Page 59 of Never Kiss a Scot
“Your favorites, then? We must have those.”
“Ach, but I want to know your favorites,” he said earnestly. “You choose the next one. And then I will do the one after that. We shall have a library built upon our favorites.”
For the next hour, she and Brock shared books and stories as they piled a massive stack on the counter for the owner to box up. The books would not all fit into the coach, so they would have to be delivered to the castle in a few days. Joanna snuck a few of their favorites into a small parcel and tucked it into the coach before they continued shopping.
After the bookshop, they bought some clothes at the modiste. Brock was insistent that she try on several dresses, and it took her an hour to realize he liked watching her face flush whenever she emerged from the curtain wearing something new. He insisted she buy a few of the ready-made gowns and order a few more to be made, particularly a riding habit. At one point, she saw him speak quietly with the modiste, a middle-aged Scottish woman named Agnes who blushed violently.
“What did you say to her?” Joanna asked as they arranged for the order to be placed on his account.
“That you needed a pair of breeches. ’Twill be much better for you to ride that way.”
“Breeches?” Joanna laughed, remembering his earlier comment that he would love to see her in them.
“I canna have my wife showing her pretty bare legs to all the men as we ride about, and I willna let my wife ride on a bloody sidesaddle. You canna enjoy riding when your spine is all twisted and you can barely stay on.”
She didn’t argue with him on that. The last few days she’d gotten so much more comfortable riding, both because of him and riding astride, that she would have dreaded going back to riding sedately on a sidesaddle. She would never be able to gallop or jump or do anything fun.
“Where would you like to go now?”
She studied the shops around them and saw one that carried toys in the window.
“That one!”
Brock followed her into the shop, which sold a mix of toys, lovely woven tartan shawls, and jewelry. She studied the dolls carefully, trying to imagine little Elsbeth holding something new and beautiful rather than the rag she’d been carrying about. Then she found a set of toy soldiers for Camden and some for the other boys from the other tenant families.
“Do you think they’ll like them?” She gestured to the large pile of dolls and other toys. She’d perhaps run a bit wild in the shop, but the thought of the children of the tenants having new toys to play with was incredibly important. It would give them some joy while they faced the hard times ahead until she and Brock could arrange for better housing and turn the crop yield higher.
“Aye, lass, you’ve too big a heart.” His rough voice matched the sweet fire in his eyes as he pulled her to him in a kiss that made the shopkeeper grumble and look away.
It was nightfall when they finished their shopping and stopped by an inn for dinner. The inn’s common room was full of men and a few ladies. A hush fell upon the crowd as Brock led her to one of the empty tables. Joanna felt a sudden tension thicken the air around them. Hard stares and dark-edged mutterings from some of the meaner-looking men made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
“Pay them no mind, lass,” Brock said as he shot a fierce glare back at the men.
She couldn’t help but wonder what was happening. During their shopping, none of the people had seemed upset, yet here they were. Why?
A tavern maid brought them two glasses of wine and two plates of beef stew and bread. Joanna enjoyed the simple fare, despite her worries about the tension around them. Brock ate silently, his congenial mood gone, and that only worried her more. They paid for their meal and headed outside, where she waited for him to have their coach readied.
A tall man, a little leaner than Brock, came outside behind her and walked down the side of the inn. He glanced at her once before he vanished around the corner. A voice rose up inside her, whispering for her to take care. She had always listened to that instinct whenever it made itself known.
She kept a vigilant watch as a dozen other men exited the inn and followed the first man around the corner. All of them quite clearly looked at her—this was not some casual glance. Trouble was brewing. She just didn’t know yet how it would manifest itself.
When Brock returned with the coach, she mentioned the men and her concerns. He pulled her onto his lap in the coach and kissed her.
“Dinna worry, lass. ’Tis nothing, I am sure.” When he set her down on the seat beside him, she saw him touch his boot, and she remembered after so many days of traveling with him on the road that he kept a slim dagger there.
They were halfway home when Joanna heard rolling thunder. Only it wasn’t truly thunder, but a herd of horses. Someone was following them.
Brock said with a growl, “Lass, I need you to remain calm and stay inside this coach. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered, but her voice betrayed her, breaking on the single word.
Someone outside shouted in Gaelic, and the coach jerked to a sudden stop. If Joanna hadn’t been prepared, she would’ve been thrown forward into the wall opposite her. Brock slipped the knife from his boot, the blade gleaming in the moonlight as he opened the coach door and leapt out, leaving her alone. She heard their coach driver shout, and the sound was muffled a second later. Fear shredded her nerves, and she bit her lip, listening in the darkness.
“Ewan, you bloody coward!” Brock’s bellow ricocheted off the coach.
“Iam the coward?” the man shouted back. “’Tis you and your family who are the cowards. Aye, we know the truth now. My father died fighting for a free Scotland, betrayed byyourfather.” Shouting dissolved into the sounds of curses and scuffling.
Joanna pushed back the door’s curtain and peered outside. She could see a dozen or so men struggling to catch hold of Brock in the fading light as the sun sank below the trees. He swung his blade with precision, cutting the arms of any who came too close. She had never seen violence before, not like this, but she had been right about Brock. He was indeed the warrior she believed him to be. None of the other men were a match for him, but he couldn’t fight them all, not forever. He soon disappeared beneath a pile of bodies, and Joanna shoved a fist into her mouth to stifle a terrorized cry.
