Leila’s Legacy Page 5

  Heat effused Niall, blazing through him with a rage that came on as sudden as his desire for the witch. The Keeper of Liddesdale leaned toward her and the murmur of his voice floated toward Niall.

  While his words were indecipherable, Niall could not ignore how Lady Leila’s shoulders tensed.

  Lord Armstrong completed his assessment and stood before her, towering over her slight height. “Are ye a witch?”

  “Nay,” Leila said ferociously. “These charges are—”

  “Do ye deny then that ye’re a witch?” Lord Armstrong pressed.

  Lady Leila gave a little growl of frustration. “Aye, of course I deny the accusation when it isn’t true.”

  Lord Armstrong nodded slowly. “As I expected.” He folded his arms over his chest. “We’ve called upon Father Gerard from the north. He’ll be the one to decide what ye are and what ye’re no’. He’s devoted his life to the study of sinners engaging in witchcraft and devil worship.”

  “Then he’ll find me innocent,” Leila said sharply.

  “Take her to the dungeon.” The Keeper of Liddesdale summoned a nearby servant. “Give the lass a kirtle to wear. I’ll no’ have her presented to the village looking anything less than the lady I promised them, aye?”

  The servant rushed off to comply with the earl’s bidding even as several clansmen came forward to take her to the dungeon. She did not protest or fight them off. Instead, she went of her own volition, without needing to be held as she was led from the room.

  “God’s bones, lad, get yerself to the barber and stop bleeding all over the rushes.” Lord Armstrong rolled his eyes heavenward. “We’ve just had them replaced nigh on six months ago.”

  Alban didn’t wait to be told again and hastened from the room to see to his needs.

  Lord Armstrong waved Niall over. “It’s easy to see why they call ye the Lion. Ye’re determined, lad. ’Tis the reason I tasked ye with finding the witch. And ye did.” He nodded in approval.

  Niall inclined his head in gratitude. “My men were flawless in their execution of the plan today as well, my lord.”

  “Aye, yer men are always good too. Loyal, like ye.” Lord Armstrong drank from his mug. “All that loyalty will be necessary until the mess of this is handled.”

  A pretty blonde servant entered with a length of blue cloth draped in her arms. She paused before Lord Armstrong and held it out for his inspection. He snatched it up and grunted. “’Tis fine enough, I suppose.”

  The woman curtseyed and departed.

  The Keeper of Liddesdale tossed the bundle to Niall. “Ye need to get the witch into this kirtle, aye? I’ll no’ send the Earl of Werrick’s daughter down the streets looking like a strumpet. Nay, she needs to look like the lady she is, so they all know I willna shy even from punishing nobility if they are in the wrong.”

  The dress was made of quality wool, much softer than the tunic Niall wore under his gambeson. He hung it from his arm discreetly to ensure it did not wrinkle before Lady Leila could be asked to wear it. If she was to appear as the nobility she was, it would not do for the fabric to be crinkled.

  “Ye mean to send her down the streets?” Niall lifted his brows, uncertain what the lord meant by such words.

  “Aye, let the people see the witch for who she is.” Lord Armstrong shrugged. “She’ll be held at the prison at the village center. I want everyone to have a go at her as she passes them, to throw about their rotten food and the like. Give the people what they want, and the people will be good to ye.” He winked as though imparting a good bit of advice.

  “Nay.”

  The skin around Lord Armstrong’s eyes tightened. “Eh, lad? What’d ye say?”

  “Nay, my lord.” Niall maintained his soldier’s stance with his legs spread wide and obdurate. “I’ll no’ take a lady down to the village for them to demean her when she’s no’ been condemned as yet. She’s no’ even had her trial.”

  “She’ll have her trial,” the lord assured him. “But the people will get their revenge as well, aye?”

  “Nay,” Niall repeated. “Ye like me working with ye for my honor and I tell ye now: what ye ask me to do is unjust.”

  “I’ll do it, Father.” Alban entered the room with his arm bound in a sling and his shoulder bandaged with a swath a linen. “I’ll drag that whore in front of the crowd and let them do anything they want to her.”

  Lord Armstrong smiled at his son. “Verra well.” He lifted a brow at Niall. “Shall I have Alban help the lady dress as well?”

  Niall bit back a growl. He knew how Alban would get the lass from her clothes before ensuring the dress was on her. Witch or no, there wasn’t a woman alive who ought to endure such abuse.

  “I’ll see to it, my lord.” Niall bent to retrieve her discarded cloak. A lady would certainly not be in such weather without the heavy garment.

  With that, the Earl of Armstrong dismissed them both. Niall made his way to the dungeon with the damn kirtle tucked carefully over his arm, dreading ordering her to change into the garment. With the exception of Alban, Niall had never encountered issues with being obeyed. The clansmen had always respected him and listened without question.

  But lasses…he knew little about lasses, especially ones with a feisty spirit like Lady Leila. And while he hoped she would be easy and compliant, he suspected she’d be anything but.

  5

  Leila paced the narrow dungeon cell. The chill in the damp air sank through her trews and linen shirt, though she hardly felt it amid the torrent of her thoughts and emotions. What did they mean to do with her? Would they leave her to rot until the Lion came and finished her off?

  She looked down at her wrists. The ropes were still there, holding her hands with enough tension to keep her from freeing herself, but loose enough they did not hurt. Why had he done that?

  Footsteps sounded in the distance, the grit of stones beneath the wooden-soled shoes of a warrior echoing around her. Getting closer. She pressed herself to the wall, behind where the door opened. If she could take down the captor coming to see her, she could use his weapon to cut loose her bindings and flee.

  She hid and tried to keep her breathing smooth and even so it wouldn’t echo off the stone. Better for the person to think she was not there, to be momentarily confused so she could surprise them and attack.

  The footsteps stopped in front of her cell. Breathe in. Breathe out. Remain focused.

  Keys jangled together before one clinked in the lock. The door swung open, the ancient hinges squealing in protest. Leila tensed.

  A golden light filled her cell. A candle. He was inside.

  The door closed. Leila ran forward, slinging her elbow toward the man’s face, an awkward strike when her hands were bound, but far more powerful than a simple punch. The impact of it turned the Lion’s head. But the blow did not knock him down and he stood before the only means of escape.

  He rolled his jaw and regarded her with a flat expression. She flexed her muscles in preparation for being hit.

  “I’d prefer no’ to strike a woman,” he said in a smooth, nonchalant tone.

  Leila stepped back, uncertain what to do with such words. Were they a threat? He remained by the entryway and brought a stool into the room, where he set the candle down. He opened the door, careful to not put his back to her, and brought in another stool with cloth piled atop it. Once the items were settled in the cell, he pushed the door closed and locked it from a ring of keys at his waist.

  Leila regarded the folded cloth, something difficult to discern in the candlelight. The cloak beneath it, however, she recognized as her own.

  “I thought ye might be cold.” The Lion shrugged indifferently.

  Leila fought down a shiver, though due to the cold or fear, she did not know. She was trapped within a dungeon with the Lion. He stepped toward her and she had to steel every nerve in her body to keep from backing away from him.

  “Let me see yer hands.” His voice held a note of authority, even when softly spoke
n as it was now.

  Heart drumming hard in her chest, she lifted her bound hands. He settled his fingers over the knot and worked it loose. With great care, he unwrapped the rope from her wrists, then pulled something from a pouch at his side.

  Leila immediately recognized the stone jar as her own, the one with a healing balm in it.

  “It was from the basket ye dropped.” He lifted the top off and the sweet scent of herbs filled the dank dungeon cell. “I assume it is for healing.”

  Leila nodded.

  He dipped his fingers into the balm and smoothed it over the abrasions on her wrist. His hands were nearly twice the size of her own, and yet his touch was impossibly gentle. When he was done, he sealed the top on the pot and put it back into his pouch.

  “I canna have ye breaking it and killing a guard.” He lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug.

  “Thank you,” Leila said. “For this kindness. For my cloak.” Her gaze slid to the heavy garment. The wet cold had settled so deep into her bones that her whole body ached with it. She craved the weight of the cloak over her shoulders, blanketing her in warmth.

  “I have a kirtle for ye as well.” He indicated the blue garment folded on top of the cloak.

  She regarded what looked to be wool, then turned her wary gaze on him.

  He gestured to the kirtle again, the move awkward. It was not common to see a man who carried himself with such a commanding demeanor appear so uncomfortable. “Ye need to put it on.” He tilted his head. “To look like a lady.”

  Leila lifted her brow and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “No’ that ye’re no’ a lady.” His jaw clenched and he ran a hand through his long hair. “Put on the damn kirtle.”

  “I haven’t a lady’s maid to assist me.” In truth, her lady’s maid at Werrick Castle was a former laundress, Freya, who was also wife to the Master of the Horse. Leila needed no exceptional adornments or care outside having her hair scrubbed with Freya’s wonderfully soothing touch and having the laces done up on her gowns.

  A muscle in the Lion’s cheek twitched. “I can aid ye.”

  “You’re skilled with lady’s clothing then?”

  His brows furrowed. “Get on with it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ye’ve been told to don it.”

  “Why am I wearing it at all?”

  Something flashed in his eyes, something he hid quickly behind a blank stare.

  Leila took a step closer to him, so she was directly in front of him. She let her stare wander from the center of his chest up to his face. “Why do they want me to dress as a lady?”

  His hazel eyes were dark in the dim light, all those wonderful flecks of color muted into shadow. He studied her with a shielded expression before finally answering. “They wish to walk ye through the village to the prison at its center.”

  Lord Armstrong’s intent did not come as a surprise to Leila. Humiliation was exactly the kind of thing a man like him would afford a prisoner. The Lion’s honesty, however, did surprise her. He could have threatened to send Alban down to do the earl’s bidding. Instead, he had trusted her enough to tell her the truth.

  Leila reached for the carefully folded garment.

  “Ye’ll wear it?” he asked.

  She drew the kirtle toward her. The wool between her fingers was fine, tightly woven yet soft. It would be warm, especially beneath her cloak. “I’ve never been one for threats and lies.”

  The corner of his lip lifted. Or mayhap it was only her imagination, for as soon as she thought she’d seen it, his mouth was set in a firm line once more and he had turned his back to her.

  She rested her hands on the ties of her trews. “You trust me enough to put your back toward me for a length of time?”

  “I can care well enough for myself, lass.” The confidence was back in his tone, sure and unmistakable.

  She took advantage of the moment to let her eyes trail down him, to take in all of this man she would love; the man who would betray her. His shoulders were broad with muscle, his waist trim. The edge of his golden hair fell to his shoulder blades, imprinted with a slight wave.

  Leila pulled at the first fastening of her trews and realized she was trembling. This time, however, she knew for certain it had little to do with the cold and everything to do with the man.

  Niall found himself grateful for the chill in the air as Leila undressed behind him. Though he kept his back to her, he could imagine well enough what she looked like.

  And with her wearing men’s attire, clothing he was intimately familiar with, it was all too easy to imagine exactly what she was taking off. The drag and pop of the ties of trews slipping free. Three so far.

  Shhhk…pop.

  Make that four.

  Niall shifted his weight. The thick rustle of leather being peeled away from skin filled the small cell.

  Her legs, long and lean, were now bare. That pert arse of hers no doubt peeking from beneath the hem of her oversized leine. Niall gritted his teeth and tried to force the image away. Not that it worked. He’d have a better time swallowing a mouthful of Murdock’s dark hearty bread without a bit of ale than he did shoving those lusty thoughts aside.

  The cloth that followed was quieter, a whisper of temptation as the leine was lifted over her head and discarded. His heart pumped loudly in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound he shouldn’t have been straining to hear. She was naked behind him. Without a stitch of clothing on.

  Were her breasts bound?

  Surely, they were beneath the loose leine, or he’d have seen the pink of her nipples showing through the fabric. He had the sudden desire to cup her breasts in his hands and close his mouth over the cloth covering her nipples, to lick and tease until they pebbled beneath the wet fabric. Hard. For him.

  Like he was for her.

  Damn it.

  He adjusted his trews. This woman was a witch.

  The reminder was a douse of icy water to his lust. A witch like the one who had cursed his father. That wretched old woman had taken a life of a good man; the best man in all of England, Scotland…the whole world for that matter.

  A witch. He repeated it to himself again and balled his hands into fists.

  A witch. A witch. A witch.

  It was so difficult to separate Lady Leila, daughter to an English earl—a lady, despite what she wore—from a creature he knew he must hate. It was all the more difficult when she was so petite, so slender…

  “You may turn now.” Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He spun around with rage and loathing coursing through his veins, fully prepared to detest this woman.

  She held a hand to her chest and cast a modest glance up at him. “Do you truly mean to act as my lady’s maid?”

  He hesitated, ready to demand what she meant when she put her back to him and lifted her glossy dark hair off her neck.

  Niall’s mouth went dry.

  Merciful Heaven.

  The fabric gaped open on either side, revealing the smooth, delicate skin of her back. Her shoulder blades were fragile lines against her skin, framing the dip of her spine that led to the sensual curve of her lower back. Except the kirtle was secured further still. There, amid a crisscross of lacings partially done, was the swell of her finely formed arse. Dear God, help him.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “’Tis rather cold.”

  True to her word, small bumps, like those of a plucked goose, rose over her fair skin.

  Niall shook himself from his stupor and took the thin lacings in his hand. They were dainty things in his large clumsy hands. He managed to thread them through the first three loops. In his haste to dress her, to seal away the vision of her partially undressed form before him, his hand brushed her back.

  She jerked from his touch. Her shoulders snapped back and evidence of her strength showed in the flex of her lean muscle. Her body was slender, mayhap too much so. Most likely from her bout with the great illness. But her skin had been war
m to the touch; warm and soft.

  He wanted to take the pad of his middle finger and slide it down that sweet center of her back, to unravel the silky lacings as he went, to part the fabric. Would she shiver for him as she’d done with the cold?

  She glanced at him over her shoulder once more but said nothing. She didn’t need to. He was taking too long; he already knew as much.

  His gaze fixed on the loops set within the blue wool garment and concentrated on the lacing sliding through. He couldn’t keep staring at the loveliness of her naked back or he might end up taking the kirtle off. When finally he was done, he secured the gown with a knot.

  “Done,” he said gruffly and backed away.

  “Will you do my hair for me as well?” Leila turned around as she released her hold on her hair. The glossy dark tresses slid down like silk over her shoulders.

  Her breasts had been bound. The swell of her bosom was unmistakable against the fitted kirtle and generous enough to have shown in the simple leine she’d worn.

  She glanced down at herself and he realized he’d been staring for too long.

  “I like yer hair how it is.” He didn’t know why he said such a foolish thing. Mayhap because she was a lady, used to flattery. Mayhap to set her at ease. Mayhap because he couldn’t get the image of her naked with that beautiful hair spilling down her fair shoulders from his mind.

  She was disconcerting, this woman of noble birth who was rumored to be a witch. Everything in Niall told him to respect her for the lady she was, even as everything told him to hate her for the witch she was. Or rather, the witch she was accused of being. The Father Gerard from Edinburgh had already been sent for and her trial would occur upon his arrival, most likely in the next sennight.

  But the feelings she produced within Niall—the need to protect, mingled with his disgust of her accused crime and the blood-searing desire—left him addled in a way he did not enjoy.

  He shifted her neatly folded clothing on the bench to get her cloak for her. The warmth of her body lingered on the leather trews and heated his palm. A sweet scent of herbs rose from the garments. He grasped the cloak in his free hand and passed it to her.