Paper Roses

by Collier, Celia

  Alastair didn't believe this.

  He opened his eyes.

  The situation was too audacious. For Mackintosh to steal into this very keep and nab Rachel from her bed was the snag in their theory. The abduction occurred in spring. Guards would have alerted the keep to the presence of an enemy clan.

  Trepidation gnawed at his gut.

  The guards would think naught of the approach of an allied clan. Only an ally, someone trusted within the realm of the clan, would know the layout of the keep, which rooms to enter and which to avoid. Only an ally, or a clansman, would know their way through the forest at night.

  "Ye sent for me, laird?"

  Torquil's voice drew Alastair from his thoughts. He glanced toward the door and nodded. "Aye."

  The giant entered the room and closed the door behind him. Alastair sighed and pushed himself out of his chair.

  "Do you know which guards were on watch the night Rachel disappeared?"

  The big man frowned and scratched his beard. "'Twas long ago." He nodded. "Aye, I seem tae recall who was on duty that night."

  Alastair approached the hearth. "I need to speak with them."

  "Only two still live." Torquil joined his friend before the warm fire. "One died of lung fever last winter. The others fell during the battle in the glen."

  A frown tugged at Alastair's heart. "The survivors will have to suffice."

  Silence lingered between the men. Absently, Alastair stared at the portrait of Valerie. She had been his salvation after the death of his sire. Through her, he had hoped to revive the clan from their bloody past.

  "Ye still believe the Mackintosh innocent?"

  Torquil's query pulled Alastair from his reflections.

  With a sigh, he nodded. "Aye, I do." A thought came to him and he frowned. "Tell me, did my sire have visitors in the days before Rachel disappeared?"

  Again, Torquil grimaced and stroked the wiry hair that covered his chin. "Aye. John and his men arrived a few days prior."

  The mention of his uncle stirred abhorrence in the pit of Alastair's belly. He never liked the man, nor understood how his sire tolerated his presence.

  Through his brother, John gained the grant of newly-acquired lands near Glengarry and the clansmen to protect it. Yet, Alastair knew the grant was not enough to sate his uncle's thirst for power. Shortly after his sire died, Alastair found himself in battle against his uncle, defending his birthright to rule his mountain.

  "John helped hunt for Rachel," Torquil continued. "When he had tae depart on business a couple days after, he offered his men tae aid in the search."

  Dread spread its fingers through Alastair's soul. His uncle could have easily managed the capture of Rachel. By being present in this keep, the entire event could have been planned. His men may have taken the lass while John, by merely being present, would appear uninvolved.

  "I want the bastard brought to me," Alastair said, his anger beginning to rise.

  Torquil frowned. "Yer uncle?"

  Disgust wound around Alastair's heart. "Aye, my uncle, and I want you to head the plan."

  Worry formed ridges on Torquil's brow. "What concerns ye, my friend?"

  Alastair boldly met his friend's gaze. "That my uncle was the one who instigated the abduction of Rachel. He knew my sire's fondness for the lass. In his quest to gain our lands, it is conceivable that he would conspire to drive my sire into the depths of madness."

  Torquil lowered his gaze. "If yer notion is correct, then yer lady's sire --"

  "Died an innocent man," Alastair said, not allowing his friend to finish. "I want John's throat between my hands so I can dare him to lie."

  Torquil nodded. "Ye have my fealty. What is yer plan?"

  "I would love to grab him from his bed in the dead of night, just as Rachel was taken." Alastair grimaced. "Yet, with my uncle, methinks another tactic would work better." He looked his friend in the eye. "I will invite him here, as my guest."

  Torquil's mouth fell open. "Surely ye jest? The man kens the hatred ye carry for him."

  "The man is also vain." Alastair approached his desk and, once seated, began penning a missive. "I will inform him of my marriage and express my desire to mend the rift between us for the sake of my bairns. Whilst they will never know my sire, John will serve as protector to my offspring."

  A moment of silence passed, then deep laughter filled the air. Alastair looked up from his work, surprised to see a smile as broad as a Highland sky on Torquil's face.

  "He will devour every word as truth."

  Alastair nodded. "'Tis the plan." He finished the missive and applied his seal. "He is crafty, yet he has never matched wits with me." He withdrew another parchment and took up his quill.

  "I would like Ninian here as well. Somehow, through this web of deceit, John and MacLean are linked." He dusted the missive and applied two seals against the folded paper. "Once I discover the truth, God himself will be unable to save them."

  A knock sounded on the door. Alastair stood and handed the missives to his friend. "Take a few men with you. The parchment with two seals is for Ninian."

  Torquil nodded and tucked them into the plaid draped across his chest.

  Again, the rap on the door sounded. Alastair sighed and opened the barrier. One of the women who served the keep as maid stood before him.

  "My pardon, laird, but I just passed your chamber." The maid paused and averted her gaze. "Your lady weeps."

  Fear sank Alastair's heart. Without a word, he ran for the stairs. If harm had come to Ciara, he would kill the person responsible.

  He paused beyond the barrier of the room Ciara occupied alone. Quiet sobs drifted through the wood. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

  Ciara sat on her bottom in the middle of the room, her back to him. Her head bowed, his gaze followed the trail of her burnished copper braid that brushed her spine and coiled against the cold stone floor. Scattered around her were painted scraps of paper.

  Uncertainty creased his brow. He eased the door shut and carefully approached his bride.

  "Ciara?"

  She sniffed and, from her movements, he knew she wiped at her tears.

  "What is amiss?"

  She shook her head and sniffed again. "Naught."

  "Then, why do you weep?" He knelt beside her. The sight of her grief-stricken face tugged at his heart. "Ciara?" He lifted a hand to her cheek.

  Ciara recoiled and flashed him a watery gaze. "Do not coddle the weak, Alastair."

  What the hell was she talking about?

  "Ciara, you are not weak. Now, tell me what brings tears to your beautiful eyes."

  She averted her gaze and drew in a ragged breath. "I ruined it." Through her trembling fingers, the petals of a paper rose fluttered into her lap. "I defile everything I touch these days."

  Why on earth was she so upset about scraps of paper falling apart?

  "Ciara, 'tis unusual for you to get so emotional over something so meaningless."

  "Dare not mock me, MacDonell," she choked and shoved the petals from her lap. "My roses may seem meaningless to you, but they have brought me great joy in times when naught but sorrow ruled my life."

  Alastair was at a loss for words. He watched her scramble to her feet and move to stare out the window.

  Her arms circled her belly and a ragged breath filled her lungs. "Pray leave me in peace."

  Understanding spiraled through his soul. Ciara carried his babe. He had been in the company of enough women in this state to recognize the signs. Bouts of temperament and unfounded emotions were indications that a child had been conceived.

  A slow grin touched his lips. He stood and approached his wife.

  "Ciara, do you realize you breed?"

  Her gaze remained transfixed on the storm. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. "Aye."

  The smile slowly left his face. "Why, then, do you seem so miserable?"

  Her lower lip quivered and she wiped away her tears.

  "Wo
men die in childbirth, MacDonell." She shook her head. "I do not wish to be out there with Valerie, buried in the cold earth with naught but a blanket of snow for warmth."

  Alastair lowered his gaze. Her words were true. His own mother died attempting to present his sire with a second son. Both mother and child perished.

  "I have never been so frightened before in my life."

  Her quiet voice drew his gaze. She tried hard not to cry. He could see it in the set of her jaw and the poise of her body.

  "Ciara, your own mother brought twelve healthy bairns into the world. 'Tis quite likely you will do the same."

  Her gaze flashed to him and she took a step away. "If you dare give me a dozen babes, so help me --"

  "You will love each and every one of them." He smiled and advanced toward her. She retreated. "Come here, Ciara. I wish to kiss my wife."

  She shook her head. "That was the prelude to my present situation."

  "I know," he said and continued his prowl. "Yet you have failed to recognize one thing."

  Ciara paused and frowned at him. "What?"

  Alastair couldn't help himself. He drew her into his arms and grinned. "You cannot conceive another while this one resides in your womb."

  "'Tis a difficult feat to accomplish with us residing in separate rooms." She grimaced and pushed against his chest. "Unhand me, MacDonell."

  He shook his head. "Not until the day I die."

  His lips touched hers and his arms held her firmly in his grasp.

  Alastair MacDonell loved his wife. He vowed to spend the rest of his life showing her how much.

  * * *

  Ciara paused in the doorway and watched her husband. Head bowed over papers strewn across his desk, he seemed engrossed in his work. The glow of a dozen candles danced over his tousled hair. A fire burned in the hearth and cast warmth over the inviting room.

  "Alastair?"

  He raised his head. The dusk of his eyes swept over her. Ciara shivered. Would he always possess the power to disarm her with just a glance?

  "Aye, wife," he whispered and gathered the papers into a stack before him.

  Ciara drew in a breath and approached his desk. "I wish to beg pardon from you."

  Lean fingers paused against stiff paper. Dark eyes looked into hers and a frown marred an otherwise smooth brow. "For what?"

  "My conduct earlier." She paused and lowered her gaze from his. "I usually have better control over my emotions. 'Tis my prayer you can forgive my weakness."

  Silence lingered between them. In the hearth, the fire crackled and hissed, which only added to Ciara's distress. She wished he would say something.

  The echo of his sigh reached her ears. His chair scraped against the stone floor as he stood. Ciara tightened her fingers before her and steeled herself for the explosion sure to come.

  A touch borne of tenderness brushed her cheek and moved to her chin. The slightest pressure of his fingers raised her gaze to his.

  "Who made you believe emotions are wrong?"

  A lump rose in her throat. The gentleness of his eyes, the soft caress of his voice, his compassion caught her unaware.

  "Who convinced you that tears are a sign of weakness?"

  "They are --"

  "Am I weak?" he asked and moved his thumb over her lips.

  Ciara could not answer him. Her heart raked her ribs and vibrated through her soul. She managed to shake her head. Grace touched his face and lured tears to her eyes.

  "I wept the night Valerie died."

  "As did I," she managed to say.

  "Yet I felt no shame, nor thought myself weak." He cupped her face in his strong hands. "I display emotions too, Ciara. Anger when someone speaks against you, love when I look into your incredible eyes, lust when I have you naked in my arms. You are the one who awoke these feelings in me, feelings I had buried long ago."

  "Alastair, I --"

  "I love you, Ciara. I have never said those words to another living being. Not my sire. Not Valerie. No one but you."

  Tears slipped from her eyes. She raised her trembling hands to his wrists. "Please cease this torment."

  "Torment?" he whispered and eased her toward him. "I am the one being crucified, love. You keep me from your bed and avoid my touch. When will you forgive me?"

  Ciara closed her eyes and turned away. Her husband's touch kept her in place.

  "Who wounded you, Ciara? Who made you ashamed to love me?"

  "'Tis colder than the heart of an Englishman out there."

  The harsh, unexpected voice broke the mood between them. Alastair raised his head and Ciara turned.

  Framed in the doorway, holding a satchel, stood Johann. Damp wool covered the woman and fingerless gloves embraced her weathered hands.

  "Johann, did you walk here through the storm?"

  The woman scowled at Alastair and entered the chamber. She paused before the hearth, dropped her satchel, and stretched her fingers towards the welcoming warmth.

  "I own no horse and I canna ride my cow." She turned her back to the fire and nodded. "I walked."

  Ciara could only imagine how long the journey took on foot. "I will fetch some warmed mead to chase the chill from your bones."

  "Do not trouble yourself," Johann said, halting Ciara before she could leave. "I had a nip or two on my walk. This fire is all I need." She narrowed her gaze on them. "What did you do to make your lass weep, laird?"

  Embarrassment slid through Ciara's veins. 'Twas horrid enough Alastair saw her in such a state, but for a stranger to witness it as well was mortifying.

  "I merely told her I loved her."

  Johann raised a gray brow. "Did you now?"

  "Aye," he replied and leaned against his desk. "What brings you out of seclusion?"

  She grimaced and moved her glance to Ciara. "Your wife there. Scrawny as she is, I figured if she is to deliver a healthy bairn, she'd be needing my help."

  Images of the filth that covered the woman's abode sprang to Ciara's mind. "That is not necessary, Johann. My husband --"

  "Wore diapers himself once upon a time. Who do you think changed most of them?" She snorted and shook her head. "He dinna come out full grown, you know."

  Despite herself, Ciara smiled. "Nay, I suppose not."

  "Johann served as midwife to the keep for many a year, Ciara." His voice drew her gaze. Arms crossed over his chest, he nodded. "She delivered everyone from Torquil to the youngest lass that serves the hall."

  This did naught to bolster Ciara's confidence in the woman. After all, Alastair's mother perished in childbirth.

  Johann sighed and rubbed a hand over her rump. "Aye, lost a few by the will of God. The laird's mum for example." She shook her head. "Her body refused to open up and expel the bairn."

  And the same fate could await Ciara. She lowered her gaze and tried to shove aside the disturbing images.

  "Och, lass, I dinna mean to scare you." Johann said. "'Tis nothing at all to bring a babe into the world. 'Tis as natural as drawing a breath."

  Ciara nodded and lifted her gaze to the bedraggled woman. "Why would you want to help me?"

  Johann scowled. "'Tis not for you I am here, 'tis for the laird. He needs a healthy heir."

  "And your presence will assure that?" Ciara asked.

  "It will help more than it will harm." Johann retrieved her satchel and headed for the door. "Is my old chamber fine with you, laird?"

  "Aye, Johann."

  "As if it would matter had you said nay," Ciara said the moment the woman left the room. She turned to her husband. The smile on his face stirred her irritation. "You find this amusing?"

  "Aye, I do." He pulled her into his arms and chuckled. "Johann would die before admitting she walked all day in a storm just to tend you."

  "She probably longs to smother me in my sleep."

  "Nay, wife, she likes you well enough or she would have stayed away."

  That may be true, but trust was one thing Johann would have to earn from Ciara.

&
nbsp; She wiggled in his arms and sighed. "Release me, husband. I need to go make sure that witch is not poisoning my food."

  "If I thought her a threat, I would not allow her anywhere near you."

  Ciara stilled and braved a look into his eyes. "I will arrange a bath and clean clothes for her, then. If she truly wants to tend me as midwife, she will keep herself scrubbed or I will find another."

  Seconds that seemed like hours passed before he spoke.

  "Point taken," he whispered and slid his hand to her cheek. "Be warned, the talk Johann interrupted is far from finished, Ciara. We will continue it again tonight."

  Not if she could help it. She had come too close to surrendering to him just now. Ciara nodded and left his presence. She hoped Alastair would forget the words they exchanged and never broach the subject again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Alastair stood before the window in Ciara's room and stared into nothingness. Every thought in his head centered around his wife.

  Damn Johann and her ill timing. Before her intrusion, Ciara had been very close to opening her heart to him, not to mention accepting him back into her life. Now, he would have to work to capture that moment again.

  "Alastair?"

  The hush of Ciara's voice drew him from his thoughts. He turned and, through the tender glow of candles, Alastair watched her step into the room and close the door.

  "I thought you would be abed by now."

  He sighed and shook his head. "I could not sleep."

  Her gaze held his for the space of a heartbeat, then lowered to the floor. "I am happy to say, Johann has bathed and sworn to remain cleansed for the duration of her stay."

  Alastair raised an eyebrow. "How did you manage that?"

  Her gaze flashed to his and a small smile touched her lips.

  "I threatened to haul her foul carcass out into the snow and scrub her down myself." She averted her gaze and approached the table. "My threat alone did not convince her, though."

  Something was bothering her. He could tell by the way she chewed on her lower lip, and the slight tremble of her hand as she filled a mug with ale.

  "What did convince her?" he asked and moved to stand beside her.

  Eyes downcast, Ciara lowered the mug. "I fear I have overstepped my position, and need to beg your pardon again."