The door whipped openfaster than Shabib imagined, and he stepped back in surprise. The woman at the door was the MacMillan woman, Lena’s cousin.
Stray locks of her honey-brown hair escaped her calf-colored kerchief from her labors of the day, but her silvery-blue eyes sparkled brightly with interest.
“Ye are Black Douglas’s man, aye?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Shabib clasped his hands before himself and gave a deep bow.
“Yes, milady. May I ask if your cousin, Lena, was in the house?”
The woman’s chest inflated as she gazed at Shabib down her nose, licking her lips.
“Och, so ‘tis like that, is it?”
Shabib couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his lips with her suggestive question. He dipped his head to her.
“Yes, it’s like that. Do you think — I mean, would Lena be —?”
She held up her hand.Thank Allah. He felt like a green stable lad, unable to form the question to ask after Lena.
“Lena!” the woman hollered over her shoulder into the flickering depths of the croft. “Ye’ve a visitor. I think ye shall want to meet with him!”
Oh, but the MacMillan woman was enjoying this! Shabib kept the light smile on his face and tried to hide the embarrassment that burned under his skin.
Lena appeared behind the MacMillan woman, her rich, chestnut locks unfettered by a kerchief, and Shabib struggled to control his breathing. It was like seeing her completely undressed. Her eyes widened at his appearance, but he didn’t miss the roses that bloomed in her cheeks.
“Milady, might you join me here in the gardens this fine evening?”
Lena tilted her head, studying him, and Shabib froze so as not to squirm under her intense gaze. Then she dipped her head slightly.
“Oui, you might.”
“It is refreshing to hear the French language again. I’ve missed it,” Shabib told her as he walked with her toward the stables where men busied themselves with the horses. Better to stay within sight and not appear inappropriate with her. She was a woman who seemed to take stock in propriety.
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the sparse moonlight and flickering torches. “You have the French?”
His lips relaxed at her accented English. The sound was refreshing, a bit like coming home. He had pleasant memories of France, of meeting James and joining up with him, of forging a friendship that rivaled a brotherhood.
“Oui,”he answered with a grin. “I lived in France for a while. It is where I met the Black Douglas. We had many good times there before he returned to join the Scottish cause.”
“I, too, had good times in France, before most of my family died of a strange disease. A wasting away disease. My cousin here offered up the generosity of her clan, they call it? And her home. I am fortunate to have her. She makes me feel more welcome than I might have imagined.”
“If you ever want to have a French conversation, you can search me out. I’d enjoy speaking with you.”
She halted her steps and squinted her eyes up at him. “Why do they call him the Black Douglas? It’s not just for his hair, is it?”
Shabib stiffened. Oh, what if James’s reputation was too much for this fair woman, and she rejected Shabib for his affiliation with the Black Douglas? He took a deep breath before answering.
“You are right. It’s not. Surely you’ve heard of some dark battle strategies that have led to Scottish success as of late?”
Lena shrugged.“Oui, but I try not to listen to gossip. Too much to misconstrue in rumor.”
Ahh, beautiful and brilliant. Shabib’s shoulders unclenched a bit.
“There is a bit of truth to a few of the rumors, and he’s been dubbed such for his supposed black heart.”
“But he can not have so black a heart, if his fair, dainty wife tempers him so well?”
So shehadnoticed how the mighty beast that was James became nothing more than a wee pup when his wife was about. The Bruce’s plan had worked exactly as he, and Shabib, had hoped. Shabib smiled widely.
“Oui, but titles do stick.”
