Love Conquers All: Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  No one spoke, though many took backward steps, cowering beneath his rage.

  Madeline went cold for another reason, flinching as his cloak’s rough-woven warmth settled over her. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized they’d torn her clothes.

  She looked up at the tall pilgrim. He’d taken on a fighting stance, and now loomed above her, standing so close, the edge of his booted foot pressed against her hip. Anger rolled off him in great, black waves as he swept the mob with another fierce glare.

  “Stop gawking at her – or you’ll meet the cutting edge of my sword,” he warned, his fury a loud crackling in Madeline’s ears.

  He stepped over her then, his hard-muscled legs shielding her. “The man who thinks I jest can greet the morrow from beneath his headstone.”

  Still dazed, Madeline peered at him. His scent, a blend of woodsmoke, leather, and wide-open places, swirled around her, comforting in its sure, steady earthiness.

  “Dia!” Nella dashed to her then, her own clothes mussed, but untorn. Dropping to her knees, she cradled Madeline’s head in her lap. “Oh, mercy, what have they done to you?”

  “They went mad…” Madeline’s voice cracked, her mouth too dry for words.

  “Hush, all is well now.” Nella ran her fingers across Madeline’s brow – they came away smeared red.

  A fresh wave of nausea welled in Madeline’s stomach at the sight of her blood on Nella’s fingers. She tried to assure her friend she was only a bit queasy and not bleeding to death, but she still couldn’t speak.

  “She should lose more than a few drops of blood for stealing from a saint,” a hostile voice called out, the man’s anger stirring the crowd.

  “Leave her be!” Nella leaned over Madeline, protecting her as best she could. “Now, before God smites you.”

  “He’s the reason we’re here!” A tall, bony-faced woman pointed a finger at Madeline. “She must be punished.”

  “Thieving postulants don’t deserve mercy,” another agreed.

  “You’ll be pleading for just that when I cut out your tongue,” Iain called back, scanning the throng for the first man bold enough to step forward.

  Searching, too, for the long-overdue MacFie.

  The lout should have ridden up shortly after Iain. But instead of Gavin’s approach, a small, stringy-haired woman darted around the side of the holy well and tossed a little silver-cast leg at Iain’s feet.

  “Stole that, she did,” the woman scolded, raking the prone lass with a glare. “I saw her take it. We all did.”

  “Is that so?” Iain tightened his grip on his sword hilt. “As a Scot, you should know things are no’ always as they seem.”

  “Humph.” The woman sniffed. “She needs to burn,” she snapped, ignoring his attempt to calm her. “Let the flames cleanse her of her sins.”

  Others edged closer, growling agreement.

  Iain frowned, glancing around again. If MacFie didn’t arrive soon, the tardy Islesman would be the first to get a taste of Iain’s worst temper - even if it meant he’d never again glimpse Doon’s bonnie shores.

  The underswell of snarls and anger from the crowd increased then and a handful of bull-necked ruffians stepped forward. One brandished a pitchfork, another cracked meaty knuckles, and the rest just muttered slurs or glowered.

  The brawniest, a huge black-bearded bear of a man, cocked a brow at Iain. “Who be you to come between justice?”

  “Someone so forsaken that I make my own,” Iain shot back, his fury so rife he could taste it.

  “You have no rights here.” The big man came closer. “The wench is ours.”

  “You err.” Iain glanced at the little silver leg lying in the dirt. When he spoke again, he lifted his voice. “The lass is nae thief,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “She is my wife.”

  Chapter Ten

  The warrior pilgrim’s words pierced the haze to squeeze Madeline’s heart so fiercely it could hardly beat. Her breath came shallow and she swallowed to ease her parched throat. She also began to tremble, or maybe it just seemed so because her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs.

  His wife, he’d called her.

  His.

  Somewhere inside her, something quickened and she could almost believe him. But her hopes and dreams no longer existed. She’d locked them behind well-barred doors and was sure they’d long since withered to nothing. Confusion and pain remained, making it difficult to think. To grasp that her shadow man was here, that he’d rescued her. Even lied to save her.

  Why should he?

  After the way he’d looked at her in the cathedral, the things he’d said there. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover he was the leader of her tormentors, yet…

  There he stood, sword in hand, prepared to defend her.

  “Your wife, eh?” One of the ruffians pushed forward to confront him. “I dinnae believe it.”

  “Nor I,” another agreed, casually tossing a battle-ax from one hand to the other. “What kind of man lets his wife wander about the land, robbing shrines?”

  Once more Iain eyed the leg votive, and silently cursed MacFie.

  “We became separated some days past,” he lied again, the untruth falling from his tongue with disturbing ease. Not caring, he took his attention off the ruffians long enough to lunge forward and swipe up the ex-voto.

  He held it aloft. “If you caught my wife with this in her hand, she was no’ stealing it but searching for me. My friend and traveling companion is lame and-”

  “You’d best hope you have some friends, brother, spouting such drivel,” the ax swinger cut him off. “All of us here say you’re lying.”

  “We do,” came a chorus of agreement from the crowd.

  “He speaks true,” another voice boomed, and Iain wheeled around to see MacFie riding into the kirkyard.

  His expression as dark as Iain knew his own to be, though likely for a different reason, Gavin dismounted, giving an exaggerated wince as his feet hit the ground.

  Relief flooded Iain.

  The ever upright MacFie had managed the jump over his scruples.

  Limping forward, Gavin dragged his left leg behind him. He waved a little silver leg ex-voto at the gog-eyed bystanders as he came. “Yon lady kens I leave the offerings at every shrine we visit,” he spoke the agreed-upon words. “She will have but sought the way back to her husband by using my votives to trace our steps.”

  The crowd’s grumbles dwindled until one cheeky soul called out, “And the other lass? Be she your wife?”

  Iain’s heart dropped to his feet.

  He’d not thought far enough ahead to include the fiery-haired postulant’s friend into his plans. Indeed, he’d forgotten her until her sudden appearance at the beauty’s side.

  His blood running cold, he glanced off toward the distant foothills of the Highlands. He couldn’t, just couldn’t look at MacFie.

  Or the two women.

  Heavy silence spread over the gathering until the comely-featured woman herself pushed to her feet and ran to Gavin, nearly knocking him down in her exuberant greeting. She even threw her arms around the Islesman’s neck, pressing into him as she kissed him full on the lips – and by all appearances, deeply.

  The crowd drew a collective breath.

  Iain held his.

  And Gavin played along, setting her gently from him, but keeping a very husbandly-looking arm slung low about her well-rounded hips.

  “Anyone still doubt this lady is my wife?” Gavin challenged the onlookers, drawing the lass even closer to his side, so winning a good piece of Iain’s gratitude.

  Nigh giddy with relief – and some other best-unnamed emotion – Iain turned again to the crowd. “And I, good fellows and ladies, would now see to my own wife,” he said, dropping to one knee beside her.

  “Without an audience,” he added, glancing at the lass, his heart twisting at the waxy pallor of her creamy, lightly freckled skin.

  He smoothed a softly curling lock of hair off her
face with more tenderness than he would’ve believed himself capable of showing any woman. A gesture he hoped would soothe her, and stay her questions until the crowd dispersed.

  To that end, he gave them one more warning. “Be gone with you,” he called over his shoulder. “And know that just because I kneel does no’ mean my steel cannae be at your throat in a heartbeat if you linger.”

  None did.

  Even MacFie and the beauty’s friend moved away, heading for a stone bench placed against the kirkyard’s far wall. The Islesman still dragged his leg, though not quite so flagrantly as before.

  To Iain’s greater surprise, the pair appeared to get on well.

  As he would love to do with the beauty stretched at his feet if only she’d crossed his path a lifetime ago.

  Back when he would have been able to greet her with pride and woo her in style rather than with a simple show of muscle and a farcical ruse.

  Her light, heathery scent wafted past his nose then, and he closed his eyes for a moment, his reclaimed honor already showing its first cracks.

  Willing them not to worsen, he drew his dirk and cut the rope at her ankles. The same slender and delicate ankles that had so fired his blood in the cathedral. Now they made his gut churn when he saw how the rough-hewn rope had marred her tender flesh.

  “Holy gods,” he swore, easing away the binds as gently as he could. “Be still, lass. The rope can still scrape you.”

  “Who are you, sir? I would thank you,” she spoke at last, her voice weakened from her ordeal, but sweet enough to fell him with its pleasing lilt and softness.

  A Highland lass, then.

  “Nae, my lady, I must thank you.” Iain met her gaze. “A man on pilgrimage doesn’t often have the pleasure of aiding a fair damsel in need.”

  I would also thank you for making me feel alive again.

  And in ways that went far beyond the heat she fired in his blood.

  Sakes, he wished she’d speak again. He found himself eager for the balm of her lilting, honey-toned voice. But she only peered at him, still looking dazed, as everything he’d ever heard about the Bane of the MacLeans – the legend he’d scoffed at all his life – whirled through his head. He could almost imagine a score of powerfully skilled bards singing the romantic fluff into his ear.

  Of course, no storytellers were anywhere near. So he squared his shoulders and hoped she wouldn’t notice the almost fully receded bump on his forehead. If she did, and the gods were kind, he hoped the lump didn’t ruin the looks that had always helped him win the lassies’ favor in the days before he’d forgotten how to smile.

  “You are gallant, sir,” she finally said, the compliment going right beneath his skin and melting a good bit more of the ice packed so thick around his heart.

  “I would know who you are,” she added, the quiver in her voice proving she hadn’t yet recovered. “Few would tell such bold lies for a stranger.”

  “What man would no’ do all in his might to save a beautiful woman?”

  She lowered her gaze. “I am a postulant.”

  “Your innocence makes such an attack all the worse.” Iain glanced at the cut ropes, tasted bile. “I would have sworn you were an angel dropped from the heavens. Any Highland man would do the same. We are-”

  “You are different,” she said, her gaze gliding over him. “And still I do not know who you are?”

  “Iain, fair lady, at your service.” Iain dabbed at the blood on her ankles with a strip of linen torn from his shirt. “Will you share your name as well?”

  “I am Madeline,” she said, a trace of sadness dimming her voice.

  “That is all?” Iain looked at her, wanting to know more.

  But she glanced away, her gaze on the distant hills. “Aye, only Madeline,” she said, looking again at him. “Nothing else.”

  Iain’s gut warned she wasn’t being entirely truthful, but he tamped down the urge to press her.

  He, too, had secrets.

  So he left her in peace and set aside the bloodied cloth, then ripped off a new strip to wipe the blood from her wrists. He tended them as gently as he could, glad that they were less raw than her ankles. Then at last he steeled himself to look more closely at her face. A grave mistake for he’d never seen such lovely eyes. Nor had a woman’s gaze ever made him feel as if he’d been swept into a dream. As if the earth slanted beneath him, toppling him into a strange new place.

  A world that seemed to have diminished to the pounding of his heart, his thundering pulse.

  As if she knew, she held his gaze, peering at him from large eyes of the same light green of spring’s newest leaves. Thick-fringed brown-black lashes made them appear even larger, while tiny gold flecks within their depths caught the afternoon light and reflected its warmth into every shadowed corner of his soul.

  The rest of her stirred him, too.

  She’d lost her head veil, and her glossy coppery-gold hair tumbled about her shoulders. His fingers itched to scoop up great handfuls just so her hair’s silkiness could stream across his palms.

  So he could then bury his face in the satiny strands and sate himself on her scent.

  She moved then, pushing up on her elbows now that he’d freed her arms. The motion caused his cloak to slip off her shoulders, giving him a tantalizing glimpse at the top swells of her breasts.

  He almost drew a sharp breath, instead disguising his appreciation behind a cough. Her gaze didn’t waver as she reached to adjust the cloak, once again covering herself. Something in her eyes told him that she knew his thoughts.

  Perhaps as well that he wasn’t as he appeared.

  But if she suspected, she glanced aside, seemingly unconcerned.

  Iain used the moment to draw air down his constricted throat.

  Madeline’s heart squeezed with equally intense emotion, painful and bittersweet, for his rescue touched her greatly. Everything he’d done warmed her. She just wished such scalding heat would stop jabbing the backs of her eyes.

  She did not want to cry.

  So she sat as straight as she could, keeping her gaze on the distant blue line of the Highlands until she was sure her unshed tears wouldn’t spill. Only then did she turn back to him. But deep inside, she was still far too vulnerable to needs she shouldn’t allow herself to feel.

  Far too vulnerable to him.

  She also saw his own struggles mirrored in the tense set of his jaw and the slight narrowing of his peat brown eyes. Keeping her gaze on his, she lifted a hand to the well-worn warrior’s hauberk he wore over a finely woven linen tunic – the shirt he’d torn to clean her wounds.

  It was finely woven and of highest quality, as was the leather of his hauberk, despite signs of wear.

  She frowned, her mind racing, for his clothes were more suited to a Highland laird than what he seemed…

  A humble, long-journeying pilgrim.

  Watching him carefully, she lowered her hand – but not before lighting her fingers across the well-made sword belt slung low on his hips. The belt, like his padded leather hauberk, appeared worn but of superior craftsmanship.

  “You are no ordinary pilgrim,” she said, not surprised when a trace of pain flickered across his face.

  “And you, sweet lass, puzzle me.” He leaned closer, skimmed his knuckles down her cheek. “Are you a true postulant?”

  “I am on my way to enter a nunnery, aye,” Madeline confirmed, a shiver of regret rippling through her at his evasive answer and the necessary half-truth of her own.

  “Will you not tell me who you are?” She tilted her head, not wanting to prod too deeply, intrigued by him or nae.

  Not when she held her own silences.

  “I am Iain,” he told her again, the smooth richness of his voice spooling through her, entrancing her as easily as it had in the cathedral, and in her dreams.

  “So you have said.” She waited, drawn by his warmth and dark good looks, the mysterious yet compelling air of sadness surrounding him. She could almost believe he’d m
anifested from some silver-tongued bard’s fireside tale of legend and romance.

  She glanced again at his handsomely tooled sword belt, then his equally fine waist belt, before also peering at the buttery-soft leather of his dusty but well-made boots.

  “You are Iain of…” she encouraged, for to possess such fineness – and his air of strength and power – he could only hail from a very great house.

  He looked away without answering, and the silence stretched so taut its tension crackled in the cold afternoon air.

  “You do not speak much.” Madeline tried again. “Please, good sir, I would know but who-”

  “I am just Iain.” He glanced back at her, the flatness of his tone revealing more than his words. “I’ve no title to tag onto my name, lass.”

  Lest you wish to call me Master of Nothing.

  The unspoken words hushed past Madeline’s ear, swift as the wind and lancing her heart.

  “Then I shall give you one.” The sudden urge to do so welled up from the roots of her soul. “A very fine title.”

  He lifted a brow. “Say you?”

  She nodded. “Aye, to honor your gallantry and valor.”

  Another shadow passed over his face. “I must warn you, lass. I am no’ worthy of your praise.”

  Madeline bristled, the pain behind his words making her simmer with anger at whoever or whatever had so embittered him.

  “And heed you, sirrah,” she informed him, her own cares momentarily forgotten, “I gather and hold my own opinions.”

  “Then, sweet lassie, you are no’ just fair to look upon but also of good and generous heart, and I thank you,” he said, smiling. “So what style shall you give me?”

  Madeline considered as she looked across the heather to her beloved Highlands, so beautiful in the late afternoon light. Away on the horizon, they stared back at her, blue, shadow-chased, and gilded with palest gold.

  A fine, warm gold.

  Madeline smiled.

  “I have it!” she declared, turning back to her shadow man. “I shall style you Master of the Highlands.”

  Chapter Eleven