The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) Read online

  Did she think he’d never gotten dirty before? Or objected to a little manual labor every now and then? He wasn’t uptight, damn it. She should have seen him digging pits and trenches for Hawk when he’d come back from England. The famed seafarer descended from Viking pirates had made Randolph eat his comment about not wanting to fight like a brigand in dirt.

  He’d been lucky to be forgiven at all. His youth and the fact that he’d been taken prisoner had worked in his favor. Alex Seton, the former member of the Guard who’d turned traitor a couple of years ago, didn’t have that excuse. Randolph pitied him if Hawk and the others ever got ahold of him.

  Both his smile and spine were stiff as he turned to the prioress. “I insist. What do you need me to do?”

  The prioress told him, and it took everything Randolph had not to mutter the curse that sprang to his lips.

  The old nun had to be kidding! But she wasn’t; he could tell by the way the woman at his side was trying not to laugh.

  Isabel walked out of the hall and came back a minute later, carrying a pile of linen in her arms. “Here,” she said, holding out what appeared to be an old apron. “You might want to wear this.”

  She wasn’t smiling, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said tightly.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. But that leather cotun won’t be easy to clean, and the scent…”

  “Izzie,” he said darkly, cutting her off. If she was surprised by the use of the diminutive, she didn’t show it.

  She blinked up at him a little too innocently. “Yes?”

  “Shut up.” He marched outside, but not before starting to work the buckles of his cotun.

  Isabel was trying not to laugh as she handed him the shovel—truly she was—but the jest possibilities were endless, including the one he made without intending to do so.

  “This is what you volunteered to help with—shoveling shite?” he said incredulously, taking the implement from her.

  She lifted a brow at his choice of words; dung or manure sounded much nicer. He had no idea the self-restraint she exercised to refrain from pointing out that surely “shoveling shite” was something he was used to.

  But she didn’t need to point it out; he read her thoughts easily enough, and his eyes narrowed to two piercing green daggers. His eyes turned very green when he was angry, she’d noticed. They were green a lot when he looked at her.

  She might have been intimidated if she wasn’t concentrating so hard on not bursting into laughter. The great Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, in his shirtsleeves, slinging manure. What had she done to be so rewarded? She only wished she had an artist here to paint a picture so that she might immortalize the event forever.

  “Don’t blame me,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I tried to warn you.”

  “Next time try harder—and mention the word fertilize.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a bairn. There is no one here to see you toiling in the muck, and you certainly don’t need to impress me. I know this doesn’t have the glamor and shine of your usual heroic deeds, but it will all wash off, and you’ll be all shimmery again in no time.” She grinned. He must have realized she was teasing him because his jaw didn’t lock and his mouth didn’t pull into that familiar tight line. “Come, my lord, surely you know how to get a little dirty?”

  “I know how to get plenty dirty but not in a garden.”

  Her brows drew together. She didn’t understand. “My lord?”

  He held her gaze and the hot, wicked look in his eyes led her to what he meant. Led her rather hotly and with far too many bodily twinges. Her stomach seemed to dance with a dip and a flip. Her cheeks flamed, and this time it was she who stiffened, pretending not to understand.

  She heard him laugh when she turned and started on her own pile.

  She couldn’t say that she regretted his offer. With Randolph’s help—especially with the tasks that required physical strength like lugging the carts back and forth to be filled in the barn and then returned to where they were working in the garden—the work that would have taken all day was finished in a matter of hours.

  But it was more than that. Once the shock wore off, Randolph dove right in—to the job, not the dung—and took to the work with enthusiasm and zeal. He was a good laborer. The earl could proudly stand toe-to-toe with any farmer, ploughman, or villein. He didn’t only know how to get dirty—she blushed recalling his earlier boast—he knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the first time he’d fertilized a garden or done “menial” labor, and oddly the outdoor work suited him. When he put aside all the knightly bravado and perfection, she liked him. Maybe too much. The way her heart fluttered in his vicinity alarmed her. She almost wished she could go back to just seeing him as the larger-than-life legend in the making.

  As the day progressed, he became noticeably more relaxed, jesting good-naturedly with the nuns, and even—she couldn’t believe it—teasing her about her apron. “It’s getting a little saturated.” He sniffed. “Shall I fetch you a new one or have you grown used to the stench?”

  She might have thrown something at him by accident. The clop of dirt—well, mostly dirt—landed right in the middle of his chest, but he didn’t seem to care. He only laughed.

  Blighter. She had told him that he didn’t need to impress her, but she hadn’t thought that she would care that he was seeing her looking so decidedly unglamorous. Not that she ever looked glamorous, but still!

  That brought up one more reason why she didn’t regret his offer to help. The view. It was spectacular. He was spectacular. Perhaps all those fawning admirers weren’t so silly. She’d seen men in their shirtsleeves before but few—any?—could compare with the king’s nephew. It was a warm day, and with the strenuous work, he got a little sweaty, and his shirt became a little damp and clingy, revealing the impressive bunches and bulges of muscle as he flexed. His chest was like a shield of steel—if there was fat anywhere she couldn’t see it—and his arms…

  Good gracious, his arms! They were sway-inducing, as she had discovered more than once. She felt a little light-headed every time he lifted something. Big and strong, they were the fodder of fantasies she didn’t even know she had. Worse, she could recall too easily how they felt wrapped around her, holding her up.

  Izzie knew she was in trouble. The amused indifference she’d felt toward her cousin’s soon-to-be betrothed wasn’t there anymore. It had started to change with that kiss, but had become far worse after today—first with Annie, and now seeing him like this.

  But he wasn’t for her—whether she could control her fluttering heart or not—nothing had changed about that. She needed to stay away from him if she didn’t want to cause herself a lot of misery.

  As soon as they were finished, she practically ran down to the large pond that was fed by the Leith River to wash as much of the muck off herself as she could. She would have to bathe, of course, but she could hardly go walking through town covered in shi—dung. She’d removed the stained apron and was kneeling on a large flat rock poised over the edge of the water trying to wash the worst off her face and hands when she sensed someone behind her.

  She tensed, knowing who it was before she turned.

  “Looks like we had the same idea,” he said with a smile. “When I came back from returning the cart and you were gone, I thought you might have left.”

  Was she imagining the relief in his voice? Had he been disappointed to think she’d left without saying good-bye? God, she was a fool.

  She plastered what she hoped was a careless smile on her face and said, “I thought I’d better wash the worst of it off before I returned to the abbey, or they might bar the door against me.”

  “Aye, even at camp where the stench is less than pleasant most of the time, I figured I’d better do the same.”

  He knelt beside her. The rock wasn’t that big and his side brushed hers, as he washed his hands with the harsh effi