The Wedding Dress. Kimberly Cates
Jared’s ragged nerves so often.
“I’d love to have a horse once my life settles down a bit,” Emma confided. “I adore Arlie, but…he’s definitely Sam’s baby. I want a baby of my own.”
Strange, Jared thought. Hadn’t the headlines on that gossip rag broadcasted that Emma didn’t want children to ruin her gorgeous figure and muck up her career? That was why her husband had left her, wasn’t it? But then, you could hire a groom to take care of a horse while you were gone for months at a time. And if you got tired of the commitment you could sell a horse. Children narrowed your options forever.
Guilt pinched Jared and he busied himself unlashing the bundle from the back of the saddle. He hated the feeling that he, too, was intruding into parts of Emma McDaniel’s life that were none of his business. He had plenty of baggage he’d never want to share. Knew firsthand that suffocating feeling of…
He cut off the thought as the bundle slid free.
“What’s that?” Emma asked, eyeing it with interest. “Some really long hot dogs for a picnic lunch…or breakfast. I keep forgetting what time it is.”
“I brought the swords along so you could practice here. We’re better off away from the site. We’d be a distraction. Here, we can bash around without a soul to hear us but old Snib. And I’d actually like to irritate him. He’s given me plenty of headaches himself.”
“Headaches?”
“Putting the fear of God in my students if they dare wander onto his property. Accusing them of everything from sheep stealing to highway robbery when the worst they’ve done is steal a kiss or two among the standing stones.”
“Why not stay right here? This brook would be a lovely place to…well, steal something besides sheep.”
Jared chuckled. “The standing stones are supposed to make men more potent and ladies fertile. There’s a story that when Lady Aislinn failed to conceive, she left offerings of flowers at the stones in desperation, hoping the spirit there would help her have a child.”
“Did it work?”
“No. But I figure it wasn’t the fault of the stones. It was more the fact that Lord Magnus was forever running off fighting for the English king.”
“I thought the Scots hated the English. Especially…” She paused a moment, her brow furrowing with concentration. “Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of the Scots.”
Surprised, Jared smiled in spite of himself. The lady had definitely done her homework. “King Edward didn’t get the name Hammer until much later, but say what you will about the man’s methods, he was canny as any fox. He gave Lord Magnus wealthy estates in England to buy his loyalty. Quite a dilemma for many Scots nobles. And our own king at that time had sworn fealty to Edward, so there were many who believed honor bound them to take up arms for England.”
“And you?”
Jared regarded her a moment, surprised.
“If you’d been Lord Magnus, what would you have done?”
“My idea of honor is a lot closer to Sir Brannoc’s. And speaking of the most notorious mercenary of his time—” He took one sword and handed it to Emma, his hand brushing hers as he transferred the hilt into her grip. He felt the weapon tug her arm down by its sheer weight.
She quickly added the grasp of her other hand. “My Lord! This thing weighs a ton!”
Jared raised an eyebrow. “My point exactly. Think if I ship one over to your director he’ll finally give this whole fight scene up?”
“No. And neither will I. It’s great conflict. So powerful. And it’s a brilliant symbol for all the strength Lady Aislinn has gained by the end of the script.”
“Have it your way then.” Jared sighed, taking up his own weapon. He ran his fingers down the flat of the blade, drawing from the familiar surface a sense of calm, of power, of invincibility. “Lay on, MacDuff. But when your whole body aches like a boil tomorrow, don’t complain to me.”
He lost himself in explanations, examples, demonstrating the simplest of fighting stances. He tried not to laugh as Emma’s skirts tangled about her legs, inhibiting her stride. In spite of that, she proved to be stubborn as any Scot Jared had ever known. Demanding that he repeat moves again and again, scoffing when even he—bastard that he was—suggested she rest a moment, take a drink from the wine sack he’d brought along.
As it happened, he could have used a moment to collect himself. Clear his mind of the distractions that had surprised him: the soft swells of breasts straining against cloth as she raised her arms to swing, the alluring curve of hip and narrow waist, as time and again he divested her of her sword.
She lunged and parried, thrust and gasped for breath, like one of the Valkyries in legends left in Scotland by Vikings invading ages ago. But time and again, Jared swept the sword out of her hands until at last she didn’t have the strength to lift it above her knees.
“See what I mean?” Jared said. “This whole sword-fight scenario is ludicrous. It’s impossible for Lady Aislinn to win.”
“Nothing…is…impossible.” She wheezed, bending over, bracing herself on the sword. “One day I’ll find a way to drop you like a rock. Just like Billy Callahan, the school bully.”
Jared looked her over. “You look like a stiff wind could blow you away.”
“It throws you arrogant caveman types off guard, and then—whamo. I get a perfect opening.” She slanted a “damn the duchess” glare up at him, but her eyes twinkled.
“Is that so?”
She straightened, still breathless, her breasts rising and falling from the exertion. “My grandfather served in special forces. When I was ten years old he taught me how to fight. Death shots and everything. Consider yourself warned, Butler.”
He grinned. “I’m pure terrified.”
“You should be. As soon as I find a way to use all that weight and upper-body strength against you in a sword fight, mister, you’re going to be on your butt in the dirt begging for mercy.”
A horrible yelp split the air from across the burn, followed by a cacophony of snarling that made the hairs on the back of Jared’s neck stand on end. Both horses skittered to one side. Emma caught her breath.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “What is that? It sounds like someone’s killing something.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Damned if she didn’t wade into the knee-deep water and slog toward the far bank!
“Emma, stay out of it! It’s just old Snib setting his dogs on some poor—”
She stumbled, fell, soaking her left side. Didn’t she know how wild the burn could be after a rainstorm? Full of swirling currents that could pull her under. Plunging after her seemed his only option.
That water was going to be so cold it would take care of any problems he might have being attracted to the woman. His ballocks were going to crawl up inside him and hide for a month!
He gritted his teeth on an oath as he plunged in after her, but she was already scrambling up the other bank. Just at that moment, the snarling tangle of what sounded to be canines boiled up over the rim of the valley that had concealed them thus far.
Snib’s two border collies were tearing into what looked to be a ball of mange not even half their size, as the crusty farmer with his tweed cap urged them on.
“Take the little devil, Shep and Digger. Snap his fool neck!”
Snib’s knobby old head suddenly jerked away from the fight, seeing the soaked woman stalking toward him with all the high dudgeon a straitjacket of wet wool skirts would allow.
“What the devil?” Snib swore. “You’re that film star person who—”
“Call off your dogs!”