Let this be enough . . . Adam had implored.
But it would never be enough. Never, until . . . Gavin swallowed hard, knowing the stark truth, unable to turn away from it. Only one sacrifice would redeem him.
He started as he suddenly felt the drift of fingers on his shoulder, an aching throb of anguish inside him at Rachel de Lacey's unexpected touch.
He angled his face toward her, barren, bereft. "You should have run away," he whispered, seeing the trembling in her.
"I couldn't." She hesitated, her eyes wide and full of an emotion that terrified Gavin, exulted him. "When you plunged back into the fire, that was the most courageous thing I have ever seen. And that soldier. You fought him with nothing. With no weapon. You won, Gavin."
Gavin closed his eyes, shutting out visions of a hundred possibilities that could never be. "I lost, Rachel."
"No!" She dropped to her knees beside him, her cool, smooth hands enclosing his battered, bleeding ones. "You saved them all, even the babe everyone else had forgotten! You killed that hideous man who wanted to hurt them. How can you say that you lost?"
"Because I can't remember." Gavin clawed through his memory, seeing only a scarlet blur of uniform, the wicked gleam of a sword, the hate-filled tempest of his own beast unleashed. "I can't remember his face."
Slowly, Gavin managed to drag himself to his feet. He took the arm of the woman he'd kidnapped, the innocent he'd dragged into his own private hell.
Manslayer edged closer, and after a moment, he allowed Rachel to mount him. With the greatest effort, Gavin then dragged himself into the saddle— the restive horse standing still, equine eyes filled with devotion. White-faced, his soul parched into a wasteland of regret, Gavin rode with Rachel into the land he fought so hard to save.
Chapter Eleven
Rachel tried to keep her balance upon the massive horse, struggling to keep her weight from making Gavin Carstares's impossible task even more difficult. It was a miracle the man could keep himself in the saddle, let alone hold her as well, yet she knew he struggled to do so. His sinewy arms cradled her. His thighs braced hers. Only his hands on the reins were white-knuckled. His breath rasped beside her ear, catching with pain she knew he'd never admit.
He'd not even let her examine his wounds, dismissing them as mere scratches. But Rachel knew from experience that the man was a master at disguising his own pain.
She ground her teeth in frustration and stinging empathy. She had badgered and cajoled and all but begged him to rest, but nothing would induce him to have common sense enough to stop.
Twice, he'd nearly fallen off the horse, and Rachel was tempted to let him. One crash to the ground, and he'd be too exhausted to drag himself back up. But such a fall might break open his wound or hurt him even more badly. That was the one risk Rachel was not willing to take.
No, it would be too infernally sensible to stop beside the rushing stream they'd ridden alongside the past three miles, or to spend the night in one of the tiny cottages they'd stumbled across. A cottage like the one even now laying to their left.
Rachel's gaze clung to it, a haven in the encroaching darkness, a place to sort out the tangle of emotions she’d felt since they'd ridden away from the desecrated village.
A shuddering groan racked Gavin as Manslayer stumbled on the slippery stream bank, and Rachel was certain she couldn't bear another instant of stoic suffering.
"I've had just about enough," Rachel snapped. She wrenched free of Gavin's grasp and slid off of the horse while it was still moving. Gavin swore in surprise. Rachel's legs nearly buckled as they struck the ground, but she managed to keep her footing, the horse shying away from her so suddenly it almost unseated its rider.
"What the devil are you doing?"
"I'm not taking another step tonight." Rachel confronted him, hands on hips. "Your men will guard Mama Fee and the children, and the soldiers won't be searching for you now, anyway, with darkness falling. After everything I've gone through today, I'm not about to have this monster horse of yours go stumbling off a cliff or something because its master is too bullheaded stubborn to call a halt, despite the fact that he's about to drop. Besides, my arms are all but falling off from trying to keep you in the saddle!"
She expected Gavin to argue, expected him to bluster the way most men did when their strength or endurance was questioned. Instead, Gavin glared down at her for a moment, then painfully hauled himself out of the saddle.
Rachel stared at him, disbelieving. "You—you got off the horse."
His fists clung to the leather. His legs were shaking and bloodstained. "I had two choices. Get off with a little dignity, or fall off on my face." She saw a trace of a smile. "This hero business is . . . damned exhausting."
Gavin braced one hand braced against Manslayer's neck and unsaddled the beast then slipped the bridle from its head.
"Aren't you going to tie the horse up?" Rachel demanded. "Won't he run away?"
His hand smoothed the horseflesh beneath the thick fall of mane. "The beast has an inexplicable weak spot for me."
Manslayer tossed his massive head but didn't race away. Instead, he nudged his head at his master, as if to reassure himself that Gavin was all right. It was the same gruff affection Rachel had seen in Adam. Two rough-mannered warriors, one equine, one human, who had given their devotion to a man they respected but did not understand, a man who offered them things they hadn't even known that they lacked.
Rachel's gaze skated across Gavin Carstares's face—aristocratic planes and angles, a mouth both sensitive and sensuous, eyes filled with dreams and with nightmares. He was a healer of souls who could heal everyone except himself.
Gavin patted Manslayer on the rump, and the horse wandered off a few steps, then dug in its hooves, as if fully intending to keep watch. "You'd best go eat, you bloody fool horse," Gavin said. "You're the only one who is going to have that pleasure tonight."
He turned toward the cabin. Shoving the door open, he entered, Rachel following behind. It was darkened with smoke and age, the windows laced with spider's webs that shone in the light of the rising moon.
Shadowy forms loomed, like creatures frozen by some magic spell—bent-kneed chairs, a stool turned onto its side. A table crouched in one corner, a mound of peat in the other.
Rachel could make out Gavin's form groping about, then, after a moment, kneeling down. She could hear scrabbling, as he worked with the blocks of peat. She saw the sparking of flint against a striker, the flare of flame in the charcloth used to catch the spark. After a moment, the peat glowed as wisps of earth-scented smoke drifted up. The peat fire drove back the shadows, painting the interior of the cottage in a glow of rose and gold and crimson.
It was obvious that someone had loved this place. The cradle at the foot of the bed had been carved with birds and flowers and hearts, all wound about in a design that must have taken an eternity to work into the wood.
The vision reminded Rachel all too clearly of Gavin and little Catriona, painting the interlace flower with infinite patience, the warmth of Gavin's smile as he'd guided the child's hand in patterns as ancient and lovely as bard song.
Instinctively, she knew that the cradle was the kind of gift Gavin Carstares would offer his lady-love, his child—not glowing diamonds huge enough to spark envy in all who saw them, but rather a tender gift of the heart, like a secret shared, made the more precious because of its rarity.
What would it be like to receive such a gift? To see Gavin's eyes shine with anticipation, feel his hand cradle the swell of a babe he'd nestled in her womb? What would it be like to know that he stood guard over her dreams?
Rachel wheeled away from the cradle and the images it awakened in her.
Ridiculous. She was betrothed to Sir Dunstan; her affection was engaged. She'd spent years planning out her life as if she were a commander working out strategies for a grand battle. Even if she were willing to let that go, the fact remained that any alliance between her and the man kneeling so sil
ently by the fire was impossible.
Gavin Carstares was a rebel, a fugitive. He had abducted her to use her as a weapon against Sir Dunstan and the English army, which was even now laying waste to Scotland. But after what she had seen in the village, she was glad, grateful and eager to be of any use she could. It would be worth enduring far more horrible circumstances if she could save even one life amidst all the destruction.
What had he said when she'd first arrived at the Glen Lyon's lair? That she was to be held hostage until a ship carried his tattered band of orphans away. Take them where horrors like she had just witnessed could never again touch them? Three weeks. That had been how long before the ship would land. Two of those weeks were already gone.
Rachel's chest ached. Seven days. Merely a handful left.
The sound of Gavin's voice made her start. "At least we'll be warm, even if we're hungry." He straightened, his joints obviously stiff.
"I'm all right." It was a lie. She was more shaken than she'd ever been in her life, suddenly, crushingly unsure. She picked up a wooden bowl. "I'm going to the stream for water. Somebody has to take care of those wounds of yours."
"They're nothing. I told you."
"You're a master of understatement when it comes to the severity of your wounds, sir." She stalked out, returning in a few minutes to find three rush lights burning, forming puddles of light on the table.
Gavin stood beside the fire, shadow and light flickering against his angular features. His eyes were troubled, weighed down with questions and doubts and regrets. Rachel wished that she could just once see them shining with boundless joy and infinite hope, not haunting sadness.
Gathering up the hem of her dress, she ripped away a segment of her shift to make a cloth then she turned back to him. "Sit," she said, drawing a chair into one of the puddles of light. He did so, his gaze clinging to her face, his mouth so earnest, so questioning. She drew off his shirt, her fingers skimming over muscles slick with sweat, the side of her hand stinging with awareness as it brushed the pebble-hard tip of one masculine nipple. She bit the inside of her lip hard against her own body's response.
She dipped the cloth into water then gently swabbed at the blood-encrusted gash—a gash that, amazingly, was as Gavin said—a deep scratch. Rachel couldn't help shivering as she imagined how crippling that sword thrust could have been if the English soldier's aim had been true, or if Gavin hadn't been agile enough to dodge out of the way, saving his life and that of the helpless Scottish babe.
After knotting the strip of cloth into a makeshift bandage, she moved down to his torn breeches, tugging at the frayed edges in an effort to expose the wound. Gavin gently pulled her hands away and then ripped it wider himself. The gash below was deeper, jagged, angry. Rachel knew it would form yet another scar, one to mirror the scars on Gavin Carstares's heart.
He reached out for the cloth, doubtless to spare her maidenly sensibilities. But suddenly it was vitally important to Rachel that she be the one to tend him, she be the one to smooth away the ugliness and soothe the searing fire. After a moment, Gavin released the cloth, but his mouth twisted in a new kind of suffering, one subtle and haunting.
"Rachel, why did you run away?" The soft query burrowed past Rachel's shield of pride.
"I ran because . . . because I was afraid." The admission caught in her throat.
"Don't you know I'd sooner cut off my own hand than hurt you?" Anguish laced his voice.
But you are hurting me, a voice inside Rachel wanted to cry, hurting me in ways I'd never suspected, showing me things I can never have.
She dumped the cloth into the bowl and stood, then paced to the window, putting space between them, as if that could buffer the emotions Gavin Carstares summoned up inside her. But she heard the sound of his footsteps behind her, felt the soft brush of his hands on her shoulders. He had such strong and gentle hands. He turned her to face him, his misty eyes searching her face.
Rachel's heart clenched, her eyes stung. Damnable tears. Why was it that this man managed to wring them from places inside her she hadn't even known existed? Soft, aching places, vulnerable to the tender probing of his gaze?
"I ran because I was afraid," she said, "not of you, but of myself."
Silence. He watched her, embers glowing in his ancient, yearning gaze.
"I was afraid of what you make me feel, Gavin Carstares."
His fingers tightened, and she could almost feel the pulse of his heart quicken. All the answers she could have wanted were there in his eyes, beneath the futility, guilt, and fierce yearning.
"Rachel, don't let what happened in that village fool you. I'm no hero. I'm still the man who ran at Prestonpans. I'm still the villain who kidnapped you and terrified you so badly you shot me."
"I didn't shoot you. It was your fault. This is your fault, too." She pulled away, trembling. "You should have been a heartless renegade. A zealot, willing to sacrifice anything, anyone to reach your goal. You should have liked terrorizing me, just a little, to keep me frightened, to show your power. You should have railed at me and tried to convince me that you were a bold hero—but you didn't. You didn't tell me anything, didn't try to sway me. You just helped Catriona paint a flower, just held Barna at night when he was too frightened to be bold. You just kissed Mama Fee on her cheek and bled for her, deep in your heart when you thought no one else could see."
"Don't, Rachel." He limped away from her, bracing one arm against the wall. He stared into the fire, his face haggard with pain that came not from his wounds, but from his soul. "I can't stand to hear you—"
She followed him and squeezed herself between the wall and the plane of his body, staring up into those tormented gray eyes.
"I know what you think of me," she said, "that I'm selfish and spoiled. That I'm stubborn and self-absorbed. That I don't see anything beyond the reach of my own hand—only laces and ball gowns and beaux all garbed in uniforms. That I played games with men's lives, never caring."
"Rachel, stop. You don't even begin to know what I think of you! I wish I could stop thinking of you! I wanted to believe that you were all those things, and worse. It would have been so much easier."
"Easier to what?"
He started to speak, but bit off a curse. His jaw was set hard and stubborn against the words he'd almost spoken. "There's no reason to drag this all out. It will only make it worse."
"Easier to what?" she insisted.
Gavin swore softly, his voice rough and deep. "To let you go."
Rachel's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled. Never, despite all the bold declarations of passion and devotion she'd received from her admirers, had mere words had such an impact on her. Her stomach fluttered, her hands trembled, her breath caught on a thousand dreams she'd buried years ago, along with magical tales and fairy wings.
"You're everything I can never have," Gavin said, "everything I can't even dare to dream about anymore. I forfeited the right the instant I picked up a sword. If we'd met before, maybe."
"You saw me before," Rachel said in a small voice. "I disgusted you. Still, it's no wonder. You should have been disgusted with that stupid, careless girl. I am."
"She was wild. Untamed. But beautiful and strong. That girl had never seen ugliness. How could she be expected to understand? Maybe the man who judged her so harshly did so because he knew he could never be the hero she deserved. He could never have her."
He brushed his fingertips across her cheek like a penitent touching a shrine, as if he feared the gods would strike him dead for his insolence, yet was willing to take that chance for just one heartbeat of communion.
"I should never have stolen you away, Rachel de Lacey. But even if Satan himself condemns me to hell, I'm glad that I did."
"I'm glad, too, Gavin. I hope that my captivity can somehow help these children get away from all this madness. If they saw half the horror of what happened in the village today, it's little wonder they played those awful games and wanted to hurt me for all t
he pain they saw their mothers and fathers and their sisters and brothers suffer."
Gavin stroked the hair at her temple, his thumb skimming her cheekbone. "They didn't really want to hurt you."
"If I were them, I would have. I would have wanted to strike out at anyone who is English. When I return home, Gavin, I promise you that I will tell the duke of Cumberland what is happening in the Highlands. The officers in charge will be horrified at what their underlings are doing. I know that you and Sir Dunstan are not—not on the best of terms. But Dunstan will listen to me. When I tell him what I witnessed, the slaughter of helpless women and children, I am certain he'll be as outraged as we are."
It was as if she were tightening a barbed cinch about Gavin's chest. She could see the pain shimmer even through the veil of his lashes. "I know you will do all you can to help them, Rachel."
The words should have lightened the strange burden of guilt in her heart for having misjudged Gavin, Adam, and the children. They should have been a soft benediction. Why, then, did she sense dangerous undercurrents threatening to suck her into waters she couldn't begin to understand? Still, she couldn't stop herself from reaching out to Gavin Carstares across that treacherous tumult of emotions.
The memory of the grisly games the children had played passed through her, unnerving her: Barna, his face contorted in a mask of hate and rage and blood lust, hurtling across the glen with the battle cry I am Sir Dunstan Wells as he built his pile of corpses.
"I understand." Rachel said. "You believe that Dunstan is behind this, don't you?" Her fingers knotted in the folds of her skirts. Gavin's silence was answer enough.
She closed her eyes, attempting to picture her betrothed, his familiar features, the hawk-like nose, the firm mouth and resolute chin. She remembered the fierce pride in his face as he introduced her to the stark beauty of his family's castle near the Scottish border. He'd shown her a portrait of his great-grandfather, who had earned the name Wildcat Killer, because in the years of the border wars, he had cut down so many of the Scots whom the animal symbolized.
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