He hesitated, shook his head, and then suddenly blurted, "Come to Sinclair with me after ye deliver yer message."
Now it was Joan's turn to go still. She stared back at him silently, her mind suddenly abuzz. He had mentioned the possibility of her working as a healer at Sinclair at the first tavern they'd stopped at in Scotland. But that had been two weeks ago now and he hadn't mentioned it since . . . until now. Although, this time he hadn't said anything about her working.
"As a healer or as your mistress?" she asked quietly.
"I do no' care, I just ken I do no' want this to end," he said quietly, caressing her cheek with the fingers of one hand. "I need ye, Joan."
She lowered her eyes unhappily, wondering what she'd hoped he would say in answer to her question. Had she hoped he'd ask her to come to Sinclair as his mistress? As a skilled healer who would be valued? Or as a wife?
In the end, though, it didn't matter what she'd hoped for, Joan supposed. The truth was, the last two weeks had been the best of her life. They'd set out late, stopped early, traveled at a snail's pace and had made love at every opportunity, turning a journey that could have been accomplished in three days at speed, into a two week orgy of pleasure. It hadn't just been their lovemaking that had brought the pleasure; talking, laughing, bathing, walking and even eating had been pleasurable with this man. There had never been a time in Joan's life when she'd laughed as much, or smiled so often. Her cheeks actually ached by day's end from all the laughing and smiling they did on a daily basis. She couldn't imagine a life more wonderful than one spent with this man.
But she couldn't have him. She was a commoner, he a noble. The best she could hope for was to be his mistress, existing on the fringes of his life, waiting for him to come visit her and bring her to life. Joan would be miserable in that existence, and even more miserable when he tired of her and stopped visiting. Then she would suffer endlessly, watching him with other women. Perhaps he would even eventually give in to his parents' pressure and marry again, having children, grandchildren . . . No. She simply couldn't do it. She wouldn't put herself through that.
Letting her breath out on a small sigh, Joan met his gaze and repeated what she'd said earlier. "Everything comes to an end, Cam."
"Not this," he said at once.
Joan hesitated, but then pushed herself up off him. Realizing the plaid had come with her leaving him in naught but his shirt, she untangled herself from it, intending to drop it back on him, but he was already on his feet.
Catching her arms he pulled her close and kissed her gently. He then rested his forehead on hers and whispered, "Not this, Joan. I do no' want this to end."
"But I do," she said quietly and he jerked his head back as if she'd struck him. Joan almost apologized and explained that she didn't mean that she really wanted it to end so much as she didn't want it to continue and then end. Before she could, however, the sound of someone clearing their throat distracted them, and they both turned their heads toward the direction of the sound.
Joan stared blankly at the man standing on the edge of the small clearing they'd stopped in last night. As tall and wide as Cam, but dark-haired where he was fair and perhaps a couple decades older, the man eyed them with an expression that was part uncertain welcome and part discomfort.
"Laird MacKay," Cam said, releasing Joan and turning to face the man. " 'Tis a pleasure to see ye again."
Joan's eyes widened as she recognized the name of the man she'd traveled so far to see. This was the MacKay her mother had wanted her to deliver a message to.
"And fer me," Ross MacKay said, though Joan couldn't help noticing that his eyes danced away from them as he spoke the words.
Cam didn't seem to notice, however, and asked, "What are ye doin' wanderin' yer woods at this hour?"
"The men on the wall reported seeing a fire in the night," Ross said quietly. "So a couple men and meself set out this morning to see what was about."
Joan glanced sharply to Cam. It had been mid-afternoon when he'd decided they should stop the day before. He must have wanted one more afternoon and evening with her, she realized, because they had to be very close to MacKay for the small fire they'd built the night before to be seen. Close enough that they hadn't needed to stop at all. She supposed she should be angry that he hadn't told her they were so close and continued on, but she wasn't.
"Where are your men and horse?" Cam asked.
"We left the horses back a ways and searched on foot fer yer camp. I did no' want to warn any enemies o' our arrival. But when I saw 'twas ye and the lad here, I sent the men back to fetch our horses."
The MacKay definitely looked uncomfortable as he gestured to Joan. It was his calling her lad that reminded her she was disguised as a boy. While Cam had removed his plaid to wrap around them both to sleep and was now wearing naught but a shirt that barely covered his naughty bits, she had pulled her clothes on before going to sleep to help fight the cold night, including her hat which her hair was stuffed up under. She understood the man's discomfort now. He'd come upon them embracing, and sex between males was considered a mortal sin by the church, punishable by death.
Joan tugged her hat off, allowing her fair hair to spill down over her shoulders and back. Only then did Cam say, "Ross, this is Joan. She saved me life when I was stabbed by a bandit and tended me until I recovered. When I learned she was on her way to MacKay to deliver a message to yerself and yer lady wife, I offered to escort her safely here."
"Oh, thank bloody hell fer that," the MacKay breathed with relief, his stance relaxing. Shaking his head he admitted, "I was fretting o'er what to do. I ken damned right well one o' me men would ha'e reported ye to the priest to save himself a couple hail Marys and then . . ." He shook his head, and strode forward, hand extended. "I'll take the message and then leave ye two be. It looked as if I was interruptin' something when I made me presence known."
"Oh," Joan glanced at his hand, but didn't pull the scroll out of her shirt where it rested. Instead she said apologetically, " 'Tis addressed to Lady MacKay. My mother said you were welcome to read it as well, but that I should ensure Lady MacKay read it first."
"I shall see she gets it then," the MacKay assured her, hand still out.
Joan hesitated, but then shook her head. "My mother was very specific that I deliver it into Lady MacKay's hands myself."
He started to frown at her refusal, but then surprise crossed his face as her words seemed to register. "Yer mother?"
"The message is from her mother. She was on her deathbed when she gave it to Joan," Cam explained, and then added solemnly, " 'Tis a deathbed request and 'tis sure I am Joan wants to follow her mother's instructions to the letter and deliver it to yer wife in person."
The MacKay frowned over that, and then pursed his lips and asked, "Who's yer mother, lass?"
"Maggie Chartres," Joan answered promptly.
"Maggie Chartres?" Ross repeated, and it was obvious he didn't recognize the name.
"She was a healer," Cam offered helpfully, but the man merely shook his head. It wasn't ringing any bells for him.
"In Grimsby," Joan added, hoping that might help, but the man shook his head again and then sighed.
"Well, ye'd best come back to the keep with us then and deliver it to Annabel and I together as requested," he said solemnly, then glanced to Cam and teased, "Ye might want to put yer plaid on first, Campbell. The women'll already be all atwitter over the way we found ye when the men start in gossiping about it. There's no need to give 'em a show to further excite 'em."
Cam scowled at the teasing and knelt to grab and shake out his plaid, then begin pleating it. He was nearly done when several men rode into the clearing with the MacKay's horse. Joan was extremely glad she'd revealed herself as a girl when she saw the expressions on their faces. They'd obviously seen her and Cam embracing too and come to all the wrong conclusions. Their reactions to learning she was female varied from relief to lascivious grins.
Aware that she was blushi
ng, Joan began to wring her cap in her hands and lowered her head to watch Cam work.
"Stop gawking and saddle Laird Sinclair's horse fer him while he dresses," the MacKay barked suddenly.
Joan gave a start at the harsh order, but nodded and turned to hurry across the clearing to where Cam had tied the horse's reins to a tree, but the MacKay caught her arm as she passed, bringing her to a halt as he said kindly, "I was talking to me men, lass."
"Oh," she murmured, noting only then that two of the men had dismounted to rush to do their laird's bidding. One grabbed the saddle and set about putting it on, while the other collected both Cam's bag and her own and carried them over, waiting to hook them to the saddle.
"Maggie Chartres from Grimsby," MacKay murmured suddenly, and Joan glanced to him hopefully. She was rather curious herself to know how her mother knew this powerful laird and his wife, but she could tell at once from his expression that the name still hadn't sparked any memories. Meeting her gaze, the MacKay looked her over and asked, "Do ye favor her in looks?"
"I don't think so," Joan said apologetically.
"Are ye sure?" he asked, examining her features. "Ye put me in mind o' someone." He frowned. " 'Tis wiggling at the back o' me mind like a worm, but I can no' put me finger on it yet."
Joan frowned but said, "My mother had dark hair and green eyes rather than my fair hair and gray eyes, and no one ever said we looked alike. I think I must have taken my looks from my father."