Douglas felt a surge of gratitude for the bone- numbing mornings of swimming in the loch and the hair-raising races he and Dainty had taken across the moor on horseback. He hadn't lost his killing edge.
His blood quickened with battle instincts.
He glanced around, assessing the field. "No huts afire, Neacail?"
Neacail hurled a stream of spittle at his feet. "The village is mine. No Sassenach king has a right to deny a blood claim."
Douglas stepped into the warped footbridge. The ropes sagged beneath his weight. "Why would a man destroy what he fights to gain?"
"I'll kill them one by one if I like," Neacail said with a sneer. "I'll saw off their heads and serve them to my hounds on a silver platter if it pleases me."
"It doesn't please me," Douglas said. "Do you know who I am?"
"The jackadandy lord who stole my birthright." The man wiped his mouth on his forearm. "Do you think yer titles will help ye now?"
"The jackadandy lord." Douglas raised his sword, his smile chilling. "To the death then."
Neacail sprang into motion like a statue awakening from a spell. He swung a battle ax over his head, and a sword in his left hand. Sweat carved runnels in the creases of his face. His brown eyes narrowed into slits, taunting, like a maddened boar.
Douglas raised his sword arm; strange thoughts ran through his mind. Was his own face a merciless mask of inhumanity? Had he looked like that to his enemies? A man without a soul. Steal, plunder, roar in victory. If he killed him, did he kill that kindred hatred in himself or resurrect it? Dear God, did he enjoy hurting others?
Why should Rowena feel safe with such a man?
His body met Neacail's challenge, detached from the moral conflicts of his mind. Reflex took over. Conscience fled. He slashed upward with his broadsword and sent the other man's battle ax flying over the footbridge.
Before Neacail could react, Douglas smashed the flat of his blade against the other man's arm. Neacail groaned. Aidan had taught Douglas how to fence with finesse. Dainty had taught him how to break a Barbary horse. Growing up in poverty had taught him how to fight dirty.
They fell together, unbalanced, off the footbridge into the burn. The laced brogues Douglas wore enabled him to gain his footing on the grassy stones. They clashed. Separated.
Neacail charged him like a centaur. Douglas kicked him in the groin. Then a dirk flashed in the man's hand, and Douglas wasn't fighting for ideals or salvation, or even to avenge an attack on his people. He fought for his life. He danced back, slick black hair dripping down his back; he reached for the short knife in his belt. And froze as a familiar figure bolted across the bridge above.
"Jesus, no," he said in a breath as Rowena reached the bank of the burn, her face coming into focus. She carried a basket of food and wore a black silk mantle. She flaunted perfumed gloves and pearls as if she were sneaking out on a midnight picnic instead of witnessing a lethal fight. Fear for her near immobilized him.
"Go," he said between his teeth. "Go—go! Get the hell out of here!"
She gathered up her skirts, confused by his tone of voice. Then her face registered shock, as if she'd only just realized what she had interrupted.
"Douglas—" She gestured behind him, her eyes wide with horror. "Douglas—watch out!"
He pivoted a split second before Neacail could stab him in the throat. The dirk sliced down his shoulder. The man had intended to sever his jugular vein. Instead, he tore a jagged trail into the thick biceps of Douglas's right arm.
Douglas ignored the shock of burning pain. He was staring in disbelief at the pistol that had suddenly appeared in Rowena's hands.
"Give it to me, Rowena. Now."
She wavered, starting to obey. Then, panicked, she aimed the pistol at Neacail as he scrambled up the bank toward her.
She stood in his path, a sentinel of defiance. Douglas saw Neacail stare at her for a second in hesitation before shoving her aside. A princess in pearls was probably the last thing a Highland outlaw expected to encounter. She fell back into the tangled cattails, the pistol sliding into the water.
Douglas let out an unholy roar that was borne more of frustration than pain. His left hand clamped to his shoulder, he bolted up the bank and ran after Neacail before the loss of blood made him too lightheaded to continue.
Rowena's horse had already climbed halfway up the hill. Neacail paused to make an obscene gesture before he vaulted onto the saddle and galloped away.
"He's gone, my lord." Rowena slid down the brae into the burn, dipping her mantle into the water. "You need help."
He wheeled, his mouth a flat line of fury and pain. "Woman," he shouted at her. "Are you daft? You could have been kidnapped or killed!"
"I wasn't," she said in a crisp undertone, bracing him as he swayed.
Delirium swam in his head. The edges of his vision blurred. "What goddamned mule-headed notion brought you here against my orders?"
She stared at him, twisting the damp mantle in her hands. Irritably he wondered if his abrupt transformation from bumbling courtier to swearing warrior had unbalanced her more than watching him bleed to death.
Apparently he was wrong.
Rowena calmly began to wrap the mantle around his arm, tying the silk fringe beneath the ridge of bloodied muscles. White-lipped, she countered, "You told me you were rebuilding the huts. How was I to know you lied?"
"How in the name of God did you get past Dainty's guard?" he roared.
Rowena anchored her arms around his waist. "I will not answer while you address me in that hideous manner."
He laughed between his teeth. "Forgive me, Highness—or is it hoyden? I'm going to kill Dainty for this."
"You're in no condition to kill anyone," she retorted.
"Thank you for the reminder. Let go of me, woman. I can walk myself, even if I'm not capable of fighting like a man."
"Kindly do not fight me, my lord. I am trying to take you to safety."
Another laugh, this one weaker. His breath grew labored. "What do you think it means when a pirate must be rescued by a princess?"
"A fairy tale in reverse, I suppose." She looked around her, studying the woods. "Honesty would have made this completely unnecessary."
"Do you want honesty? I'll give you honesty. I lust for you, Rowena. I lust for you even now that my life's blood is draining from my body. You are beautiful."
She drew away only to throw both arms around his waist as he began to buckle at the knees. "Stop this talking. Conserve your strength."
"You asked for honesty. Dear God, my arm hurts. You are beautiful and I want you. Does that please you, lady?"
He stumbled. She swallowed a cry. His blood dripped down into her braid. He was heavy, and desperately wounded. Fear darkened her face.
"A fine time to extol my beauty," she said with a grimace as she shifted their combined weight to her other foot.
"I would have killed him this time if you hadn't popped up on the bridge like a blasted jack-in-the-box." His voice was faint. Then, almost conversationally, he added. "He had no idea who I really am. Not that it mattered. I fought like a blessed fairy princess myself."
"Not from what I saw," Rowena murmured.
He scowled. "I might have drawn a daisy from my sheath and attacked him with it. I have become my own creation."
"Please, my lord."
He sagged against her, and she folded under his weight, forcing him upright again. "I am the Daisy of Darien." He closed his eyes, chuckling darkly. "Have you heard of me?"
She swallowed a cry as an owl swooped down from an overhanging branch. The truth at last. "Everyone has heard of you… Dragon."
"I am not afraid of mice, Rowena. I would disabuse you of that humiliating notion before I die."
She faltered. Her fine quilted petticoats dragged about her ankles, stained with red loam, sodden and laced with pine needles. "You are not going to die."
"But you are beautiful," he said before he collapsed against her. "Beautiful an
d covered in blood."
He was delirious with pain, she realized, and therefore she would have to overlook his shouting and ranting. Yet even in his weakness, it took every ounce of strength she possessed to subdue him.
His blood soaked through her makeshift bandage into her bodice as she half dragged him into the woods. She felt its warm stickiness against her breasts.
"Woman," he groaned into her hair, trying to reject her support but unable to walk without it. "I could throttle you for this willfulness. How did you get past the castle guards on one of my own damn horses?"
Rowena said nothing. She concentrated on getting them to shelter in case the man who'd injured him returned to finish the job. This was not the time to inform him that, as her father could attest, the castle had not been built that could imprison her.
She led him to a stand of hazel trees, sweeping but a clearing for him to rest upon. She drew a hasty screen of branches and old bracken around his shivering frame. He struggled like a spoiled child, first pushing her onto her rump, then dragging her down by her braid onto his chest.
She fell heavily, tears of frustration filling her eyes. A thousand pinpricks of awareness tingled where their bodies touched. Wounded and stripped of pretense, he was nonetheless the most dangerous man she'd ever met.
Worse, she realized that although he had misled her and she could not be certain of his true feelings, she was attracted to him on a helplessly visceral level. The battered warrior who tugged her braid like a boy was both vulnerable… and alarmingly virile.
She still hadn't recovered from the shock of coming upon him fighting like a warlord in the woods. She shuddered as she remembered the sight of his powerful body in battle. She had felt the raw energy exploding from him like a lightning bolt.
"I would kiss you," he muttered. Or was it kill you? He was talking to himself. The broken phrases, spoken in Spanish with a soft Scottish burr, became unintelligible. He was sinking deeper, and she felt so helpless—
Alarm jolted through her—she had seen her brothers with deeper wounds from their mock battles, and they had not behaved like this. Only once, when Erich had tried to spear a boar, stabbing himself in the process with the tip that had been—
"Poisoned." She whispered the word in horror, and heard a sudden deadly silence.
Yet when she looked down, his black eyes bored into hers with chilling alertness. He knows, she thought.
"Could his knife have been poisoned, my lord?"
"Yes." He sounded calm, almost relieved, as if he too had wondered what weirdness had taken hold of him.
"I shall need help," she said. "You must be bled."
"No. No!" His voice rose to a raw shout, and Rowena, panicking that his adversaries would find them, laid her hand over his mouth.
"Don't go." He brought his hand up to wrench hers away, his grip still amazingly strong. "Wait. Dainty will come."
"There isn't time to wait." She rocked back on her heels and reached for the black velvet bag around her waist. A phial fell into the dirt, followed by a handful of peculiar-shaped stones.
Douglas watched her, his eyes narrowed into glassy slits. His breath came in shallow gasps. "What… what are those?"
She uncorked the phial, her fingers cold and clumsy. "Powdered unicorn's horn and bezoar stones. Hildegarde insisted carry them as an antidote to poison."
"Unicorn's horn." A smile crossed his face, distorted by a spasm of pain. "Only a princess would carry such a magic treasure."
He lost consciousness a few moments after she had brought the ancient antidote to his lips; she had never had cause to test it before. "Dragon or Daisy," she said, "you are mine, and I will fight to keep you."
The muffled clamor of hoofbeats rose from the hills. Heart in her throat, she clasped his dirk in her hands and settled into a crouch, waiting, prepared to defend her wounded warrior to the death.
Aidan's first impression was of blood. In the woman's hair, on her gown. She crouched like a forest animal over Douglas with his knife clenched in a death grip.
His gaze flickered grimly to Douglas, noting the rise and fall of his chest. He held out his hand to Rowena. "Come with me. 'Tis all right now. I will take care of this."
19
Was he in a cave?
Chills ran over his body. The air smelled thick and musty, unpleasant to breathe. He could not escape from the strange images that flitted through the dim mist of his mind. He realized he was dreaming.
He could see Aidan on horseback, his arm locked around Rowena's waist, her head resting on his shoulder. They made a striking match, the austere rider in black and the princess with the flowing chestnut hair.
Not Aidan, his mind shouted. Don't ride away with Aidan, Rowena.
His hands tightened into fists, yet he could not lift his arms. By the saints, he had been bound, and he had to rescue Rowena from…
The dream changed unexpectedly. He saw a strange man riding to the castle, a red-haired man in gold-embroidered clothes. The man took Rowena in his arms and kissed her on the steps of the keep.
By God, Douglas would not stand for this. He would kill both Aidan and this stranger who kissed his woman on his very castle steps. He reached for his sword.
"He is fighting in his sleep," a voice said from far away.
"He will reopen his wound," another said.
He groaned, straining to be free.
Rowena came to him in the dream. The female scent of her teased his senses, aroused him like a stag in rut. He kissed her until neither of them could breathe. He suckled her soft breasts until she whimpered for something more, begging him to take her, needing him as he needed her. His body pulsated with a desire so powerful he shook from limb to limb.
He dragged his mouth down her belly, lured to her woman's musk, the cleft between her thighs. He would die if he could not taste her.
His large hands gripped her hips. He burned to be inside her, ached to thrust, to spill his seed, to bond with her. Body and soul. He would dominate her once and for all. He would ride her until they could not move.
Yet fulfillment eluded him as the erotic vision dissolved like a reflection in a loch, and suddenly a claw bit into his shoulder. The pain was unbearable, a dagger thrust to the bone.
His bellow of fury resounded across the room.
It brought Dr. MacVittie running out of the adjoining closet with a fresh poultice in his hands. It brought Gemma bolt upright from the trundle where she lay dozing, a book on her lap.
Douglas dropped back onto the bed, sweating, disoriented, swallowing a groan. He was beginning to remember what had befallen him.
He pushed the coverlet to the floor with a growl of impatience. "What happened to the princess? How did I get here? Summon Dainty—we have work to finish in the glen."
The doctor banged his copper bowl down on the nightstand. "Hold yourself still, my lord. I'll not be sewing you up again after you nearly broke my jaw. The princess is resting. Neacail got away."
Douglas barely glanced at his bandaged shoulder. It hurt; he'd known worse. He scowled ferociously at the older man. "You speak to me with disrespect. Need I remind you that I am your laird?"
The doctor looked him in the eye. "You had enough poison in your system to kill a horse. I've not slept in four days, watching over you. If I've forgotten my manners, I would hope to be excused."
Douglas grunted, then sat up straight again, releasing a string of curses. "Four days? Four days?"
"Please lie back, my lord. I have made you a fresh poultice."
Douglas stared at the nightstand in suspicion. "Brewed in a chamberpot?" he said insultingly.
" 'Tis a powerful remedy I have used on His Majesty: pulverized snails, garlic, onions, and roasted earthworms wrapped in a raw chicken skin." The doctor motioned to Gemma. "Help me hold him down. He must be poulticed daily until the moon enters Scorpio, or the humors will settle in his liver."
Douglas tolerated about two seconds of this before he knocked them away with h
is good arm. At the doctor's urging, Gemma ran from the room to fetch Dainty to help. Surly as a bear, Douglas lurched off the bed. Smelly lumps of poultice dripped down the contours of his massive brown chest as he pulled on a shirt, then a pair of black leather breeches and boots.
A reflection in the mirror caught his eye as he began to lace the thongs on his shirt. He turned to see Rowena enter the room.
They examined each other in silence. Heat flushed over Douglas as he remembered the sensual dream, the taste of her, the delight of exploring her soft body.
Yet there was a wariness around her eyes that he had not noticed before. Appalled, he wondered if in his delirium, he had tried to make his dream come true. Had he forced himself on her in the woods? Overpowered her? He did not remember much except that she had spoiled his chance of bringing down Neacail of Glengalda.
She came toward him. "I am relieved to see that you are on your feet."
A frown settled on his face. She did not seem to be a woman degraded. Yet his own self-disgust was unbearable—to have her come upon him fighting his adversary and then, indignity of all male indignities, to lose the fight because the sight of her had shattered his concentration.
The doctor coughed into his hand. "The poultice, my lord—"
"Damn the poultice," Douglas said.
"But—" The physician sighed in resignation, then packed up his bag and left the room.
Neither Douglas nor the princess seemed to notice.
Belatedly Rowena crossed her bare arms over her chest. "I rushed from my room when I heard you throwing your tantrum. I hadn't even finished dressing or brushing my hair."
"I do not throw tantrums. I threw a poultice."
Rowena glanced down distractedly at the mess on the floor. "I wondered where that hideous smell was coming from. I thought 'twas you."
Douglas might have taken offense at this, but he suddenly realized she was indeed half-dressed. He studied her with healthy male interest. A man would have to be half-dead not to appreciate the delicious swell of her breasts above her square linen smock. And those pretty feminine petticoats, sheer silk that billowed out from her rounded hips. His body reacted with a total disregard for its battered state. She was, he realized, only a few steps from his bed.
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