“She’ll no’ be traveling back now. Ramsay shall return to his family alone.” Maxwell drained the tankard in one long draught, then lowered his mug with a triumphant thud to the table.
Faolan leaned forward, eyes round as he tapped a finger against Maxwell’s forearm. “She agreed to stay here—in this time? Ye asked her to complete the melding and become your wife?”
Maxwell brushed away Faolan’s hand as he pushed himself up from the table. “I dinna have to ask her to be my wife. She should know that I’ll no’ have any son of mine growing up in the future without a father.”
“A son?” Faolan halted amid rising from his seat, spreading both hands atop the table as though he’d suddenly grown very weak. “Are ye sayin’ Trish carries your child?”
Why did the man sound so surprised? Did he think only a MacKay was capable of siring bairns in just one bout of pleasure? Maxwell paced across the rush-covered floor, scattered reeds greeting every step with a dry shooshing crunch. “She could be with child. ’Tis too soon to know for certain.” Maxwell waved a hand through the air. “But I’m certain my son took hold last night. ’Twasdifferentthan I’ve ever experienced before.”
“It was different because you’re in love with Trish, you pompous idiot.” Ciara swept in from the archway connecting the dining hall to the main kitchen, her dark eyes snapping with indignation. “And don’t you think you need to talk with Trish before you decide her future?” Ciara jabbed an accusing finger mere inches from her husband’s nose. “Men! What the hell is wrong with the lot of you?”
Faolan backed away, hands held high as though that would help deflect Ciara’s words. “What the hell did I do, wife? ’Tis Maxwell who’s acting the fool.”
“Well, I will truly be damned.” Maxwell spun away from the soothing heat of the roaring hearth and stormed back toward the table. “God’s beard, man. Where’s your loyalty?”
“With my wife. I tend to value my hide.” A mischievous grin played across Faolan’s lips as he took a swat at Ciara’s rump then jumped back when she snapped the twisted linen dangerously close to his most prized appendage. Rubbing a hand against the front of his kilt, he hitched a bit farther out of her reach. “Mercy, woman. Mind your aim. Ye nearly stung me bollocks.”
“Next time I will.” Ciara stretched the rag between her hands, wrapping the ends tighter around her knuckles and snapping it as taut as a bowstring. “And you—”
Maxwell retreated a few steps behind the safety of the broad trestle table. He’d be damned if he’d stand there and be unmanned with a kitchen dishrag before having a chance to defend himself. “I meant no disrespect to Trish. I just know she feels the same.” How could she not? His traitorous cock stiffened at the mere mention of her name. The memory of last night’s sweet love play raged anew through his flesh.
“I feel the same about what?” Trish emerged from the entry hall, tucking a cream-colored tunic inside the loose waistband of an unusual skirt colored with what looked to be every shade of a faded, weary rainbow.
“What in Brid’s name are ye wearing?” Maxwell circled Trish, stroking his fingers through the wiry hair of his beard as he peered closer at the odd-looking weave. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d wrapped one of the tapestries from the second floor around her body.
Two patches of red blazed high on Trish’s cheeks, highlighting the splash of freckles peppered across the bridge of her nose. Her chin lifted a bit higher as she spun in a slow circle. “You know I can’t wear wool.” She paused, smoothing a stubborn puckered seam running down the side of her hip. “Ciara sent for a hank of heavy linen but it’s not here and my other clothes aren’t dry from their latest scrubbing. So I kinda made this fashion statement out of one of the hangings in my room. It’s silk or something.” Trish paused and smoothed a hand across the top of her multi-colored thighs. “Whatever it is at least it doesn’t make me itch.”
Maxwell held his breath. If he laughed, she’d surely skin him alive. Tapping a finger against the tip of his nose, he hid an uncontrollable grin behind his hand.Lord ha’ mercy, but she is a fine one.The stubborn lass cared more about comfort than the gossip she’d stir walking around in such unusual garb. Swallowing hard against the almost unbearable urge to chuckle, Maxwell tucked his chin against his chest and clasped his hands behind his back. “’Tis verra…fine. And I must say, ’tis much more proper than your trews from the future.”
“Jeans, Maxwell.” Trish rolled the over-long sleeves up higher on her slender arms. “They’re blue jeans. Remember?”
“Aye.” Maxwell nodded and offered his arm. Perhaps, now was the best time to sit the lass down and discuss how things should be between them.
“So, tell me.” Trish slid an arm through his, treating his tensed muscles to the warm softness of her tempting full breast as she pressed close against him “What was everyone fussing about when I came into the room?”
“Beg pardon?” What the hell did the woman just say? Damned if he couldn’t concentrate when the fullness of her flesh and the sweetness of her scent rendered him incoherent. Maxwell helped her maneuver the broad bench beside the table, reluctantly letting go of her hand once she’d settled into place. “What was it ye said?”
“I said”—Trish patiently drew out the words as though speaking to a slow-witted servant—“what was everyone talking about? I thought I heard my name mentioned.”
“Tell her, Maxwell.” Ciara folded her arms across her chest, a wicked look of supreme smugness spreading across her face.
One of the kitchen lads scurried into the room, a pewter tray nearly as large as a good sized shield teetered on his shoulder.
“Oh good,” Trish scooted closer to the table, stretching to see what the tray held. “I’m starving and do I detect the aroma of some of that lovely tea?” Rubbing her hands together, Trish wiggled in her seat like an excited child about to open a cherished gift. “I love the tea here.”
The gangly lad grinned and bobbed his head in silent greeting while settling the teapot, a cup, and a platter of thick-sliced bread spread with a generous dollop of butter in front of Trish.
“Ye see?” Maxwell settled on the bench beside her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist. “I told ye she’d be having my bairn.”
Trish froze in the middle of sinking her teeth into the dark-brown bread. “What the hell did you just say?” she mouthed around the hunk of crust.
Maxwell reached for the pot and filled her cup with the steaming amber liquid. He’d better have her tea at the ready. Trish sounded as though she were about to choke. Sliding the cup directly in front of Trish, an uneasy feeling of impending doom shivered chill bumps across his flesh. “I said that I was probably right. After last night, ye could verra well be carrying my son.”
Trish settled the thick slice of bread beside the cup on the table. Brushing the crumbs from her hands, she slowly lowered them into her lap. Her mouth flattened into a determined line, her jaw muscle twitching as though she gritted her teeth.
Maxwell swallowed hard. From the intensity of the red on the lass’s cheeks, he’d bet his best horse that she was about to explode.
“I cannot believe—” Trish paused, eyes narrowing as she spit out the words in a slow irritated hiss. “I cannot believe,” Trish repeated, her trembling hands knotting into balled up fists on either side of her cup. “I cannot believe you sat here this morning and told everyone what we did last night. Where in thehellis your sense of decency? I may not be the virginal sort but at least I don’t traipse around advertising my escapades. Haven’t you ever heard that old saying that a true gentleman never kisses and tells?”
