“Dinna fash yerself, yer ladyship.” Dugan exploded out of the bushes with a broad smile. His eyes shot open wide, then he whirled around and gave her his back. “Beg pardon, m’lady. I didna see anything. I mean, I didna realize…beg pardon. I beg yer forgiveness for the intrusion. I swear I wasna spying on ye. I’m nay the sort of ill-bred cur who would dare do such a thing. ’Specially not to the fine lady who saved Himself.”
She crouched behind a boulder and peered over it. “Well then, I suggest you carry on with your hunting in another area since I’ll be here for a while longer.” However, she wasn’t all that sure about removing the rest of her clothes.
“Aye, m’lady.” He held up a pair of birds. “I’ve already got us these so far.”
“Well done, you.” She wished he would leave and be done with it.
“Ye’re certain the MacTaggart isna well enough to ride?” he continued, seemingly at ease with carrying on a conversation with his back to her.
“I am quite certain.” She smacked at a stinging fly high on her flank. “Can we discuss this back at camp? These flies are eating me alive.”
“Absolutely, m’lady. Forgive me.” He dipped with a shallow squat, apparently meaning that as a respectful backward bow. “I shall get these to roasting, then head out for whatever else I can find.”
“Good man,” she encouraged, relieved when he charged off at a fast clip. She batted at the cloud of midges gathering. Apparently, the bugs had heard that a fresh buffet of naked Englishwoman stood beside the stream. The burning bites took priority over any worries about being watched. She stripped off the rest of her clothes, waded in neck-deep, then submerged and stayed there as long as her breath would hold. Every time she rose, she emerged enough to breathe and peer around like a pale, furless otter. When it seemed the midges finally gave up, she retrieved her soap and scrubbed, lamenting that soon, her favorite soap and shampoo would be a fond memory of the future, too.
“And deodorant,” she muttered, emerging from the stream and slaking off the water with a push of her hands. Apparently, the midges either hadn’t cared for the scent of her soap or had been too hungry to wait for her to step out of the water. Either way, they left her in peace as she rationed out the least amount of deodorant and lotion that would still be effective. She wondered if there would be someone in Quinn’s clan who might teach her about local herbs. Soaps, lotions, and deodorant might be concocted from whatever Scotland provided.
Dry clothes felt better. She had forgotten her comb, so she raked her fingers through her tangled tresses until the wavy mess fell into some semblance of order. Wet boots and clothes in hand, she headed back to camp, barefoot and somewhat readier to battle whatever else life threw in her face. Always a fighter, she never backed down. Somewhat of a loner. Definitely a survivor. “Lookout thirteenth century. Ready or not. Here I come.”
*
“If she’s nayone of Maggie’s new girls—”
Quinn leapt up from the pallet and grabbed hold of Dugan by the front of his léine. “Lady Evaline is nay a whore, and if ye ever hint at such again, I’ll gut ye quicker than ye dressed those birds, ye ken?”
Dugan lifted both hands high. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just that—”
“It’s just that nothing,” Quinn cut him off again. “That woman saved my life. Ye will treat her with every respect.”
“Aye, Quinn.” Dugan smiled and waggled a brow. “If ye had let me finish, ye wouldha heard I dinna speak with disrespect. May I finish speaking, my hot-headed chieftain?”
Only Dugan got away with such name-calling. He had saved Quinn’s life. Many times. “Ye may finish.” Quinn released the bear of a man with a shove. “But tread carefully, cousin.”
“Earlier, we spoke of who might have attacked ye.” Dugan adjusted the birds on the spit and hung them across the fire. “And came up with a long list of possibilities, I might add.”
“Aye. True enough.” Quinn knew he had enemies within the clan, as well as outsiders who might wish him dead.
After wiping his hands on the seat of his pants, Dugan gave him a rare scowl. “But we didna speak of yer Lady Evaline.” He shrugged. “Mainly ’cause she was right here, but still. Her presence begs a verra important question. What’s an Englishwoman doing this far north of Hadrian’s Wall? A lady alone? Or at least, appearing to be alone? Especially after that coward Balliol surrendered to Edward.” He spit on the ground. “English bastard. He’s a feckin’ thief. I’ll never bow to that bastard. Never!”
Dugan had a habit of losing himself in rants. Especially valid ones dealing with England. The only way to get him back to the crux of the matter was act as if he never veered off.
“She spoke of being banished,” Quinn said. He glanced around to be certain Evie hadn’t returned, found his flask, and treated himself to a hearty swig. She had refused to give him whisky yesterday. Said they did not recommend it for his sort of wound. Silly woman. Whisky helped with countless pains. He offered the tidy leather flask to Dugan. “I dinna ken if they brought her here and left her, or if she found the place on her own. All she said was she angered a person of power and couldna return home.”
After a long draw on the flask, Dugan handed it back, his smile brighter than usual. “Even better! Can I have her then?”
“What the hell do ye meancan I have her then?” Before Dugan could answer, Quinn landed a solid blow on the man’s jaw, knocking him back several steps. “Are ye deaf, man? I willna have her disrespected. She’s nay some camp harlot to be passed about from man to man.”
“Dammit, man.” One eye squinted shut, Dugan worked his jaw. “I meant as a wife. Ye said she had no one, and my wee Mairi needs a mother. Ye said that verra thing a fortnight ago when my darling beastie got caught climbing trees in the orchard with the lads.”
“It wasna her climbing the trees that was the problem.” Quinn rubbed the side of his head at the memory. “Yer vicious minx inherited yer aim. Made my eyes cross when she pegged me with that green apple.”
“She said sorry.”
“Aye, and the both of us know she didna mean it.”
Dugan chuckled. “Probably not.” He poked Quinn in the chest. “That’s why I could marry Lady Evaline. Give her a home, and she could teach my Mairi womanly manners.” Bushy black brows waggling in time with his double chin, he poked Quinn again. “See? No disrespect at all.”
None except that the idea of Evie becoming Dugan’s wife set him afire with a sudden jealous fury. “Nay,” was all he would trust himself to say, still wrestling with the possessiveness churning within.
