Page 26 of Sinful Scot
She nodded. “Ye said ye lied.”
He shifted his weight, ran both his hands through his hair, then glanced down at Loxton. “This won’t be a short conversation, and I want to bury this man before nightfall. I would hate for animals to get him.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “Then let us bury him.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Aye,” she interrupted. “I do. Ye asked me earlier if Baron Bellecote had come looking for us. A party did ride through the woods five nights ago. I could hear the thundering hooves, though they were well away from where ye hid us. Still, I know it was likely the baron searching for us. They’ll look through the woods more thoroughly when they do nae find us upon the trails. I do nae wish ye to be caught, and I wish to give Loxton, though he intended to ravish me, a burial. I am nae a vengeful person.”
“You have a kind heart, Maggie.”
“Ye do, too,” she said.
He gave her a surprised look. “You’d be the first woman, besides my mother, to think so,” he said, kneeling. He picked up a stick and started to dig.
Maggie found a second stick and then kneeled beside Rhys and helped. They worked for a bit in companionable, albeit strained, silence. Still, she could not quit thinking about his last comment. She cleared her throat. “Have many women known ye, then?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘known,’” he replied. The muscles of his forearms moved as he worked, and she considered cautioning him because of his injuries, but she decided Rhys was not the sort of man to be stopped or cautioned. It was in the way he carried himself with such confidence and determination.
“Well,” she began slowly, “I suppose I mean, women who have known yer heart?”
He paused but did not look at her. “None, really, then,” he said.
She paused now and gawked at him. She was shocked at his answer and the glad feeling it filled her with. She’d lost her senses somewhere between blurting the lie about him, rescuing him, and then staying in the woods to care for him for nearly a sennight while the fever ravaged him. It should not please her that he’d never shared his heart with another woman, yet it undeniably did.
Trouble.That’s what she was heading for. Rhys McCaim could not be for her. She had to wed for the benefit of her brother and sister. Unless… She stole a sideways glance at him and found him digging once more. The McCaims were a strong clan. What if—
She cut the thought off. Here she was, marrying herself to the man, and she barely knew him. Except she didfeelas if she knew him. And at least his character seemed far superior to the baron’s.
“How many summers are ye?” she asked, her curiosity overriding her shyness.
“Thirty-two,” he answered. “How old are you?”
She wrinkled her nose as she dug the stick into the ever-widening hole. “Ye have a verra odd way of speaking.”
He laughed, and the deep, hearty sound made her join him. When they both quieted, he said, “I could say the same of you. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m twenty-two summers.”
“And not married yet? That’s odd for your time, right?”
“Did ye call me odd?” she demanded, glaring at his profile.
He stopped and turned her way. His stormy gaze smoldered, and she felt as if he’d caressed her cheek without ever touching her. “I didn’t callyouodd. You are…unique. Stunning. Strong. Resourceful, I’d hazard to guess. And very brave. A modern woman in an unmodern time.”
“I do nae know what all yer words mean,” she said, breathless from his nearness, from his gaze, from his compliments. Theywerecompliments, she thought. “But I like them.”
“And you’re honest,” he added to her pleasure. Her heart fluttered wildly and ridiculously. “Tell me, why aren’t you married? I imagine most women your age are, yes?”
“Aye,” she confirmed. And since he’d called her honest, which she did strive to be, she felt obligated to give him the truth of her family. She told him of her father being accused by Robert the Bruce of fleeing his side in the Battle of Blackstone and causing Bruce to lose. “Papa said,” she continued, as they both kept digging. They moved to standing in the hole they were digging, “that Lord Bruce was embarrassed that he’d nae strategized well and lost the battle. Father had tried to warn him, and Lord Bruce did nae forget that. He did nae want Papa telling people Bruce was a weak commander. Papa never would have done so; he was loyal to Bruce. Yet, he did say the man was too prideful and too concerned with riches, as was his son. Papa said Bruce’s grandson—the young Earl of Carrick—shows promise to be a much better man than his father or grandfather, and might one day rule the Bruce holdings well.”
“He will be king,” Rhys said, a faraway look in his eyes.
Maggie shrugged. “Some whisper maybe. Now that King Alexander is dead, the greatest lords seem to be positioning themselves to try to make a claim for the throne. It is well-known that Lord Bruce the elder, is one of them. Others say that the Maid of Norway will gain the throne, and since she is but a young child, nearly a babe still, men will be appointed to rule for her. Have ye heard this in Oban or wherever it is ye are from?” she asked, giving him a pointed look to remind him he still had not answered her earlier question.
He looked momentarily wary, then said, “Yes, I’ve heard it, but the Maid of Norway will not rule Scotland, nor will the eldest Bruce ever be king.”
Maggie frowned. “Ye say it as if ye know this to be fact.”
