by Lois Greiman
“And the babe?”
“He had no interest in the bairn,” Lachlan said.
That was not exactly what her spying had revealed.
Indeed, MacGowan was correct, the marquis had strange tastes, but though he may have wished to bed a pregnant woman, he did not wish to wed one.
“She had the babe taken before its time,” Lachlan said. “It all but ruined Ramsay when he learned she had sacrificed the child. Indeed, had it not been for his Anora and the heir she bore him, he might never have recovered. Late in the year they will hold a gathering to celebrate their-”
“And what of his wee lass?” “What’s that?”
She had reason to hate herself again, for she had not meant to speak, had not intended to mention the tiny girl child Ramsay had claimed as his own and named Mary. Nay, she had no intention of remembering how the MacGowan rogues fussed over the babe as if the wee lass were the most precious of children and not a bairn borne of shame and disgrace with no true parents to claim her. But recently her own childhood seemed so raw, so close to the surface. What would it have been like to be so adored by such a man? Adored instead of abandoned and forgotten. “‘Tis naught,” she said. “I but find it interesting that you blame the marquis for your brother’s loss.”
“What lass?” he asked.
She kept her body carefully relaxed. “I heard he adopted a child when he first went to Evermyst, an unclaimed lass born out of wedlock to a Fraser woman.”
Though she searched for more to say, she could find no words.
“How do you know of wee sweet Mary?”
“Rumors,” she lied, but the memory of seeing the rogues with the child was strong. “Naught more. There is much talk of the MacGowan rogues among the very bored.” He watched her strangely, but finally he spoke.
“Aye, when Ramsay first arrived at the high keep, a young woman died in childbirth. Though there had been enmity between he and the maid, he had no wish to see the babe suffer, so he claimed the infant as his own, perhaps as recompense for the life that was lost. Or perhaps he cherished the bairn from the first instant. ‘Tis difficult to say with Ram.”
Silence fell around them for a moment. Lachlan continued, “I believe wee Mary’s father is a Munro, though none has stepped up to claim her. Still, her presence at Evermyst has done much to further the truce between the two clans.”
She said nothing.
“Why the interest in her, Rhona?”
“Does she not warrant interest, MacGowan?”
“Do you think she should have been given to the Munros?”
“When even his sisters were nurtured elsewhere?” she asked.
“Were they?”
“Aye.” She cleared her throat and calmed herself. “In France, I believe, with their aging aunt.”
“It occurs to me that you know nearly as much about the Munros as you do of the MacGowans.”
“Could it be that you are trying to divert me from the topic of your brother’s daughter?”
He watched her closely. “She is, in fact, the very apple of me brother’s eye,” he said. “I but wonder what she has to do with you.”
“And I wonder why you blame the marquis for the loss of Lorna’s babe. Surely the choice was hers as much as his.”
“For a woman so eager to protect her own sex, you are strangely anxious to condemn them.”
It was true. Since meeting this man she felt all turned about, uncertain about a thousand things that had been so clear before. “Not at all,” she said. “I but think it prudent to lay the blame where blame is due.”
“Unless it be at the good marquis’ knobby feet,” he said.
His tone was strange, gritted. She raised her brows.
“Do you know something of him that I do not?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “For you seem to know a good deal on many fronts, and as I say, I’ve not met the man. I only know he cannot be trusted.”
“I will surely keep that in mind,” she said. “When you seduce him?” His tone was hard. “I thought you did not believe I was capable.”
“Do you go to prove your abilities?”
She shrugged. “Mayhap. If he has strange tastes as you say, perhaps I will prove to be to his liking.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“He has had many mistresses,” MacGowan said. “Many men do.”
“And you would be content to be just one more?” “I did not say as much.”
“So you hope to wed him.”
”Twas what she had told him, wasn’t it? Her words were becoming tangled. Indeed, she had never liked to fabricate the truth. A warrior’s path was a narrow one, and yet her life was built on lies. “A lass could do worse,” she said.
“The man is aged.” Lachlan ‘s voice was dark. “But even in his prime he was not good enough to…” He stopped himself, tightened his fist and watched her closely. She forced her arms to unbend, to reach for the cloth, to wash water over her legs. His gaze followed her motion. “He has seen twice your years and does not possesses a fraction of your strength. Yet, he would not be faithful to you.”
“Most men are not faithful to the women they take to wife, MacGowan.”
”But some are.” His voice was tight, his expression the same, his eyes so intense it all but stole her breath away.
“Who?” she whispered.
“I…” He paused. His voice was as soft as a solemn vow. “Me father taught us… Me father has been faithful to the Flame.”
“Your mother.”
“You know of her?”
“Rumors again.”
“They are most likely true.”
“There are those who say she would kill him if he crossed her.” She kept her tone carefully flippant, but her words were not quite true, for the tales she had heard spoke of love and loyalty and a dozen other things she could ill afford to believe in. “Perhaps that is why he stays close to hand.”
He said nothing for a moment, but his gaze followed her fingers as they moved the rag across her shoulder.
“He has made a vow to protect her,” he said, “has promised to bind his life to hers forever and always. He would sooner take a blade to the heart than hurt her.”
She searched for some dismissive word, some banal comment to prove she was unimpressed, but her throat felt strangely tight.
Silence echoed around them. “Do not go to him, lass.”
She swallowed hard and met his eyes with some difficulty. “I must.”
“Why?” Mayhap he, too, tried for distance, but there was deep emotion in the question and dark lightning in his eyes.
She pulled her gaze from his and cleared her throat.
“His daughters-”
“Do not tell me again of his daughters!”
“Why? Is it so difficult to believe that I care for them even though you do not?”
“Aye, it is, for you care for no one!” he said and jerked to his feet.
“And why should I?” she asked. “Was I not foisted on an old man with no wish for a daughter? An old man who had lost his only son. Who could barely see me for longing for his boy! What was I to do? Rumbling about in this withering manse with none but Shanks to care for me. ‘Twas so much simpler for all if I acted the boy. Skilled as any young man, I became. Only then would Barnett acknowledge me. Indeed, he could almost pretend I was male, but in the end I was neither a lad nor a lass, and they could not accept me. Why then should I accept them?”
He turned toward her and exhaled tightly. “I am sorry,” he said.
“Aye well…” She searched for the anger again, but it was gone, lost in a wink in the depth of his amber eyes. She pulled her gaze from his. ‘The Douglases did not share your pity.”
“How so?”
There was something in his tone that caught her attention that pulled her gaze back to him. Something dark and ultimately male.
She forced herself to breathe, to turn back to her bathwater. ‘The Douglases did not think m
e so masculine. Indeed, Edmund…” She was not entirely certain what she had meant to say, but suddenly it was too difficult to goon.
“Edmund?” he asked and stepped aggressively toward her. She leaned away, pressing against the copper tub, forgetting her nudity.
“Let me just say that I’ve no wish for other girls to live me own mistakes, MacGowan.”
“Edmund what?” he asked.
“Spoiled, and loathsome, he was,” she hissed. “But his father loved him dearly. Indeed, he could do no wrong.” She could remember his hands on her. Remember her drowning terror. But she put it firmly behind her, as she’d done a hundred times before. “So I became just like him when I left. Indeed, I took the name of me cousin, Giles of France, and suddenly all doors were open to me. Even Barnett’s.”
“What did he do to you, Rhona?”
She watched him for an instant, then looked away. “It was not so difficult really. I hated… I was not happy in the Douglas stronghold. I did not make a good lass.” She shrugged. “But in the end it was easy to leave. Just a few stolen garments. Just a few spoken lies and I was gone. So unimportant was I, that they did not even care that I had left. But then I suspect they had their minds on other things.” Finishing her washing, she rose to her feet. “Hand me a towel.”
He did so. Their fingers brushed. She gritted her teeth and ignored any feelings that may have sparked from his touch, threatening to drown her.
“How old were you?” His voice was as deep as the night outside their window.
She shrugged. “Two and twelve perhaps.”
“You returned here to Nettlepath.”
“Eventually.”
“As your French cousin.” “Aye.”
“And they did not recognize you?”
She shrugged. “So much easier to have a nephew, a man, worth-” She stopped the thought, buried the self-pity. “Strong. Capable.”
“You were worth a great deal.” His tone sounded so ridiculously sincere, so painfully honest.
Her throat felt tight. “Was I?”
“Aye.”
“What was I worth then, MacGowan?”
“Adoration.”
For a moment she could not breathe, could not speak, could not turn away, but finally she forced a laugh. “Why would I be adored, champion? As a girl I could do nothing. Not weave, nor cook, nor even that damned embroidery.”
“And as a man you could do anything.” “Aye.”
“But in reality you are not a man, and still your abilities are unlimited. So as a maid you can do all. You slay the dragon, you are the princess.” Silence settled in. “You need no one.”
He was wrong. So painfully wrong. Her eyes stung. “I go to bed now, MacGowan.”
He said nothing, only nodded. She held the towel before her like a limp shield, fighting herself.
“Perhaps…” She paused. He watched her. “‘Tis cold on the floor.”
He didn’t respond. Made no attempt to make her words any easier.
“Perhaps you could share me bed if you…” She was losing her mind. “Bathe first.” It was hard to force out the words. “After all, I’m in no danger from you, since you are…” She tried to finish the thought, but standing as he was, every muscle hard and every fiber taut, she could not pretend he was any less of the man he had proven himself to be. “You know that I… do not desire you.”
He said nothing, made no movement to imply that he agreed or disagreed. She turned away and walked stiff limbed to her bed. As she pulled a fresh tunic over her head, she didn’t glance at him, didn’t turn over when she heard him enter the tub. Instead, she stared at the wall and listened to the beat of her heart against the mattress.
Minutes or a lifetime passed. The mattress dipped behind her. She held her breath, but he kept his distance.
She cleared her throat. “‘Tis rather chilly this night.” Not a sound could be heard in all the universe.
“Are you asking me to move closer?” he asked. The words rumbled from him like distant thunder, ominous, yet exhilarating.
“Nay,” she said, but the naked lie lay between them like a hungry bear-large and dangerous and difficult to ignore. “Unless you are cold.”
An eternity passed. He moved closer and finally she felt his hand on her arm. She tensed, waiting, but he did not turn her toward him. Instead, he eased closer still. She could feel the heat of his body as he drew his palm down her arm and onto the slope of her waist.
“I am sorry.”
His words were soft. She didn’t respond, and he flexed his fingers so that his nails skimmed along the curve of her ribs and up her spine.
“For me mother again?” she asked. “Nay. I am sorry that you cannot want.”
“Is that what you think, MacGowan? That because I do not want you, I cannot-”
But in that moment he brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck.
Her moan escaped of its own accord. Aye, she was strong, but damn it all, she was a living, breathing woman, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember being gently touched by any but him. She felt him move closer, felt his erection brush her buttocks.
“What did he do to you, lass?”
“Who?”
“The bastard…” He drew a careful breath and skimmed his fingers down her spine again. “Edmund.”
The memories stormed back, but she did not answer.
He kissed her again where her neck curved into her shoulder. Feelings swamped her, threatening to drown the memories.
“Lass?” he said, and brushed his fingertips over her ear.
The shiver was impossible to hide this time, so she spoke, shielding her emotions with words. “Would the details be so pleasant for you, MacGowan?”
She felt him stiffen. His movements paused for a moment. She had wounded him. “Twas good, she thought, and yet she almost turned to beg his forgiveness. Almost.
“If I could,” he began, and touched her hair again. “I would undo the damage he has done. But I do not know the damage.”
She did her best to ignore his gentleness, his words, the feel of his skin against hers. “What would you do?” she whispered, and suddenly she felt so small and fragile that the fear all but swallowed her.
“Whatever you like.”
She closed her eyes and fought the weakness, but it was all around her, closing in. “Hold me, champion.”
He drew her closer, so that her back was pressed tightly against his chest, his legs cradling hers, and his erection a hard force between them.
“You were to be adored,” he said.
Her mouth twitched with unwelcome emotion, but she forced herself to relax, to remain unmoved. “They did not adore me.”
“Did he force himself on you?”
She could barely manage a nod. Her gut was tied in knots and her throat ached.
His hand tightened for a moment in her hair, then loosened. ”And you did not tell the Douglas of his sins?”
“Aye.” She said no more.
He waited. His grip hardened on her shoulder.
“It seems there are punishments, for young girls who would seduce their betters,” she said finally.
She felt the muscles in his arm jerk and freeze, but finally he relaxed a bit and tightened his arm about her waist, as if he could hold the world at bay, could keep her safe within the circle of his strength.
“God forgive me,” he murmured. “I cannot right the wrongs you suffered at their hands, for they have long ago fled Scotland.” He paused as if struggling with himself. “But I would keep you from being hurt again.” He smoothed his palm down her arm, but she could yet feel the tension in his fingers. “I fear the marquis of Claronfell is no better than the men of your past. Do not go-”
“All the more reason for me to go then,” she said. “Why? To join his cause against Scotland?”
She turned in the darkness. “Do you call me a traitor, MacGowan?”
“I do not know what to call you!” His tone was rife wi
th frustration. “I do not know why you go to Claronfell, but your reason seems urgent.”
“So you assume I would turn me back on me homeland?”
“Your back is scared and there was none in all of Scotland to save you from the pain. Indeed, you trust no man as well as you trust your steed. Why should you be loyal?”
They lay face to face, inches apart, naught separating them but the sheer fabric of her tunic.
“Believe I am a traitor if you like, MacGowan. I have told you why I go to Claronfell.”
“Aye. You have told me.” There was anger in his face, passion in his tone. “You have told me of abuse and neglect and your intent to punish yourself again when you could be safe and lov-”
He stopped, his hand tight around her arm. She held her breath.
“What were you about to say?”
He gritted his teeth and loosened his grip. “Perhaps you want to be hurt.”
“Is that what you believe, MacGowan? Is that what you tell yourself? Go ahead then.” She lifted her hand from between them. “Take me while you believe it is what I want.”
He glared at her for a prolonged moment, then yanked her close. His lips crushed hers, his body was as hard as granite.
Desire and fear and a dozen unclaimed emotions burned through her, but in the same moment he drew away, breathing hard.
“You lie.” His voice was soft suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his body tense. She wanted to pull him back, to push him down, to draw him inside and around and under.
But he remained as he was, watching her from a distant of several long inches. Damn him! She lay perfectly still, anger soaring through her. “Aye,” she seethed. “I lie. I was not abandoned or forsaken or-”
“You do not prefer women.”
Her mouth fell open. Her body ached with hollow longing. “What?”
“You long for a m-a man, just as I long for you, but you are not brave enough to admit it,” he said and pushing back, sat up and gazed down at her. “So much easier to be the warrior than the maid. So much easier to threaten and-”
“Easier!” She sat up too, anger boiling like a toxic brew.
“Aye,” he said, and his voice dropped again. “You do not detest men. You fear them.”
She laughed out loud, throwing her head back and howling at the ceiling. “What an imagination you have, MacGowan. If only your memory where half so amazing. I fear no man. Have you forgot me own ability with a sword?”