"I suppose this can't be much different than stitching up the hem of a ball gown that some clumsy dancing partner stepped on," she observed.
The Glen Lyon laughed, harsh edges of pain creeping through the rich sound. "You have to dip the needle in oil so it will slide through easier. And knot each stitch as you go. Other than that, feel free to consider me a particularly fetching length of taffeta."
She hesitated a long moment, trying to calm the trembling in her fingers.
But it was the Glen Lyon's voice that stilled them.
"Skewer away, Mistress de Lacey," he said. "You've probably . . . spent most of the day planning horrible fates for me. Consider me at your mercy."
With no small difficulty, he raised his left arm, tucking his hand behind his head to bare his side to her. Her fingertips smoothed over the hot, torn edges of his wound, holding them close together. Her gaze flicked up to his for a heartbeat, drinking in the vague amusement, the irony, the warm encouragement.
Yet as she pressed on, the gleaming needle doing its work, humor faded from those incredible gray eyes, the smile hardening into a grim, white line. Not so much as a sound did he make, the silence so oppressive, she found herself talking, trying desperately to distract him from the pain.
"That mountain of a man said you—you saw Sir Dunstan. Is a hostage allowed to ask what happened?"
"I gave him my demands. He promised to consider them." The rebel sucked in a steadying breath. "At the moment, I'm certain he's raging at his soldiers for not managing to follow us back to our lair. I suppose that once he's done with that, he'll tear himself apart, attempting to . . . figure out a way to rescue you and yet not defile his honor by bending to my will."
Hope rose in her breast. Dunstan was resourceful, his men well trained. Perhaps even now they were readying themselves to attack the Glen Lyon 's cave.
She frowned, wondering why the idea of a company of red-coated soldiers charging down into this secluded glen didn't fill her with the overwhelming joy it should.
This is insane, she thought, gritting her teeth. For pity's sake, the fact that my captor is wounded doesn't change anything. She was in danger here—grave danger. Escape should be her most pressing concern.
Steeling herself against this unsettling confusion, she said, "You had best beware. Sir Dunstan has shown himself most shrewd in outwitting enemies."
Gray eyes opened. "That is simple enough when one chooses enemies as your betrothed does—because they are weaker than he."
The accusation set her off balance, making her hands suddenly clumsy as she attempted to knot the last thread. The needle, slippery with blood, tumbled from her hands.
Silence laid thick, heavy between them for long moments. Then the darkness ebbed from the Glen Lyon 's sweat-shiny features.
"Rachel?" Her name—soft, quiet. "Listen to me. I want you to know: no matter how Sir Dunstan chooses to answer my terms, you needn't fear. I would never hurt you."
Rachel couldn't bear the weight of that solemn voice. She peered down at the gash, now closed with her neat little stitches, and her mind roiled with tales she'd heard—that the merest scratch of a bullet wound could open the gate for a killing fever. That wounds that became putrid made their victims suffer the most horrifyingly painful, lingering deaths.
Why did the idea of such a fate befalling the Glen Lyon suddenly seem so unspeakable?
She shivered, scooping up the bandaging, gently wrapping it about the angry wound. Then, with all her strength, she helped him get up on the heather pallet. He collapsed against it, his eyes closed, his skin white as the bed linens beneath him.
She turned away, busying herself by picking up the carved wooden box, gathering up and cleaning the implements she'd used. No, she didn't dare forget why she was imprisoned here, didn't dare forget how deeply she was in danger, despite the Glen Lyon 's assurances.
Perhaps this unconventional rebel wouldn't harm her, no matter what choice Dunstan made. But if the wound she had dealt the Glen Lyon raged out of control, she doubted Adam or any of the others would be so forgiving.
Harm him, and I know a hundred people who would slit your throat, Adam threatened, be damned that you're a woman.
What kind of man inspired such fierce loyalty? A man labeled as a coward? A bumbling fool, too awkward to abduct his own hostages, too preoccupied to take his pistol to a meeting with his most dreaded enemy? It made no sense.
She nibbled at her lower lip, remembering her conversation with Nate in the garden what seemed a million years ago.
The Glen Lyon is your hero, Rachel. I'd ride with him if I could.
She watched the Glen Lyon drift into oblivion, a shuddering sigh wracking through him. Her fingertips traced the top of a scarred box that bore what appeared to be the Glenlyon crest, complete with family motto.
Let justice be done though the heavens fall.
Ice dripped down her spine, spiraled through her soul.
Justice.
Whatever mystery enshrouded this man, there was no denying a single certainty. In the next few days, she would be fighting for his life.
And in that battle, Rachel was suddenly aware she might also be fighting for her own.
Chapter Six
Something hard and knobby ground into Rachel's back, a chill seeping into her bones. She shivered and shifted, attempting to find some comfortable spot on the cave floor, but despite her efforts to fashion a makeshift bed by gathering up the scattered clothing, she felt as if she was dozing in a bramble patch. Even the fact that she had stripped off her corset while her nemesis slept hadn't given her any ease.
She groaned, shoving a wad of quilted satin petticoat more firmly under her cheek. The embroidery on the garment scratched at her skin as the dampness of the cave penetrated her left stocking. Yet it was far better to endure such discomfort than to tumble back into dreams. Dreams haunted by gray eyes brimming with sensitivity, intensity and a compassion that surprised her. Dreams about a mouth that was inexplicably bewitching when it curved into an ironic smile.
Lancelot, as he peered down at the Maid of Shallot—a man excruciatingly alone.
Who was he, this rebel lord whose fate now seemed entwined so firmly with her own? This Englishman who dwelt in the caves hidden in the very bosom of the Scottish Highlands? Who sheltered a confused old woman, looked after a half-wild bevy of children, rode out to face a man he hated, yet forgot to take his pistol to protect himself? This man, who dismissed a threat to his own life as if it were less than nothing. As if he were less than nothing.
Long after the Glen Lyon had drifted into sleep, Rachel had prowled the chamber, this time searching not for a weapon to arm herself, but rather for some key to unlock the mystery of the man who called himself the Glen Lyon.
Yet the jumble of belongings she found only added to the mystery and confused her even more. Three illuminated manuscripts from medieval times had been wrapped in oilcloth, each a glowing jewel stunning in its beauty. The Song of Merlin, The Roman de la Rose, and The Children of Lir— tales brought to vibrant life by fingers that had long since turned to dust in some obscure grave. Tucked beside them were a sheaf of paper and some tiny paint pots, half-finished illuminated designs spilling across the pages, as if the monks who had labored over the beautiful manuscripts had merely slipped out of the cave to take a little sun.
A pocketbook, awkwardly fashioned in Irish stitch, was tucked with the other cherished possessions in the trunk, a note inside it:
Merry Christmas to Gavin Carstares, the most wonderful brother in the entire world. Thank you for not telling Mama that I fed Teddy a frog.
Love,
Christianne
A small portrait, its corner water-stained, showed a cluster of animated, dark-eyed children aged from about three to fifteen. In their midst stood a mirror image of the man called Adam and a laughing, red-haired woman who cuddled a toddler in her arms. Only the slender golden-haired boy who stood to one side in the portrait seemed out of place
.
As out of place as this rebel lord seemed here, in this cave in Scotland. As if he had wandered too far from the castle tower where he and his beautiful manuscripts belonged.
Rachel rolled over, kicking out with one foot in frustration. Pain shot into her toe as it collided with the desk edge, rattling the jumble of things strewn across it.
At the noise, the Glen Lyon shifted on the pallet, and Rachel heard a low curse.
She stilled, willing the man to go back to sleep, reluctant to confront her captor again. But it seemed the fates were against her.
There was a rustle of movement, and she looked toward the cot to find the rebel regarding her with those disturbing, grave eyes.
"What the devil?" he muttered. The fingers of his right hand gingerly probed at the bandage. "Oh. That's right. Shot me. Been shooting since you were . . . eight."
Rachel levered herself into a sitting position. "How are you? Does it hurt?"
One dark brow rose with such eloquence, Rachel might have been tempted to laugh if she hadn't already been so shaken.
"What the devil are you doing on that stone floor? I'm supposed to be the . . . one decreeing torture for you. You aren't supposed to inflict it on yourself."
The man had managed to totally unsettle her again "In case you hadn't noticed, this chamber isn't exactly brimming with beds. There is only one. You're in it. What would you have me do? Sleep with you?"
"There's no reason why you shouldn't."
"No reason!" Rachel scooted away from him as if she half expected him to haul her onto the pallet by the tail of her robes. "You're a man, and I'm a—"
"A person who is going to catch her death of cold, lying on that damp floor. There's plenty of space up here. There's no reason why we can't . . . share it."
"Aside from the fact that you are a man. A virtual stranger. A—”
"Rebel villain who had you abducted? Rachel, I told you I wouldn't hurt you. I won't so much as touch you if you come to bed."
Come to bed—why did that phrase sound so intimate in the velvet of the dim shadows that clung about the cave? Why was she suddenly so aware that the Glen Lyon was naked from the waist up, his skin gleaming with a flame-rich gold? In his sleep, his hair had come loose from the ribbon that bound it at the nape of his neck. It clung, tawny silk, in seductive contrast to the cords of his throat. His elusive eyes, stripped of their spectacles, were the color of smoke. And the pain lines that bracketed his mouth and tightened about his eyes only served to make him suddenly seem more . . . Was it possible? Beguiling . . . a tousled lion—lean and drowsy and somehow dangerous.
Rachel's mouth went dry as one long artist's hand reached out to her in invitation. "I'm perfectly comfortable here," she protested.
"Blast it, Rachel. Even if I wanted to ravish you, at the moment, I couldn't do it."
She regarded him, disbelieving, wondering what her real fear was—that he would touch her, or that she almost wanted him to. Her wrist still tingled where those supple, sensitive fingers had encircled it before he kissed her. "What do you mean you couldn't?" she demanded warily.
"A man has only so much blood. When you've lost a deal of it through a wound, you haven't much to, ahem, spare. If it all goes rushing to his loins, an amorous gentleman is likely to faint dead away."
"How could you possibly know that?"
“By passing the camp followers' tents while we were on campaign." He grinned devilishly. "My favorite episode was the time Adam had gotten a particularly glorious wound in a skirmish, and was eager to impress the ladies by displaying it as we passed. He fell face first into the dirt the instant a pretty woman swished her skirts at him."
Heat prickled along Rachel's cheekbones. She had seen the camp followers while traveling with her father, known them as laundresses and such. It had not been until she was older that she'd come to understand scraps of bawdy conversation she'd overheard, and realized that some of the women performed other tasks as well.
But even that hadn't been so upsetting as the time she'd stumbled into her papa's tent while a pert, golden-curled laundress was paying him a most improper visit.
The general had been furious, his face dull red. It had been the only time Rachel had ever seen him embarrassed. Later, he'd had a brisk talk with her, informing her that men had needs a lady need not know about. Every man in camp visited one of the laundresses from time to time, and Rachel's mama had been dead a very long time.
It was as if he'd not been able to decide between defending himself or forcing her to erase the incident from her memory. She had left, feeling guilty and shaken and confused. Now, so many years later, she felt a little sickened by the image of the Glen Lyon wrapped in a pretty camp follower's embrace.
"Rachel?" His voice roused her from her musings, but the queasy sensation in her stomach remained.
"Pardon me. I was just enjoying the image of you pitching face first into the dirt"
Understanding dawned on his features. "I never managed to humiliate myself in quite that fashion. I just wanted to reassure you that you'd be safe. Don't be stubborn, woman. There's no reason to be miserable."
Rachel gave a choked laugh. "No reason to be miserable? I've only been kidnapped, held prisoner, shot a man, sewed up the wound."
"And a damn fine job you did of it, too."
He was looking up at her with such disconcerting earnestness.
"Thunderation, don't—don't look at me like that! I'm not about to get into that bed with you!"
The Glen Lyon swore, low. "Fine."
He levered himself up, grimacing with pain. His face was flushed, sweat beading on his skin with the effort it took him to rise.
“What are you doing?"
"Getting out of the bed so that you can take it."
"But you can't!" Rachel gaped at him, stunned by his chivalry. "You're injured."
He paused, sitting at the edge of the bed, bracing himself on his right arm. His left arm was tucked tight over his injured ribs. "Mistress de Lacey, I've slept in far worse places with wounds far more serious than this one. You look like the very devil after all you've been through. It won't kill me to sleep on the cave floor for one night."
Rachel's eyes widened at his choice of words. Her fears surged again to the surface. If anything happened to this man . . ..
He started to stand, and she scrambled to her feet, panic prickling inside her. "No! Don't! Please!" She rushed toward him, her hands grasping his shoulders, pressing him down.
He groaned, wincing at the contact, but she wouldn't let him go. She was far too terrified he would insist on getting up.
The sleek satin of his skin felt hot under the palms of her hands, the silky waves of his hair tangling about her fingers.
He raised his gaze to her, and she was surprised to see a look of stubbornness she hadn't suspected the Glen Lyon possessed. "I'm not sleeping in this . . . bed, while you are on the floor, Mistress de Lacey—so you can just . . . let the devil go of me."
Determination. Rachel had enough of her own supply of that quality to recognize it in another. The man was already becoming feverish. A continuing battle over who would sleep on the floor would only make him worse. Win or lose, he was spending strength he couldn't spare. There was only one thing she could do. Surrender.
"No. Don't try to get up."
His chin jutted out at such a mutinous angle, she finished hastily. "I've decided that you're right. There's no reason why we shouldn't, uh, share the bed."
The coiled muscles beneath her palms eased a little, and he looked up at her. She was aware that his face was inches from the swells of her breasts. His breath, hot and moist and rapid from exertion, teased at her tender skin.
She snatched her hands away as if he'd burned her then she rubbed her palms on her skirts. "There's no reason why we shouldn't share a bed for one night. After all, it's not as if we are—are attracted to each other, or anything." Her gaze flashed to his full mouth, her lips tingling with the sudden remembrance
of his swift, hot kiss. "Besides, you did give me your promise that you wouldn't"—she swallowed hard— "ravish me."
She was babbling. The realization infuriated her. But if she could just get him to lie down again, go to sleep, she'd be able to slip back out of the bed without him noticing, wouldn't she?
He eyed her suspiciously then sank back down onto the ticking. His jaw knotted at the impact of hard muscle against the soft mattress, and his eyes drifted shut. In that instant, the bed seemed to shrink three sizes. She prayed that he had lost consciousness again, but it seemed the fates weren't disposed to be that kind. His voice—rough velvet—came softly.
"Rachel. Despite all that bite-the-bullet, stiff-upper-lip rubbish, this wound hurts like hell. Lie down. Please."
Warily, she crept to the end of the bed. The largest space in the area was tucked closest to the wall. She knelt down, and attempted to crawl up into it. She tried not to jar him, but with each shift of the mattress beneath her weight, she saw the Glen Lyon’s jaw tighten, heard the hiss of his breath between his teeth.
Finally, she lay down, crowded back against the cave's wall as if every inch she could squeeze between the rebel's body and her own were to be filled with gold. He was bigger than he’d appeared—long and lean, his chest rippling with muscle she'd not suspected when it was hidden beneath his clothes. The heather scent of the bed mingled with the tang of sweat, as well as a subtle hint of leather and wind and secrets.
She lay there beside him, every muscle in her body stiff, the aches that had plagued her earlier intensifying a thousand fold. The silence pulsed and roared and chafed as she watched him, waiting for those thick, gold-tipped lashes to drift down onto aristocratic cheekbones in sleep.
Yet the unfathomable gray of his eyes still shimmered in the light of the candles, ageless, questing, as if he were attempting to untangle her secrets as patiently as the patterns of Celtic design she had discovered earlier.
The sensation disturbed her so much she was stunned to hear her own voice filling the void.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 74