Page 25 of The Guardian's Bride
“Aye, wear it that way. They will be looking for a woman in blue, not a gown the color of dirt or suchlike.”
She gave him a sour look and stood. “Turn away,” she said. He did, and heard the swish of cloth as she changed. “Will this do?”
He turned back. Now her gown was a drab color, with blue seams and blue hems. She had tugged her gray surcoat over it and buckled her narrow belt, looping the embroidered bag there. The low-slung belt emphasized the graceful swell of her hips, and the gray overdress had long side openings that showed how neatly the pale gown fitted the lush curves of breast, waist, hip.
“Gates of hell,” he said.
“What?” She looked up.
He flushed, wishing he had not said that aloud. “The gates of hell, some call the openings in the lady’s surcoat that show the gown and the—woman beneath.”
“Then look away,” she said crisply, smoothing her garments.
“Turn your cloak to the outside too. That darker plaid is good. Wear my plaid over it too.” He draped it over her shoulders once she swirled the cloak inside out. “The kerchief is good. Is it earned, or do you wear it for protection as an unmarried lady?”
“Earned,” she answered, shrugging into the layered plaids.
“You said you are widowed?” He said it too bluntly, and suddenly wondered why he had not married the Keith girl years ago. He had wanted it to happen. Recalling that Rowena had been about five when their betrothal was abandoned, she would be perhaps twenty-seven now, while he was thirty-six.
“My husband was lost at the siege of Stirling Castle,” she explained. “Captured and taken out in ropes.” She held up her tied wrists.
“I am sorry I put those on you. Was he sent back into the castle?” he asked quietly, knowing the rest—one of Edward Longshank’s worst cruelties toward the Scots.
“Aye. Edward ordered the Scottish prisoners back inside so he could use his new siege machine, his War Wolf, on the walls. My husband was killed.”
He sucked in a breath. “I understand all too well, for I lost my wife with the birth of our son five years back.” He did not share that readily, but felt comfortable giving it to her. But he wondered why a widow of good family had not remarried, as so often happened. Her healing work, perhaps. She was dedicated, he knew that.
“That must have been hard,” she said, and he nodded. “John and I were married only a few weeks. And after he died—I lost the child that had just begun.”
His heart surged. “Lady—”
“So I earned this veil. And it suits when I travel. Do you think they will be back soon?” she rushed on, looking through the gap.
“I hope not, but we should get away.” From the first, he had felt an urge to protect her, but that intensified with the bond he now felt. Fate had brought him together with the girl he had so wanted to find, who had captured his heart. He would honor that.
But he was not sentimental or foolish enough to reveal that to her. If what he felt growing within him, heart and soul, wassimply gratitude rather than infatuation—or love, if he could allow it—he could repay her by keeping her safe.
Yet he felt again the bewildering sense that angels were playing about, moving bits of his life around like pieces on a chessboard, and he, ignorant of the game. He was a pawn, a foot soldier jumping here or there to defend the queen—this lass.
“Come ahead,” he said. “The soldiers will look for a big man in plaid or a stolen red surcoat, and a woman in a blue gown and cloak. They will not be looking for a wren-colored wee wifey.”
“A what?” She blinked.
“I mean—you have a good guise,” he stammered.
“Wee wifey, is it.” She ducked her head to remove the veil, a length of pale gauzy linen. Aedan watched, baffled, as she twisted her long braids deftly around her head and secured them in place with pins pulled from somewhere. Then she wrapped the linen to cover her head, tossed the tail across her breast and over one shoulder, and gave him a beatific smile. “Better?”
Lord, aye. She was lovely, the veil a graceful halo around her face. Something tugged within his heart. “Good, then. Come on.”
She followed as he stepped through a hole in the wall to walk quickly into the forest. “What if we are stopped?”
“With this English gear, I look like any English knight. And you—” He tilted his head. What a beauty, vibrant even in drab colors. He could not quite think.
“Not your prisoner. Another guard could claim custody. Not a wee wren-colored wifey either.”
“Fair enough. The knight’s bonny Highland bride, will that do?A bheil Gàidhlig agad?Do you speak Gaelic?” He translated in case she did not.
“Beagan.” A little.
