The slow, sinful smile he offered her made the ache spiral outward to every part of her body. He dropped his hold on her neck and turned his palm up for the ring, which she eagerly took off and dropped into his hand. He slipped it on his pinkie and then caught her fingers. He turned once more and started to lead them back through the crowd.
As Maggie followed Rhys through the throng of people, everything he’d told her earlier swam in her head. Her emotions collided with one another—denial, fear, worry, indignation for what might happen to her country. Maggie kept circling back to that last one. Well, that and Rhys’s silence when they’d stood facing each other in the snow and she’d said they—no, she—would need to do something if what he told her was true. He hadn’t said he would aid her. In fact, he hadn’t said anything, which told her more than words. He had no intention of staying, and the knowledge should have made her not want to kiss him in return, but it didn’t.
She’d grown attached to him somehow, though it was foolish in the extreme. Even if he was from her time, that did not mean there would ever be a future for them. And yet, now that she had felt desire, she had no wish to be wed to a man who did not stir those feelings in her. Except what choice did she have? She had to wed to aid her brother and sister, which likely meant a marriage to an older, wealthier man.
In that moment, staring at Rhys’s proud bearing and broad shoulders, she decided shewouldfeel his arms around her once, know his touch, taste his lips. And those memories would be what she treasured in the long nights to come.
Rhys led them past crowded tables where men were laughing with women, who were painted in ways Maggie had never seen, sitting on their laps. Tankards of mead were slammed down to loud chuckles, and games of chance seemed to be going on at several tables. At a table near one of the stone firepits, where what appeared to be mutton cooked on a spit, the men were more serious. Absent was the raucous laughter, brazen women, and games of any kind. Two men, richly dressed in ruby-colored, fur-lined cloaks, ate as they talked. A lone brass candle flickered between them, and on the table rested a carafe of wine, two goblets, two pewter trenches overflowing with food, and two gleaming daggers, which were placed by each man’s right hand.
She glanced to the hip of the man closest to her and confirmed that he had a sword sheathed there, its hilt adorned with stones. The men had similar features—handsome, square faces with dark eyes and aquiline noses. They were likely a father and son by the looks of them. The older man appearing to be about fifty summers and the other perhaps thirty.
Rhys stopped near their table, but he was looking toward a smaller room where guests could rent quarters for the night. He started to gently pull on her hand, but she tried to hold back to catch some of the two men’s conversation.
“We’ll stay the night here and ride out in the morning after Bruce has left.”
It was all she’d heard before Rhys tugged her forward. Once they entered the smaller room, Rhys weaved them in and out of people and stopped them in front of the innkeeper. She worried for a moment about what Rhys would say, but she needn’t have been concerned. He offered a quick introduction, and the innkeeper was beside himself that he was speaking to a McCaim who the innkeeper also happened to believe was a man of God, given Rhys wore Father George’s robes. It seemed the laird of the McCaim clan often sent warriors to guard the inn during hard times.
“Do you know,” Rhys inserted smoothly into the conversation, “did they appoint something called the Guardians of Scotland at Scone today?”
“Aye,” the man said, then frowned at Rhys, eyes suddenly wary. “Ye sound odd.”
“I was sent far away for training as a young lad. I picked up the local speech and have never quite been able to overcome it.”
To Maggie’s relief, the innkeeper nodded. “They did appoint guardians,” the man went on, “but I’ve been so busy all day, I could nae tell ye who they are.”
Just the confirmation that guardians were appointed as Rhys had predicted sent her thoughts spinning once more, but she didn’t have time to get bogged down in her own shock because a deep voice behind her said, “I can tell ye. I was there.”
She turned, as did Rhys, and his arm came to her shoulder protectively. It felt strangely natural and right—too right.They had no claim to each other, and they never would.
The younger of the two men she’d watched in the common area stood before them. He had inquisitive blue eyes, dark-brown hair, and a set chin that suggested a stubborn streak. Something about him looked familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint what. She frowned, wondering what he was doing in here when moments before, he seemed to be just starting his meal. She scrutinized him as his focus moved from Rhys’s face to his hand where his mother’s ring gleamed. What appeared to be disbelief flitted across his face, but it was gone before Maggie could decide for certain, and when the man glanced up again, his sharp, assessing gaze shifted from her to Rhys, then back to her.
He inclined his head. “I’m Dermot.”
“Rhys McCaim,” Rhys replied, squeezing her shoulder gently at the same time, “and this is my wife, Maggie.”
She was too surprised by Rhys’s lie to do more than offer an awkward curtsy.
“Yer wife?” Dermot asked, his brow now furrowed.
Maggie bit her lip as the realization that Dermot was staring at Father George’s habit hit her. “He borrowed the frock,” she blurted, cheeks heating.
Beside her, Rhys stiffened, likely his mistake coming to him. “Yes,” he added, “I came into some trouble with a boar, and a kindly priest gave me this until I could gain more clothing.”
“I see,” Dermot said, but his voice said he did not believe either of them. Maggie held her breath until Dermot said, “Well, ye are a verra lucky man. I must admit I wandered in here after catching a glimpse of the lass in the common area. I had hoped…” Dermot cleared his throat, offering an apologetic look. Maggie exhaled a relieved breath.
“No harm,” Rhys said. “Now you know she’s mine.”
Of course Rhys was just trying to protect her, but the hard possessiveness in his voice, as if he would battle the Devil himself for her, gave her a little thrill nonetheless.
“Ye do nae sound Scottish,” Dermot said.
“So I’ve been told,” Rhys replied dryly.
The way Dermot tilted his head again and stared at Rhys as if he was trying to decide something gave Maggie an uneasy feeling. It must have given Rhys one, too, because she felt him press closer to her, and when the hand that wasn’t on her shoulder moved to his hip, she knew he was resting it on the hilt of his sword.
“Ye have a strange way of speaking. Besides yer lack of brogue, that is.” Dermot’s words were almost probing.
“Aye,” Rhys said with a slight Scottish brogue that startled Maggie. He had managed to mimic Dermot remarkably well. “I was fostered far away as a lad and did not return to Scotland until recently. I picked up verra odd ways of speaking while I was gone, but I am loyal to Scotland.” He smiled. “Did ye say that ye could tell us who has been appointed as guardian?”
