Heat Of The Knight. Jackie IvieЧитать онлайн книгу.

      neart

      nm. g.v. neirt, strength, power, might

      aithnich

      va.-eachadh, know, recognise

      Chapter One

      AD 1747

      He remembered the smell…the feel; just about everything.

      “Jesu’!”

      Langston sucked in a breath full of peat, fog-blessed chill, and damp dirt. Shivers of reaction ran all along the six-and-a-half-foot frame he’d matured into, making even his hands tremble on the reins. He let the breath out and smiled wryly before pulling in another, testing the air for the lingering notes from what had sounded like a solitary piper. It must have come with the memory. He shrugged, and then the yelling started.

      “Angus MacHugh! You auld fool!”

      The woman behind the noise appeared, coming straight at him, shoving her hair from her shoulders with one hand, while the other held up her skirts, and the sky-blue eyes she looked at him with went all the way through him.

      That wasn’t the reaction he got from most women. It wasn’t a response he got from any woman. Langston moved his horse sideways as she passed, swirling the mist with her skirts. She was fantastic enough to be drawn up from his imagination: gorgeous, full-figured, reckless, wild…. He blinked. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a pistol tucked into her waistband, too.

      “There you are! You’ve got to stop!”

      She had obviously reached her prey. Langston couldn’t decide if he pitied or envied him.

      “The rangers are at our steps! And you’re the wretch that brought them!”

      “But Lisle—”

      “Don’t ‘But Lisle’ me! I’ll not stand for it! We’ve got but two shillings left to our name, and they’ll want that for fines and such. Like as not, they’ll take your pipes, too! They might even take you! You know the penalty. What will I do then? How will the lasses cope?”

      “I dinna’ mean to start anything. I only—”

      “I already know what you wanted. We all want it. It’s not going to happen. Scotland’s lost, and we’re the ones that lost it…now move! Back to the bog with you. Get your trousers back on and hide that sett a-fore you lose your hand, or worse! Stick to the rocks and doona’ let anyone else see you!”

      Her voice had softened, belying the harsh words she was using. Langston moved his horse slowly…going one step closer, then another. They weren’t far; they couldn’t be, but fog made the ground beneath his horse’s hooves look fathoms deep, and the distance was impossible to guess from the sound of their words.

      “Hush, Angus! What was that?” Lisle whispered.

      Langston had heard it, too, and he pulled on the bridle, lifting his horse’s head with the movement. The sound hadn’t been him. It was something else. Someone was coming…someone big.

      “Quick! Give me the pipes! Nae, I’ll na’ hand them over. What do you take me for, a Monteith? I can’t just let you get caught with them! That plaide’s going to get you in enough trouble. Quick! Hurry home. There’s four Highland Rangers sitting in the kitchen, awaiting scones as we speak. They seem to think we can fry them from thin air, and serve them with sunlight for a topping. Stupid, arrogant, thoughtless men. I’ll be right behind you. I promise. That’s a love. Watch your step, now.”

      Langston smiled at her description of Captain Robert Barton’s troops. They were every bit of all that, but she’d forgotten to add flirtatious. That was why they were stopped at that goddess-woman’s step and visiting with the lasses she’d referenced. It wasn’t for any scone. It was to receive a smile and a soft word or two from that mouth. Now that he’d just heard them, he wanted to stand in line and receive the same.

      Their hooves weren’t making much sound, but bridles hadn’t the same muffling benefit on the soft moor. Langston backed his horse two steps up the hillside and was swallowed by mist almost the moment he did. It was a troop of Highland Rangers, riding single file and with deadly intent. He could barely make them out, and held his breath as not one looked his way. His ears told him how many there were. He just hoped they hadn’t heard what he just had.

      “Why…Mistress MacHugh. Fancy seeing you out and about.”

      “Captain Barton,” she answered with a curt, barely polite tone.

      Langston could envision how she’d look. She’d most likely hidden the pipes and pistol. To do anything other was inviting her own penalty.

      MacHugh, he thought, letting the lineage run through his mind. There’d been a MacHugh in this glen since the infancy of the world. Theirs was a clan spewing out chieftains; all large, healthy, red-headed, and boisterous—all loyal to the Stuart, even unto death. He didn’t know which MacHugh the auburn-haired goddess named Lisle could be. The fact that she’d just been addressed as mistress wasn’t possible. It didn’t seem conceivable that she was wed. She’d looked too young for such a thing, especially if it was to the elderly-sounding Angus fellow.

      He eased his horse closer,