She smiled and yawned. She loved the fathomless pitch and the melodious burr of his heritage. Oh, she wanted to hear him speak all night, for the rest of her life. But she was sleepy. She wasn’t sure if she’d even been aware of him shifting to his back and pulling her close under his arm.

  She rested her head on his chest and heard his heartbeat and fell asleep while he told her of a knight called Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s nephew, who favored courtliness and love over martial valor. Rose liked this Sir Gawain and wanted to hear more about him…tomorrow.

  She fell asleep in his arms and didn’t dream at all.

  The morning came soon and found Rose alone in bed. She opened her eyes and looked up just as the door opened and Tristan took a tray from the innkeeper and stepped around him into the room. The innkeeper tried to look around Tristian’s body, but was unable and finally startled at the door being slammed in his face.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling at Tristan as he approached the bed with a tray of food.

  “Mornin’,” he brooded then glared at the door. “I dinna know where I’m findin’ the patience not to punch the innkeeper’s teeth oot.”

  Rose laughed softly into her hand and then smiled at him and the food when he turned his emerald gaze on her.

  “When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see that you had left me.”

  “I was just ootside the door the entire time. I called to the innkeeper and he came to me.”

  Was he beginning to care for her, or was his concern due only to the fact that he’d saved her so he felt responsible for her? She would find out today when she asked him if he would take her home when he was done in Dumfries. Not to her home, but to his.

  She would write to her father, telling him what had happened and that she was going to travel a bit with Tristan. “What is your family name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t know.

  “MacPherson.”

  “Oh, ’tis a bonnie name.”

  He gave her a black look. “Bonnie?”

  “Aye. MacPherson,” she practiced, repeating it. “It sounds pretty coming out.”

  “Eat.”

  Breakfast was poached eggs and salmon with black bread and freshly churned butter and honey. She didn’t eat too much and was finished before him.

  She watched him chew his bread while she dressed in her kirtle. It was one piece, slightly fitted, with long sleeves that covered her knuckles. It had been yellow. Now it was stained with dirt and sweat, and God knew what else. How could Tristan even look at her? Her hair hadn’t been cleaned in a sennight. She needed a bath. She didn’t want to ask him for yet another thing, and one he would have to pay for if she had a bath here.

  “Rose,” he said, taking a swig of his mead. “Why d’ye look sad?”

  She realized she was frowning and stopped. “My gown is filthy.” She swallowed the rest.

  His gaze roved over her long enough to make her feel even more aware of her disgusting appearance.

  “Ye look fine.” He blinked his gaze away and stood up. “Are ye ready to go?”

  She nodded and hurried into her shoes. She grabbed her mantle, which was even more soiled than her kirtle, and left the room with him.

  It was early and not many people were about as Rose and Tristan headed for their horses. A loud bell rang out once. It came from the glorious cathedral a short distance away. Rose had read about cathedrals. She’d never been in one before.

  “Can we go inside the church, Tristan?” she pleaded from her saddle. “I want to pray for your soul.”

  “How can I refuse then?”

  She beamed at him. “You cannot.”

  “We will be quick.”

  “Aye,” she vowed with a playful grin. “But this is your soul we are praying for. It may take a little while.”

  He threw her a smirk and set his horse toward the cathedral.

  Rose was so glad he’d agreed. The structure was like nothing she had ever seen before. Rebuilt about a hundred years ago with rows of lancet windows framed by slender columns and carved moldings, it was the perfect image of English Gothic craftsmanship.

  The inside took her breath away. Every sound echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling. A gloriously huge east window was crafted in stained glass. The sun shone through it, painting the inside in shafts of green, blue, and red. They sat for a little while in one of the polished wooden benches while Rose wept softly, overcome by the magnificence around her and the love and dedication for God that had gone into seeing it built. There was a crypt below, built by St. Wilfred in the seventh century that they visited. Tristan waited patiently while she touched ancient walls and spoke with a priest about the cathedral’s history.

  They finally left with Rose feeling a new sense of hope that all would be well. She had survived the Black Death. She met Tristan, her dream, but evil men’s nightmare. Oh, she believed they were evil, just as Tristan had said. He would never kill men who hadn’t done terrible things. She had slept at an inn and she had sat inside a beautiful one hundred-year-old church. What other wonderful adventures did this day hold?

  She found out a few moments later when, instead of leading them out of the town, Tristan brought them to the market.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him as they rode past shops and vendors selling chickens dead and alive, metal lanterns, herbs, fabrics, everything all in one place. Rose steered her mount through the market, fascinated.

  “It doesna appear as if the sickness has been here,” Tristan pointed out, looking around.

  “Does it normally skip over places?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “The pestilence does what it wants. Ah, here.” He stopped his horse and dismounted in front of small vendor selling different scented soaps.

  “Pick something,” he told Rose while he remained alert, looking around.

  She held many pieces to her nose. Some scents she recognized, like rose and sandalwood. Some she had only smelled once or twice, like the jasmine soap she chose. The fragrance was very light, but fresher than the others.

  “Now I only need water,” she told Tristan playfully when he paid for the soap.

  “I’m certain we will find some.”

  He walked their horses with her at his side to a small shop with a sign hanging over the door. Painted on the sign was a needle and a piece of thread.

  Tristan stepped inside first and looked around then beckoned her to follow. Three men sat at tables sewing by the light of nearby candles.

  “Can ye make her a gown?” Tristan asked them, moving toward the first tailor to set down his needle.

  The tailor looked her over and smiled. “Of course.”

  “How long will it take? An hour? Less?” Tristan asked them. Rose covered her mouth with her hand and smiled. He was positively adorable.

  The tailor didn’t seem to agree. He practically bristled in his perfectly fitted doublet. “I have to measure her and sew—”

  The shop door opened and a girl who was a few years younger than Rose walked inside carrying a skein of fabric.

  “Good morn, Papa, Uncles.”

  She walked by the tables and gaped a little at Tristan before she caught Rose’s dark glare on her.

  “Wait!” Tristan stopped her. The girl blushed and looked at her father. “I will give ye two pieces of silver fer yer dress.”

  Rose almost stopped him but the dress was so pretty. The kirtle was light purple beneath a heather-colored overdress. Gold stitching decorated the square, semi-low neckline and long, tapered cuffs. A thin braided rope circled her waist and fell down one thigh. It fit the tailor’s daughter well, and she was about the same size as Rose.

  Rose would see every penny paid back to Tristan once she was home.

  The girl looked to her father again and then began to shake her head.

  Rose stepped forward and told her something in her ear. The girl blushed a second time. “Very well,” she said, her gaze darting to her father. “It will be well, Papa. I can wear one of your old tunics back to the house. You have many in the back room.”

  Tristan slid a dark look to the tailor, warning him silently not to refuse. The tailor didn’t.

  “Do you want to wear the dress now?” the girl asked Rose, holding back the curtained wall to the back.

  Tristan shook his head. “She will be carryin’ it fer now. We will wait here while ye change.”

  The tailor’s daughter smiled at him and nodded then disappeared behind the curtain wall.

  “You are from the north,” the girl’s father said, looking at Tristan.

  “Aye.”

  “How are things there? Has the plague hit?”

  “Nae, as far as I know there have been none affected. But ’tis travelin’. ’Tis in Crawford, north of here.”

  All three tailors clapped their hands together to pray.

  The girl returned with the kirtle and overdress and handed them over to Rose. In turn, Tristan paid the girl two silver pieces, but instead of leaving, she waited for more.

  Rose tugged on his sleeve and whispered in his ear. “You have to kiss her hand.”

  He pulled back and stared at her with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Oh, do I?”

  She gave him an apologetic smile and brought her fingernail to her mouth to bite it. “I wanted the dress.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at her then turned to the girl with the residue of a smile still on his lips.

  Was it odd to call a man beautiful, glorious?

  “Alas,” he said, letting his smile fade on the girl. “Kissin’ hands is known to spread the Black Death.” The tailor’s daughter gasped. She backed up and set her gaze on the dress now in Rose’s hands.

  “But a quick embrace,” Tristan said, dragging her attention back to him, “is quite safe.”

  The girl smiled and let Tristan close his arms around her. The tailor balked. Rose tried to keep from biting her lip along with her finger. She was sorry she made the deal for him. She wanted to take his hand and pull him away. But this was her idea, so she smiled and almost swallowed her tongue.

  When he was finally done, he turned back to Rose, took her hand and left.

  She had to admit, she liked the feel of his callused hand around hers. She liked the way he simply took it, as if he had every right to. As if she were his.

  Oh, she feared she was in trouble. Would her father put aside that Tristan was a hired killer if she told him all the things he had done for her? Surely her father would understand how she could fall for Tristan.

  They mounted their horses and left the town and traveled south along a sun-dappled river. It was a lovely day and Rose was thinking about how much she missed riding with Tristan when they entered a denser line of trees concealing the sun-splashed river.

  Tristan rode to the bank and dismounted. “D’ye want a bath?” he asked her when she reined in and followed suit.

  “A bath?” she asked. “In the river?”

  “’Tis water.”

  True enough. She wanted adventure. Bathing in a river was as adventurous as she’d ever been. And oh, but she wanted a bath.

  “But I do not know how to swim.”

  He gave her a slightly pitying look. “Ye can walk in and go as far as ye want to go. I will go in first and show ye. Aye?”

  “What about fish and…things.”

  “Nothin’ will go near ye, lass. Splash around if ye are unsure.” He gave her a more reassuring smile and then began removing his weapons and clothes.

  She should not have kept looking. Not out here with the sun shining down on the carved muscles around his shoulders down to his tapered waist. She finally turned her head in the other direction completely when he unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the grass.

  She waited until he entered the water then tore her filthy kirtle from her body and tossed it aside. She removed her hose, garters, and shoes but left her chemise on until she went into the water.

  On the way in, she looked over at his clothes and saw his braies discarded in the grass. He was naked in the water. She blushed all the way to her roots. Should she stay away from him? How far? She wanted to take off her chemise and scrub it, but now she didn’t know what to do.

  He smiled as if reading her thoughts.

  “Dinna fear, Rose. I willna bite ye.”

  She smiled, almost wishing he would.

  Chapter Six

  Tristan left the water and felt Rose’s eyes on him as he walked away toward his horse. He didn’t care that she looked. He liked it actually. He hoped she liked what she saw. He didn’t have scrawny legs. In fact, he thought he was in good physical condition.

  He knew he was a fool for allowing himself to think of anything of a sexual nature with her. He needed to put some clothes on and keep his eyes off her. He had more clothes packed in a sack tied to his saddle. He wasn’t able to wear fresh clothes every day, but he tried to keep a set clean and ready to wear once a sennight. The clothes he’d been wearing would be laundered in Thornhill and ready to wear again in the next sennight.

  He snapped a short tunic of dyed indigo in the air then fit it over his head. Next he stepped into a fresh pair of braies and woolen tights. He missed his younger days of wearing just his plaid on the glens of Invergarry while he tended sheep with his cousins. They’d been children, he, the oldest. Why was he thinking of those days now? It had been nice seeing Elias last year. He’d like to see everyone else. Mayhap when he was done with Callanach, he would go home for a little while.

  He shook the dust out of his waist-long doublet and carried it, Rose’s new dress, and her dirty mantle back to the river.

  She was still bathing, scrubbing her hair with her soap. He thought he heard her humming. Her eyes were closed. She was smiling.

  Sitting on the rocks to pull on his boots, he wondered what she was thinking. She looked happy. Happy to be outside and not imprisoned behind castle walls most likely. He was glad she was enjoying herself. She’d been through much.

  He left the rocks and bent to pick up his dirty clothes and watched her lean backward to rinse the soap from her hair. Straightening, he stared at her sunlit face gloriously presented, without the added beauty of her dark, cascading waves and thought she was the bonniest lass he’d ever seen.

  She straightened and opened her eyes. Her gaze settled on him right away. Her smile widened and she waved. He waved back, trying desperately not to grow faint of heart over her. He’d never loved a lass. In battle, he had no weakness. But lately, he found himself thinking about settling down like Elias had with Lily. Like his sister had with her husband. So many of them. Was he next? Was Rose the lass who would change him and bring him back from the roiling, tempest seas that had claimed him? Was he just sick for home? What if he brought her home with him?

  “Would you mind turning around while I get out?” she called to him.

  He didn’t want to, but he did. He gathered his weapons and walked back to the horses. He waited—thinking about what she was doing. How she looked doing it, bare of any clothes—

  “Tristan?”

  He turned at the sound of her voice.

  “It fits.” She beamed and twirled around in her place.

  “Perfectly,” he told her, unable to keep from smiling, from staring at her, arrested by the sight of her. He shouldn’t let this be happening. It put her at risk to love someone like him. But he was selfish and allowed himself this time to admire her.

  Her gaze dipped to the rest of him and a rosy flush swept across her cheeks. “Your garments fit perfectly, as well.”

  Shockingly—alarmingly, he let out a throaty chuckle! Was it too late to turn back?

  “You have been so kind to me, Tristan, even staying at an inn for me. I know you did not want to.”

  Sometimes he didn’t know what to say to her. She was too generous with her compliments and kind words to him. He didn’t want them. They weakened his resolve, as did everything else about her.

  “’Twas a simple request ye made, lass,” he told her in a low voice. “’Twas easy to see it fulfilled.”

  “I’m sure ’twas more than that,” she said playfully, dipping her dripping head and slanting her gaze and her smile at him.

  “Oh?” Hell, but she smelled good, slightly floral and fresh.

  “Aye. Admit it.”

  With her full locks wet and slicked back, she intoxicated him. He shouldn’t play these games with her. He would lose. He wanted to kiss her. He could almost taste her teasing mouth. But what would it mean to her? To him? He couldn’t. He murdered men in their beds, inside their well-guarded fortresses, sometimes in front of their families. He wasn’t all the things she thought. He was far from them.

  “I admit that ye can be hard to resist. That is all, Rose.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh as she turned and went to her horse. “Very well, Tristan. But I know you like me.”

  He drew in a long breath then smiled. She was tearing through his defenses like a battering ram. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to stop.

  They set out toward Thornhill, riding slowly alongside each other on the way. He didn’t deny her charge. He did like her. What was he to do about it?

  “I will need to keep ye someplace safe until I’m done killin’ Walters,” he told her. “Mayhap tonight we will get another bed somewhere.”

  “That would be nice. I enjoyed our last night together.”

  As did he. He wanted to tell her but doing so drove him deeper into the chasm. What would he do if he fell in love with her?

  “Do you think you can control yourself again and not kiss me?”

  Was she teasing, or serious? What did it matter when he was choking on his own breath? “I…” he shook his head and began again. “Aye. I do.”

  Her smile faded just the tiniest bit. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you not find me pleasing? Because I was sick? Because I—”

  “Lass,” he silenced her softly. “I do find ye pleasin’. Trust me, that isna what keeps me from ye.”