Libby smiled in understanding. “I won’t break Michael’s heart, either,” she whispered. “I promise.”
The snowy studied her for several more seconds, then suddenly opened her wings, pushed off, and gently lifted into flight. Mary disappeared through the forest on down-silenced wings, leaving behind only the echo of her single-pitch call and the aura of fading blue light.
Libby’s knees buckled, and Michael swept her up in his arms before she slumped to the ground. He lifted her high against his chest and spun them both in a circle, his laughter shaking her like an earthquake.
“Don’t ever again say you’re afraid, Libby,” he said, spinning around and around until she was dizzy. “You’re a brave woman, lass. Braver than most men I know.”
Libby gripped his shoulders for balance and marveled at this new picture of Michael. He was being playful.
Or was he just relieved that she hadn’t been torn to shreds?
“Put me down. I’m going to be sick,” Libby pleaded, trying to make her head stop spinning.
He stopped, and slowly slid her down his body until her face was level with his, leaving her feet to dangle a good foot off the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, his shining gray eyes not the least bit contrite. “But I’m just so surprised that you did it.”
“Surprised? Surprised,” she repeated a bit louder. She swatted his shoulder. “You told me to do it.”
He nodded, his eyes crinkling at their corners. “Aye. I’ve been noticing how well you do what you’re told.” He turned serious. “Thank you for walking away from Daar without making a scene.”
“He’s a crazy old man.”
“Aye. But he’s basically harmless.”
“Are you going to put me down anytime soon?”
“I haven’t decided. Are we going to finish our discussion?”
“We did.”
“No,” he countered, slowly shaking his head. “I believe I had just said that I want you.”
“I want you, too, Michael. But I’m…I’m afraid.”
“So you’re saying your answer is no?”
Oh, how like a man to see things only in black or white.
“I’m saying—I’m—oh, dammit. No, Michael, I’m saying yes.”
Chapter Eight
For a man who should be feelingquite pleased with himself, Michael was unusually silent as they continued their walk down the mountain. But then, Libby didn’t have much to say herself.
Something was bothering her. Two things, really, that had nothing to do with the fact that she had just committed to having an affair. No, she was curious about something Michael had said to her earlier and something the priest had said when he’d first found them together.
“Michael, what did you mean when you told me you won’t let Robbie grow up to be—how did you put it—‘one of your weak moderns’? What did you mean by a modern?”
He shot her a look from the corner of his eye, then turned his attention back to the path in front of them.
“Michael?”
“Have ya ever noticed, Libby, how soft the men of modern society have become? How wars are fought but not really won? And how people have abdicated their right to protect themselves to a system that usually doesn’t arrive until it’s too late?”
“So you’re a philosopher?” she asked, grabbing his arm to stop him, so he would look at her. “You’re living in these mountains, watching the world from a distance, and passing judgment on society.”
“Nay, woman. I judge no one but myself and my son. Robbie will grow up to be strong and capable and will live by the laws of nature and not the rules of man.”
“He’s still a member of society, no matter where he lives. And those rules are the foundation of our civilization. Without them, there would be chaos.”
“There are a hell of a lot more rules now than there were eight hundred years ago.”
“Because there are a lot more people,” Libby countered, fascinated by this side of Michael.
Fascinated but not surprised.
Wasn’t this exactly what had drawn her to him in the first place? Hadn’t she sensed this quiet strength?
“Aye. There’s a lot more people,” he agreed. “Which is why I live here.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Which is also why you came here.”
Well, she couldn’t argue with that. “Father Daar called you a warrior. Were you a soldier?”
“Aye. I was until twelve years ago.”
“What branch of the military?”
“The fighting branch.” He gave her a crooked smile.
“Where are these questions leading, Libby?”
She shrugged and started walking again. “Nowhere. I just wondered. So, you’re saying Robbie shouldn’t wear a helmet when he rides his pony because that will make him weak?”
It was Michael who stopped them this time. “He’s been astride a horse since birth, Libby. My son knows how to ride, how to fall, and how not to get hurt.”
“I know how to drive a car, and I had an accident.”
He brushed a curl off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Knowing how to do something and knowing how to do it well are two different things, lass. You’re a poor driver.”
“I am not.” Libby remembered her accident and suddenly stiffened. “It was Mary. I mean, that bird. That bird flew in front of my car and made me crash.”
Michael’s face lit with a smile. “She must have known where ya was headed and wasn’t sure she wanted you to arrive. Now tell me, is your knee paining ya much? I can carry you.”
Libby snorted and started walking again.
But this time, Robbie caught up with her first.
The eight-year-old was driving a four-wheeled ATV.
And he wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Michael had a lot of nerve calling her reckless.
“Hi, Libby,” Robbie said, stopping the ATV beside her. He looked from her to his dad and beamed like a cat who’d just spotted a full bowl of cream. “What are you guys doing up here?”
“Nearly getting ourselves killed,” Libby snapped.
“Where’s your helmet?”
“Enough,” Michael growled, lifting her up and setting her on the ATV behind Robbie. He took hold of her chin and made her look directly into his glare. “Let it go, Libby,” he whispered. “We will not sit on the porch and watch life go by without participating.”
Libby glared back at him and tried to pull her chin free. But apparently, he wasn’t done talking.
“Concede this round, woman. Any consequence is mine to live with.”
That was the trouble with philosophers; they spent too much time thinking and not enough time seeing the results of an often foolish world.
“Then don’t you dare come to me when something happens. I’m not patching your consequences back together.”
He let go of her chin, straightened, and gave her a strange look. “Why would I think to come to you?” he asked. “If something happens, I’ll go to a doctor.”
Realizing her mistake, Libby shrugged and turned and hugged Robbie around the waist. “I’m just giving you a warning of my own. Of course, you’ll go to a doctor if something happens. Come on, Robbie. I need to put some ice on my knee.”
“Go on, son,” Michael said, waving Robbie forward while he continued to keep his thoughtful gaze on Libby.
“Go slow. It’s likely her first time on a four-wheeler.”
But Libby soon decided she didn’t want it to be her last. The smart little machine gave a surprisingly smooth ride. The engine puttered along quietly, and Robbie seemed to control it with ease.
Libby decided she was starting a list of all the things she had to do, had to buy, and had to accomplish to start her new life the moment she got home. And the first thing on the list was going to be an ATV.
The second thing would be a helmet.
No, two helmets. She would concede nothing to Michael. Not when it was this important. She was buying Robbie a helmet, and she w
ould bribe him to wear it if she had to, because she had made a promise to a snowy owl that she intended to keep.
That night, Michael sat in his favorite chair in the one room in the house where he spent most of his time. He had a book on his lap but hadn’t been able to concentrate on what he’d been trying to read for the last hour.
A brown-eyed, opinionated, and passionate faerie kept interfering with his concentration. Remembering the feel of Libby beneath him kept stirring his blood. Her taste, her smell, her courage and fear; she swam through his senses, creating an urgency of need.
And that was exactly why he was sitting there instead of where he would rather be. There was no place for need in their bargain. No place for it in his own life. It was okay for him to want a woman, but he could never allow himself to need just one in particular.
Not after loving two others and losing them both.
“Papa, can you take this box over to Libby tomorrow?” Robbie asked, walking into the library with a small wooden box in his arms.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“It’s a secret,” Robbie explained, setting the box on the stool beside Michael’s feet. “And I want your promise not to look in it. I just need you to take this to Libby so she can do me a favor.”
Michael lifted an inquiring brow. “And she’s volunteered to do this favor?”
“Nay, Papa,” Robbie admitted. “But I’ll write her a note and ask. It isn’t a big favor, just something I need help with.” He gave Michael a speculating smile. “Libby must be good with her hands if she makes jewelry.”
Michael closed his eyes on the thought of Libby being good with her hands.
“Please, Papa? Can’t you take it to her?”
“Why can’t you?”
“I’ve got play practice after school tomorrow. I won’t be home till supper.” He suddenly brightened with a new thought. “Maybe we should invite Libby over for supper. That would be a neighborly thing to do.”
Michael laughed out loud. “Do ya want to befriend the woman or kill her?” he asked. “Or did ya like what we ate tonight?”
Robbie involuntarily shuddered, and Michael nearly did the same. Burnt chicken had a lingering taste and, sadly, one he was getting used to.
Robbie walked to the large desk near the far wall. “I’ll write Libby a note, and I think I’ll offer to pay her. That way, she won’t feel I’m taking advantage, and she can earn money while she starts her new studio.”
It was a good plan, from an eight-year-old’s perspective, and Michael didn’t have the heart to tell the boy that Libby was not lacking for money.
Michael had had a talk with Grace when he’d learned a new tenant had been found for Mary’s home. But Grace had been tight-lipped over what she had discovered about Libby Hart. All she had told Michael was not to worry about Libby’s finances. The woman was not there to find herself a rich husband.
No. She’d come to plague him instead, to stir his blood, and to awaken feelings better left dead.
“Spellcompensate for me, Papa,” Robbie demanded, looking up from the computer screen.
“You’ll write your note long-hand,” Michael said. “You don’t ask a favor by e-mail.”
“I’m not. I’m going to write it on the computer but print it out so you can take it with you.”
“Nay. You’ll ask in your own hand, Robbie, or you’ll not ask at all. When you have a request, you do it personally. And a computer is not personal.”
Robbie rolled his eyes but shut off the screen and picked up a pencil. He was quiet for several minutes, concentrating on forming letters that came so much easier on the keyboard.
Robbie might read at a much higher level, but he didn’t much care for writing. Michael knew Robbie was big for his age; he’d been to school often enough and seen his son’s classmates. Aye, the boy was strong, intelligent, capable, and far too astute for one so young.
Most of the time. But every now and then—more often lately—Robbie would do something to remind Michael that he was still only a bairn. A bad dream, an insecurity, self-doubt over a decision, when he would need the comfort of a good cuddle, a hug, or sometimes only a wink of understanding.
“I’m back tocompensate, Papa.”
“C-O-M-P-E-N-S-A-T-E.”
Robbie went back to work, the only sound in the room that of his impatient sighs and the scratch of the pencil.
Michael studied the box at his feet. He could take it over to Libby tonight, after Robbie was safely tucked into bed. John was there to watch over things.
No. He’d better not. She may have said yes this afternoon, but her answer had been filled with doubt. Libby probably didn’t even realize it, but Michael knew she wasn’t ready.
She would be, though. He would see to it.
“I’m done,” Robbie said, coming around the desk as he folded his note. He set it on the box and looked up at Michael and grinned. “I have your word ya won’t peek?”
“Aye.”
“Then I’m going to bed now,” he said, yawning and stretching his arms to get the kinks out of his growing muscles. “I want to get up early and work on the rest of my surprise before school.” He gave Michael a stern look. “You haven’t been in Grampy’s workshop, have you?”
“I’ve not,” Michael assured him. “I’m letting the suspense drive me nuts.”
Robbie pushed the book off Michael’s lap and scrambled up to replace it. He turned and snuggled against Michael’s chest and pulled his father’s arms around him.
“Tell me what ya think of her, Papa,” he demanded.
Michael gave Robbie a bear hug. “I think we’re going to have to mount a flag on the woman, so we can find her in the snow this winter.”
“Aunt Grace says good things come in small packages.”
“Aye. And some packages are smaller than others. What do you think of her?” Michael asked, turning Robbie’s question back on him.
Robbie tilted his head to smile at his father. “I think you think she’s pretty.”
“I don’t know,” Michael murmured, looking up at the ceiling while he tried to decide. “She’s got short hair. I don’t particularly care for short hair on a woman.”
“Hair can grow.”
“And she’s not very curvy,” Michael continued, still looking up. “In fact, I’m not sure she has any curves at all.”
“She’s got perky breasts.”
Michael snapped his head down. “Excuse me?”
“Aren’t Libby’s breasts perky?”
Michael squeezed his son a little harder this time.
“Where have you heard that term?”
“At school. Frankie Boggs says men like perky breasts.”
“Gentlemen do not discuss women’s anatomy.”
“I’m going to be a warrior, not a gentleman.”
“You can be both.”
“Are you a gentleman?”
“Nay. Aye.” Michael rubbed a hand over his face. “I try, Robbie. And I don’t discuss women’s anatomy with other men.”
“You only discuss it with women?”
Michael let out a sigh that moved Robbie’s hair. “Son, a woman’s body should not be discussed. Ever.”
“Can it be looked at?”
Michael tore his gaze away and looked at the hearth. It was getting damned hot in there.
He looked back at Robbie. “It can be appreciated,” he carefully said, realizing he’d started this discussion by listing Libby’s lack of curves. “Men can’t help but look. Even gentlemen,” he quickly added before Robbie could speak. “But they keep their thoughts to themselves.”
“Do ya think Libby can cook?”
Michael breathed a sigh of relief finally to be on safer ground. “If she can boil water, she’s doing better than we are.”
“Do…do ya think she’ll stay, Papa?”
Michael stood up, set his son on his feet, and headed them both to the hall and up the stairs. “She might,” he told him truthfully. “Bu
t ya shouldn’t expect it. Things change in people’s lives, Robbie. And if Libby must leave, then accept her decision and be glad she came into your life, even for a little while.”
“You want her to stay, don’t ya?”
Michael stood Robbie in front of the bathroom sink and handed him his toothbrush. “Aye. I won’t mind if Libby decides to stay.”
Robbie grinned up at him. “That’s good, then,” he said, nodding. “’Cause she’s going to.”
“And why are you so sure?”
“Mary told me.”
Michael stilled in the act of squeezing the toothpaste onto Robbie’s toothbrush. “When?”
“This afternoon, when I got home from school. Mary was waiting when I got off the bus. She also told me where to find you and Libby and that I should probably go fetch you.”
Michael sat down at the edge of the tub. “Explain how your pet told you such a thing. The owl can’t talk, son.”
Robbie shrugged. “She just told me. She was looking at me, and suddenly I just knew.” His uncertain young eyes blinked up at Michael. “I…we talk all the time,” he confessed.
Michael placed the tube of toothpaste on the counter, then rubbed his hands over his tired face in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain.
He was going up the mountain again tomorrow and having a talk with thedrùidh . Daar had hinted more than once over the last eight years that Robbie was special. The old priest had not been specific, although Michael had heard him mutter the wordguardian once or twice. But when pressed, Daar had refused to elaborate. He’d only said that time would tell.
Well, it was time.
“Are ya mad ’cause I talk to Mary?” Robbie asked, looking at Michael with the fragile eyes of a boy mightily in need of his mother.
“Nay,” Michael assured him. “I’m glad you have a good friendship with Mary. And now Libby does as well. Mary landed on her arm today.”
Robbie gasped. “She did? Truly?” he asked in surprise. “Mary won’t even come to you.” He suddenly shot Michael a smug grin. “That must mean she likes Libby.”
“And that she doesn’t like me?”
“Nay, Papa,” Robbie said, smacking him in the shoulder with his toothbrush. “Mary’s afraid to get close to you because you might try to keep her forever.”
Wedding the Highlander Page 9