One Man's Love

by Karen Ranney

  She cleaned her dress as well as she was able, wishing that she had something, anything, else to wear.

  Once dressed, she peered outside the door. Donald had not, blessedly, been standing guard when she’d returned last night, nor had he appeared yet this morning. Curious, she walked into the archway that connected Gilmuir to the priory.

  The archway was tinted a tawny color by the dawn, the early morning sunlight streaming through the latticework of brick and stone and forming a pattern on the opposite wall. The shadows in the corners of the clan hall were darker, as if night were a guest who did not know when to leave.

  Leitis returned to the room, leaving the door ajar to savor the early morning breeze. She spent the next few minutes occupied in mundane tasks, straightening the sheets on the bed, dusting the dresser, and rearranging the items on the table before turning to the basket of wool.

  She lifted the lid, pulled out the first few skeins. It took time to spin wool and dye it. When she and her mother worked together, one of them would begin sorting the next batch of wool the moment the first threads were laid. There was enough wool in the basket, however, to make several garments or a blanket.

  The colors, too, surprised her. She marveled at the delicacy of the shades and the skill of the woman who’d dyed this wool. There was a pale blue, the hue of heather as it began to bloom. And a pink so delicately tinted that it resembled the blush on a baby’s cheek. But in the bottom of the basket were several other shades as well, some of which interested her the most—crimson, black, and white, the colors of the MacRae plaid.

  It was as if the pattern lay before her, needing only her fingers to coax it into reality. She took the wool and sat on the bench inspecting the loom. It was well worn and not as intricately designed as her mother’s had been, but someone had loved it and cared for it well. Only one of the small pegs of wood around the frame needed to be wedged back into its hole. The wool would be tied to these and then tightened until there was tension in the threads, the warp serving as the foundation for the pattern.

  If she were simply weaving an article such as a blanket with a solid color, the work would go swiftly. There wouldn’t be a need to pick the threads with such precision. But the MacRae tartan was a complicated pattern and the first few rows were crucial.

  Weaving had always been a source of joy to her, a way to envision in wool a creation of beauty. She wondered if God felt the same way upon viewing a flower.

  Once her fingers became accustomed to the lay of the threads, and her hands adept at the pattern, she could lose herself in thought. It had been a way to escape the cacophony of her home as a child, and cope with grief as a woman. In the confines of the colonel’s chamber, the loom became a way to shorten the passage of time.

  The sound of boots on the wooden floor alerted her to his presence. Tensing, she kept at her weaving, pretending the Butcher was not in the room. But he was not content with that, coming to stand at the side of the loom until she raised her eyes to his.

  Wordlessly, they stared at each other. He had been gone only a few days and in that time she’d become a rebel.

  His gaze alighted on the basket on the floor beside her. She felt a sense of sick horror at his discovery. She should have hidden it.

  “You have your wool, I see,” he said after bending and looking inside. “The color of the MacRae plaid,” he said softly. “Will you engage in sedition, Leitis, and weave it before my eyes?”

  Her stomach fluttered at his question.

  “What would you do,” she asked curiously, looking up at him, “if you discovered that I had been guilty of it?”

  Slowly, he traced his fingers over the first few rows of weaving. Instead of answering her, he asked a question of his own.

  “Did you know that the Scots were forced to take an oath swearing that they would be loyal subjects? Do you know it?” he asked somberly.

  He didn’t need her answer, apparently, because he continued, “‘I swear as I shall answer to God at the great Day of Judgment, I have not, nor shall have in my possession, any gun, sword, pistol, or arm whatsoever, and never to use tartan plaid, or any part of the Highland garb. I promise that I shall not take up arms against the English, or engage in acts of insurrection against the same. If I do so, may I be cursed in my undertakings, family, and property.’”

  “You know it well,” she replied, the words difficult to say.

  “I heard it enough times,” he said.

  What was she to say to that revelation? Or the fact that it was uttered in a voice lacking any emotion at all?

  He glanced at her, his eyes shuttered as if, once again, he meant to be more a mystery than a man. Or perhaps the look she witnessed was a revelation after all. Perhaps the colonel was as tired of war as she was of subjugation.

  “I came to see how you were faring,” he said softly.

  “I am fine,” she said. Two people expressing polite sentiments across a gorge of nationalities.

  She stood, uncomfortable with his nearness. Walking to the table, she pretended an interest in the grain of the wood beneath her stroking fingers. It was easier than the sight of him standing there, perfectly handsome in his uniform. The crimson hue of his coat seemed to accentuate his sun-bronzed face. His cuffs of lace were perfectly laundered, the boots he wore polished to a sheen. Even his gloves were oiled black leather.

  A peculiarity, those gloves. She’d not recalled him wearing them when he’d first come to Gilmuir, and now he was never without them. Another oddity, that she should be so curious about him.

  “Have you everything you need?” he asked from beside her.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, wishing he would move away.

  He stretched out one gloved finger and stroked her cheek. Her lashes shielded her eyes as she gazed at the floor. Her breath was painfully tight. Please, move away.

  Instead, he took one step closer until his boots slid against her shoes.

  He hadn’t touched her since that one night. But now he did, so softly that it might have been only a whisper. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. Before she could object, before she could step away, he turned her, cupping her face with his hands and then slowly bent his head and kissed her mouth.

  Her hand reached up instinctively to push him away.

  “Please,” he murmured against her lips. Both a soft plea and gentle invitation whispered in a harsh voice. She felt the warmth of his lips, allowed her eyelids to flutter shut. If there was a world beyond her closed lids in those next moments, she was unaware of it. But she felt the racing, booming rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, and knew that hers felt the same. But it was the sensation of being filled with something sweet and intoxicating that startled her. As if the most potent heather ale flowed through her body, luring her to drunkenness.

  He was the first to pull away, his breathing harsh as he pressed his lips to her temple. She kept her eyes closed even as her fingers splayed against his coated chest. Even beneath the fabric she could feel the warmth of him, the strength of muscles quiescent and waiting.

  His lips pressed against her eyelids, then the bridge of her nose, a gesture rooted in tenderness. She was adrift in confusion and sweetness, and the sudden wish to weep.

  Resolutely she stepped away from him, placing her fingers against her lips.

  “Do I taste English, Leitis?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head, suddenly mute as if the ability to speak had been kissed from her.

  He remained motionless, a handsome man with somber brown eyes and a military bearing. He didn’t smile, did nothing but watch her, his gaze lingering on her hair, then her features, as if he wished to imprint the sight of her on his mind.

  Then, without another word, he turned and left her.

  No, she thought, staring at the closed door, he didn’t taste English. Instead, he tasted familiar. Known. But he had kissed her once in the throes of a dream. That was all it was. There was no mystery to the colonel.

 
Yet he had treated her as a cherished guest instead of a hostage. His men were deeply loyal even though he was a strict commander. He was the Butcher of Inverness, but for the first time she wondered if the stories were, indeed, true.

  Once when they were children, she and her brothers lay flat on their backs in the middle of the glen, staring up at the pattern of clouds.

  “It’s a bird,” Fergus said, pointing to a fluffy white shape.

  “It’s not,” James countered. “It’s a claymore,” he added, pointing out all the various angles.

  “It’s neither,” she had said, losing patience with both of them.

  Both boys had glanced at her, surprised.

  “It’s nothing more than a cloud.”

  Fergus pointed to the cloud again. “See the part on the left? Just that, and nothing more? Tell me what you see.”

  “Just that?”

  He nodded.

  She squinted at it, then began to see the shape of it. “A duck,” she announced.

  Fergus grinned at her. “There you have it. Sometimes the best way to see something, Leitis,” he’d said, “is to peek at it. Not try to view the whole thing all at once.”

  She had the sudden, disturbing thought that the colonel was like that cloud. And another realization occurred to her, one as perplexing. He’d never asked where she’d gotten the wool.

  Chapter 18

  T here was, Alec thought, only one way to accomplish the exodus of the people of Gilmuir, and it would, unfortunately, involve Leitis’s participation. He doubted if the villagers would listen to him, masked and mysterious. And they would most certainly not believe anything the Butcher of Inverness would say.

  As the evening faded into dusk, Alec mounted and rode from the fort.

  “Lieutenant?” Harrison said, coming up behind Armstrong. “Is there a reason you’re standing here in the dark?”

  Armstrong was half curled around the corner of the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the land bridge.

  “No, sir,” he said, moving aside. “I thought I saw something, that’s all.”

  “Were you watching the colonel, Armstrong?”

  “I was just curious as to where he is going in the dark, sir,” the younger man said.

  “Are his movements any of your concern, Lieutenant?” Harrison asked.

  “No, sir,” Armstrong conceded.

  Troubled by the lieutenant’s behavior, Harrison watched as he walked back to the fort. Something must be done about Armstrong.

  Where was the Raven now? He’d left her without a word last night, with no indication that she’d see him again, or when. How did she summon him? By her wishes and her wants?

  Leitis stood, pushed the bench neatly under the loom. She stretched, rolled her shoulders, then bent from the waist to ease the ache in her back. She’d worked too long today, but it had been the best way to make the time pass. Occupying herself with the complicated pattern had alleviated both her confusion and her longing.

  She left the room, escaping once more to the priory.

  A gentle breeze blew through the arches and pulled at her skirts. They danced playfully around her ankles and teased her hair free of its ribbon. It was a night of moon and silver. Her hearing was tuned to the slightest movement, but all she heard was the riff of wind and a splash of waves on the loch below. A night bird sounded, its call echoing her own desperate longing.

  The taste of rebellion was heady, but it was not solely for that reason she wished the Raven’s presence. She wanted to speak with him about small thoughts and great wishes, laugh with him about nonsensical things. She wanted most to feel what she had the night before, that strange and effortless companionship as if she knew him well and deeply. And another reason as well, she confessed to herself. There was that sense of excitement when she was with him, a feeling she wanted to experience again.

  She returned to the room, lit a candle, and walked to the window, listening to the sounds from Fort William. Did they never stop marching? In earlier days, Gilmuir fell quiet at night. Enshrouded in a mist from the loch, the castle became a magical place, one of serenity and safety. No more.

  She thought of less dour things, the memory of last night when laughter alternated with fear. And the Raven’s kisses. His first kiss had been done quickly, pressing his smiling lips against hers. Then he’d offered her heather in a tender gesture.

  He’d seemed so familiar to her, as if she’d known him for a long time.

  Her thoughts stuttered to a halt. She began to circle the room in a restless movement, her thoughts on the Raven and last night.

  He had known the old laird, the existence of the staircase, the story of Ionis. All secrets he might have known as the laird’s grandson. The clan badge he’d shown her appeared to have been made of gold, not a common practice. But a laird’s grandson might have been presented with such a gift.

  Could he be the boy from her childhood? Ian MacRae, with his English father and his Scots mother, who’d left Gilmuir on that long-ago day and never returned?

  Was it possible? She sat abruptly.

  Surely she would have recognized him. Or would she?

  She recalled that moment at his mother’s lykewake, his eyes so filled with pain. There had been anger there, too. She recalled it as well as she did her own hurt when he crushed her gift beneath his boot.

  But he’d known her, a revelation he’d made when he’d tied the scarf around her hair and spoken of the brightness of it as a child.

  Was he Ian?

  Leitis remembered that boy’s laughter, the way he and her brothers teased her, the way he had of listening to her so intently that she felt she could tell him anything. And his appearance? A handsome boy with dark hair and eyes that always appeared alight with happiness. But he had been a child when last she saw him, and too many years had passed to be certain.

  Was it him? And if it was, why hadn’t he said so? Why hide himself behind a mask and claim it was for her protection?

  The soft knock startled her but was not unexpected. It was probably Donald, coming to see if she required anything. She walked to the door, opened it to find the man who’d occupied these past moments of thought.

  The Raven hesitated on the threshold, filling the doorway. He was even more mysterious in the candlelight, a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in black. His mask framed his face, accentuated the fullness of his lips, the sharp line of chin and jaw.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she cautioned. “It’s not safe. Donald might come at any moment.”

  “Still protective,” he said, smiling. He entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Someone should look out after you,” she said, looking up at him. “You take foolish chances.”

  “Perhaps the goal is worth the risk.”

  “Is it? It depends on your goal.”

  “I might have more than one,” he teased.

  “Why are you here?” she asked softly.

  He bent closer to her until she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Perhaps I wished to kiss you again,” he teased.

  “Oh,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. She would have been wiser to run from Gilmuir, from the colonel’s touch and the Raven’s. But it appeared that she was to be kissed again today, by another man she barely knew.

  Or did she?

  She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, telling herself that this kiss would be an antidote to the first. His mouth settled over hers with no more invitation than that.

  His lips were warm, his breath hot, the intrusion of his tongue against her mouth an astonishing act. Her body warmed as she unclasped her hands in order to grip his arms.

  The material of his shirt was soft and smooth to the touch. A last thought before he deepened the kiss and sent her thoughts flying to the stars in a hungry, openmouthed kiss filled with daring.

  She heard a sound, a slight gasp of wonder, then realized it was her own. Should a kiss be this powerful? How strange, that she’d
never before equated that word to a simple touch of mouth to mouth.

  Her lips fell open as her hands clutched his arms in a talonlike grip. And still he kissed her, as if he’d heard her earlier thought and wished to expunge all other embraces before this one.

  Yes. A sigh, a greeting, a prayer. Yes, please. More and more. He’d kissed her before, but it had been calming, soft, and sweet. Not heated and dangerous.

  He pulled back finally and she wanted to protest. Instead, she lay her forehead against his chest, heard the pounding beat of his heart, and knew that her own mimicked it.

  Step back, Leitis. Gather your dignity about you and pretend you’ve felt such a thing before.

  But her feet didn’t move, and her hands didn’t release him. Her dignity had been lost in that first murmur of surprise. Nor had she ever felt anything as delightfully wondrous. Not with Marcus. Certainly not with the Butcher. Not ever before.

  Words tripped from her mind, landed on her tongue, and rooted there. Why did you kiss me like that? Why am I trembling?

  “Should I ask your forgiveness?” he murmured, his breath coming as fast as hers.

  A wise woman would have said yes, gathering up the cloak of her pride. She could only shake her head. She lay her cheek against his chest, then placed a kiss on his shirt where his heart beat strong and fast.

  Kiss me again. A demand she did not make aloud. But her hand smoothed the material of his shirtsleeve, a gesture as telling as a request.

  He placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilted back her head, and kissed her again. A long, slow, drugging kiss that urged her to wickedness and heat. Colors flew across her closed lids, shades of rainbows and harebells and heather.

  He was the one to end the kiss, to pull away. He walked to the table and stood there, his back to her. “I came here for your help,” he said. “Not to accost you.”