Ailis watched Alexander as he rose to dress. His sudden silence troubled her as did the remote look upon his face. There was little hint of warmth or any expression in his blue eyes. She could grasp no hint of his thoughts or feelings. Since he had not acted like that before they had made love, she could only assume that there was something about that which had changed him. It hurt to think that something she had thought was so beautiful could be a source of trouble and worry to Alexander, and she did not question that hurt.
Her eyes widened as a possible explanation firmed in her mind, one it was impossible to scorn even if scorn was what it deserved. She was the niece and heir of the man who had killed Alexander’s father and stolen his land. She was also the betrothed of a man he detested. Their lovemaking should not be beautiful, should not leave him shaking and clinging to her. It should be no more than an act of vengeance with a touch of lusting. Ailis knew it was not vanity which made her certain that Alexander had enjoyed her, hungered for her. That a MacDubh should feel so for a MacFarlane was what troubled her captor. She prayed that it would not drive him to treat her harshly.
The thought that Alexander could yet hand her over to his men crept insidiously into her mind, and she shivered as an icy fear seeped through her. She did not want to believe that he could be so cruel, but she had to admit that despite their intimacy, he was a stranger to her. Alexander’s goal was, after all, to strike at her uncle and Donald, and to make her the whore of his men-at-arms would certainly do that. It would also rid him of something he now found troubling. He could do it to prove to himself, and her, that there was nothing extraordinary about what they had shared. So, too, could such an abuse of her work to end whatever desire he held for her.
When Alexander moved to leave, she put aside her fears and spoke up. “Am I to be kept within these chambers?” She pushed aside the hurt caused by the evidence that he had forgotten her presence.
Alexander turned, blinking, as he pulled his mind back from its wanderings. “Ye wouldna get a foot away from these walls if ye did try to flee. There is no need to keep ye locked up. ‘Tis time and gone to break our fast. Get dressed.”
She reached down by the bedside and collected up her torn clothes, holding them up for him to see. “Dressed in what, m’laird?”
He muttered a curse that caused her eyes to widen, then he snapped, “That wouldna have happened if ye had undressed as I asked ye to.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
It was not hard for Alexander to read her low opinion of his reasoning in her look as she dropped her clothes back onto the floor. The problem was that he no longer knew what fashion was being worn by ladies and even unfashionable female clothing was rare at Rathmor. She did need something, there was no denying that, but what?
He agitatedly paced the chamber as he spoke his thoughts aloud. “I canna think of any wench about Rathmor who is of a size with ye. Ye are such a wee lass. By the saints, even if there was a lass your size, she wouldna have a spare gown. Can your clothes not be repaired, stitched back together?”
One glance was enough for Ailis to be certain of her answer, and she shook her head. “I dinna have a great deal of skill with a needle, but even if your best seamstress took on the chore, ‘twouldna help. The clothes were closely fitted ere they were torn. What of Barra’s wife’s things?”
“They are gone. When that slattern died, we cleared away all sign of her. So it was with my traitorous stepmother and my own late wife. They were all larger than ye anyway.” As he talked he studied her, then slowly smiled. “Aye. Aye, it just may do, although ‘twill certainly widen a few eyes.”
Ailis watched him in growing confusion as he moved to a heavy chest that had clearly been kept shut a long time. Her confusion grew when she saw that the chest held clothes that, if they were Alexander’s, he had not worn for many years. It struck her as odd that all of those women’s clothes would have been cleared away, yet he cared for clothes that could only have been worn when he was a small boy or youth. She pushed the thought aside when he laid out a set of those clothes, his gaze bright with enjoyment. She realized he meant her to put them on.
“Is not making me your whore vengeance enough?” she asked, stung by what appeared to be another attempt to cause her shame and humiliation.
Alexander was immediately sobered. “Nay, I dinna do this to humiliate ye. ‘Tis all I have unless ye wish to stay naked within these chambers until something can be made for ye.”
For a long moment she stared into his eyes, but there was no sign there that he was lying. It could be quite a while before a new set of clothing could be made up for her. When the only alternative was to be chained to the bedchamber by her own nakedness, donning boy’s clothing suddenly did not seem so abhorrent. Ailis was also sure that everyone would know why she had been brought to such a pass. That would be embarrassing, but she felt she could endure that if only because it would undoubtedly be short-lived.
“Will ye leave or turn your back while I dress?” she asked as, with a sigh, she reached for the clothes.
A mix of a grin and a leer curved Alexander’s mouth as he replied, “I am well acquainted with your charms, m’lady.”
Several tart replies sprang to her lips even as color flooded her cheeks, but she knew better than to utter them. “Please.”
After a brief hesitation he shrugged and turned his back. If nothing else he owed her some small measure of courtesy for the pleasure she had given him. The only reason he lingered at all was so that he could escort her to the great hall, for he knew she would need some support at first. He told himself he was being kind just to placate Barra’s sensitive conscience, that a few small kindnesses would be necessary to ensure that there was no further quarrel between himself and Barra.
Ailis took a deep breath to steady herself, then stood up and began to dress. As she tugged on each piece, she found that they felt strange, yet not unpleasantly so. There was no musty smell to the clothes, either. She wondered if such good care had been taken in the hope that an heir would make use of them. Alexander had certainly not worn them for a long time because they fit her rather well. She found it a little difficult to picture him as a lad of her small stature.
She gave a fretful tug on the gray jupon as she strode toward the table where he had left his brush, for she needed to fix her hair. The clothes made her feel very aware, too aware, of her form, and she strove to forget that. A soft noise similar to a swiftly indrawn breath caused her to quickly turn, the brush clutched tightly in her hands, and look at Alexander.
Impatient, Alexander had turned to tell her to hurry only to nearly choke on his abrupt inhale at his first look at her. If Ailis was any example, there was a very good reason why women were not allowed to dress in men’s clothes. Every man at Rathmor would be set aflame by the sight of her. He certainly was, and he should have fed his lusts enough during the long passion-filled night. A man who allowed his woman to dress so would undoubtedly be driven to the grave by the never-ending need to protect her from lust-crazed men, he mused with a dark scowl.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
“Nay,” he managed to grunt.
“What am I to do about my hair?” she muttered mostly to herself as she brushed it.
Alexander pulled himself free of his stupor and replied, “Braid it. That will do fine enough. Canna ye hurry it along a wee bit?”
She swallowed her annoyance and tried to hurry. She tried to figure out his strange mood. He seemed so edgy, yet she could not understand why he should be. The full, lusty night they had just indulged in should have put him into a far more amiable state. She began to wonder if he possessed anything similar to a good humor. When he grumbled a curse and proceeded to braid her hair himself, she stood quietly, deciding it best not to press his temper. If she did she feared he might yet decide that robbing her of her chastity was not punishment enough for being Colin MacFarlane’s kinswoman.
Her good intention faded when he grabbed her by the arm and hastily started out for the great hall. “Will ye slow down a pace? I find more freedom in these clothes, ‘tis true, but I have no love of a race. Nor do I wish to enter the hall at a dead run. I shall be too winded to eat.”
His steps slowed a little, but he grumbled, “Ye have made us both late. We may find naught but scraps left for our meal.”
