangest garment of them all: a curious sling of sorts, that cupped her pert breasts, pushing them together and forging a deep, tempting valley.
He tore his eyes away, concerned by the throb of heat that pulsed in his loins. Another enchantment, no doubt.
“What do ye make of the things the lass was sayin’?” he asked, concentrating on Lennox.
“I reckon she’s either a witch, like I told ye, or she’s a madwoman,” Lennox replied, still staring at the peculiar, fleshy slingshot. “It’s nae just the things she was sayin’, either. What of the things she was wearin’ and that stone she was carryin’ with her, eh?”
The healer, known only as Old Joan, had been and gone, tending to the jagged scratches that marked Eloise’s legs and the nasty cut to the back of her head. Jackson had been present during the healer’s diligent care, and, as such, he had seen every last one of the increasingly odd garments being removed by Old Joan… though she had sniped at him to avert his eyes when Eloise was all but naked.
“Ritual garb of some kind, perhaps?” Jackson mused, trying not to think of Eloise’s slender limbs and taut stomach—lean with just enough softness for a man to grasp and savor.
Lennox raised an eyebrow. “She was wearin’ trews, M’Laird! What manner of lass wears trews? And weird ones, at that.” He tutted. “Old Joan was squawkin’ outside that she thought she was goin’ to have to cut them off the lass, they were that tight. “Like a second skin,” she said.”
Draped over a chair, close to the fireplace, were the trews in question. Made of a stiff, grayish-black material, they fastened at the hips with a metal button and a curious, long contraption that resembled jaws gnashing together when another metal piece was pulled. He eyed the button, noting the faded imprint. It said:Levi Strauss & Co.
“She might be Prussian,” he mused aloud, recalling a merchant he had once encountered, who bore the surname of ‘Strauss.’ He had been Prussian, if his memory served. “That would explain why I couldn’ae understand half of what she was sayin’. Her English might nae be so good.”
“Why would ye say that? She doesnae sound Prussian to me,” Lennox replied.
“It wouldn’ae surprise me if ye couldn’ae even point to Prussia on a map, nor would ye ken what one of their folk sounded like if one smacked ye in the face.” Jackson gestured to the trews. “They belong to a man named Levi Strauss. She must’ve pinched them on her journey. Probably wanted to disguise herself as a lad to keep herself safe.”
Lennox did not look convinced. “Then why the long doublet that ye can see from a mile away?”
“Might’ve been all she could steal.” Jackson did not know why he was so intent on defending a woman he did not know, and certainly did not trust, but seeing her sweet, sleeping face, something compelled him.
I cannae let her dig her witchy claws in any deeper,he reminded himself. As soon as she was awake and her head had healed, she would be sent on her way… with more appropriate attire for a woman journeying alone.
Lennox reached out and picked up a shiny, forest green garment that resembled a leine, only shorter and made of a material far finer than any Jackson’s weavers and seamstresses could make. At the neck was a bow, and there were buttons all the way down the front, seemingly made of a pearl apiece.
“She must’ve stolen from someone wealthy, then,” Lennox said, rubbing the silky material between his fingers.
Jackson snatched it from Lennox’s hand. “Daenae touch that,” he snapped, adding hastily, “If she is a witch, ye daenae ken if she’s cursed it or nae.”
