Beauty and the Barbarian

by Amy Jarecki

  “If ye want more food, ye’ll be honest with me. I’ll no’ betray you. On that ye have me word.”

  Ian closed his eyes. “Janet was my auntie, though two years younger, in truth. Ruairi married her to lay his hands on her dowry, which included fifty acres of MacKenzie grazing land.”

  “MacKenzie? That would be on the mainland, no?”

  “Aye, and only a few hours sailing in a galley. The trade it opened for the Lewis Clan brought riches—further strengthening Ruairi’s wealth.” Ian shook his head. “He cared nothing for the lass. He’d beat her for the smallest trifle.”

  Merrin shuddered and clasped her hand over the scarf around her neck. “It must have been awful for her.”

  “I couldn’t sit by and watch. Janet is too frail, she’d nay last another year.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Safe.” He didn’t want to say where, though Ruairi’s henchman, Rewan MacLeod, already knew. That didn’t matter. Once Ian delivered Janet into the arms of the MacKenzie, Rewan wouldn’t have been able to touch her.

  “Ye took her back to her kin?”

  How did Merrin guess that? “Aye.”

  “And why didn’t ye stay with them—spare yourself a musket ball?”

  “I created a diversion. Ruairi’s men chased me while Janet’s brother spirited her inside the MacKenzie keep.” Ian shook his head. “Ye must no’ speak of this to anyone, for if ye do, Ruairi will send his henchman after me. They’ll never stop. No’ until I’m dead.”

  Merrin placed her hand on Ian’s shoulder, a mere friendly gesture. Ian’s heart shouldn’t have hammered in his chest, but it did. Before he thought, he reached up and covered it with his much larger palm. Their gazes met. Ian could not mistake the yearning in her eyes, certain the same longings reflected in his own. He choked back his urge to pull her in his embrace. It was madness to allow his heart to yen for a lass in a few brief moments.

  But Merrin made him feel like he was the only man in the room, which he was quite literally. Still, Ian’s chest swelled, more like she regarded him to be the only man in the world—a king.

  Her tongue slipped out and dabbed her top lip, then her gaze dropped to his mouth. Ian suddenly had an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He reached up with his free hand and cupped her face. “I haven’t thanked ye for rescuing me.”

  She drew in a ragged breath. “Ye do no’ need to. I’m just relieved Ye’re alive.”

  He stared at her pink lips, slightly parted. Heaven help him. He gently tugged her toward his mouth and lightly brushed his lips across hers.

  Merrin jumped back. Her fists flew under her chin, her eyes wide as saucers. “What was that?”

  “Do no’ tell me a lass as bonny as ye has never been kissed?”

  Her face turning a brilliant shade of scarlet, she darted to the hearth and picked up her mixing spoon. Ian watched her. Keeping her back to him, Merrin nervously stirred an enormous kettle sitting atop an iron grill.

  Bloody hell, no one has kissed the lass. Ian clenched his fists. He could not take advantage of an innocent woman, no matter how beautiful. “Where’s your father?” It came out gruff, but so it should have. Kissing an innocent? He should be flogged.

  “Gone to Brochel to fetch stores. He’ll be back soon.” She kept her face turned toward the hearth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stopped stirring. “For what?” Her backside was every bit as lovely as her front.

  Ian moaned. “I’m sorry I kissed ye. I lost me head staring into your bonny eyes.”

  ***

  His words were practically more than Merrin could bear. Had Ian really said her eyes were bonny? She’d nearly swooned when his lips touched hers. When he grasped her hand and stared into her eyes, her heart had fluttered as if propelled by wings. She tried, but she couldn’t look away.

  Merrin mustn’t encourage him. If he saw her mark, he’d flee before he was completely healed. She would keep it covered and avoid kissing him again. But how marvelous was the mere caress of his lips. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. It still tingled.

  She stirred the pottage one more time and dished up two bowls, Gar coming to life, instantly at her heel. If Ian was bold enough to kiss her, he was certainly well enough to keep down a few bites of pottage.

  She skirted around the table with Gar drooling behind. Still a bit shaken, she didn’t look Ian in the face until he moaned. His eyes were closed and beads of sweat dribbled from his forehead. That kiss must have sapped him of all his strength.

  Merrin glanced at Gar. “May as well not waste it.” The dog wagged his tail and trotted to his bowl by the door. She shoveled in Ian’s portion. “What a strange day this has been.”

  When the sunlight dimmed, Merrin lit the candles and reclined in the rocker. She watched Ian sleep. If only she could find a man like him, she wouldn’t be alone when Niall passed. She’d take fine care of a husband. Around and around, she caressed the back of her hand. A young man like Ian might never touch her again. She would savor the memory of this day and lock it in her heart. So much had been revealed in a few short moments, Merrin wondered if Niall had left her alone for her own education. Her father would do something like that. Life’s lessons come from experience, he’d say.

  On the morrow Niall would return, and her fascination with Ian would become a distant memory. Of that she was absolutely certain.

  Chapter Five

  When Merrin came in from collecting the eggs, she found Ian sitting on the edge of his pallet, the plaid wrapped around his waist, his well-muscled chest bare. She could scarcely breathe. All night she’d tried to block the images of his hard body from her mind. She’d bathed every inch of that masculine flesh. Doing so had stirred a yearning so powerful, her insides twisted with pain. When she’d finally left the rocking chair and sought her bed, it took forever to drift off. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw his rock-hard chest, or a sturdy thigh, a thick arm. Thick? Of course her mind would then conjure up his undeniably fascinating manhood. Heaven help her, it would haunt her forever.

  Ian’s beard had grown thicker during the night. The dark stubble contrasted with his flaxen tresses. He hunched over, his breathing labored.

  Merrin set her basket on the table and raced to him. “Are ye ill?”

  “I need to rise from this pallet and build me strength.”

  She laid her palm against his forehead. “Ye’re still a bit fevered. ’Tis best ye let your body rest.”

  “Nay. My presence here is putting ye in danger. I should be on me way.”

  Merrin pursed her lips and gazed at him intently. He couldn’t leave. Not when he was only starting to mend—not when she’d already grown accustomed to tending him. “Oh really, now?” She pulled the corners of her mouth down in her best disagreeable frown. “Aside from the fact that ye wouldn’t make it to the door, where would ye go?” Merrin snapped her fists to her hips for added sternness. “Or is it ye do no’ like me hospitality?”

  Ian reached up for her hands and clasped them. “Of course I’ll forever be grateful that ye came to me rescue. I would have no other hands but yours tending me.”

  Merrin’s heart fluttered. His rough, warm palm cradled her much smaller hands protectively. Her gaze fell to his lips. Oh, to feel them brush against hers one more time. She couldn’t allow him to leave. Not when he was this weak. He’d succumb to the fever or worse. “There’s no hurry for ye to leave.” Her voice was but a whisper. “Come. I’ll serve ye some eggs and sausages.”

  His heartbeat thundered beneath her fingers, his skin warm to the touch. The fever had nearly broken. If only she could run her hands over the banded muscles in his chest. But he wouldn’t want that. He was in love with Janet. A man like Ian MacLeod would never feel anything for a lowborn woman who bore the mark of the devil. Merrin tightened her grip on his hand and gave him a gentle tug. “Let me help ye to the table.”

  Ian frowned. “I hate this weakness.”

  “Aye, but Ye’r
e strong. ’Tis amazing Ye’re sitting up so soon after Da carved out the musket ball.”

  Merrin braced herself and pulled. Ian grunted. The color drained from his face as he stood. Merrin threw his arm over her shoulder and stepped into him for support. Goodness, he was heavy, and ever so tall—at least a hand, possibly two taller than she. “Ye think ye can make it to the chair?” Though it was only a few steps away, she wasn’t certain he’d be able to do it.

  Anger flashed across his eyes. “Of course I can make it. ’Tis I who should be holding a chair for ye.”

  “Is it, now? Well, excuse me.” Merrin stood back and watched Ian stagger to the chair. He practically fell into it with an anguished bellow. “I’ll need to change your dressing. That’ll help your pain.”

  “Did I say I was in pain?”

  “Nay, but ye cannot hide it from me, so ye may as well not even try. Ye’re as bull-headed as me da.”

  “I’m not overly fond of being incapacitated. Normally, I wake early and spar with the guard. This hole in me back feels as big as a fist. Did your da use a butcher’s knife to cut it out?”

  Merrin picked up a trencher of food she’d prepared earlier and placed it in front of him along with a cup of ale. “He used a sharp dagger, but then he stanched the blood with a scorching poker.”

  Ian glanced at the tools hanging from the hearth. Among them was the blunt-tipped implement. “That would be right.”

  Merrin sat beside him and stabbed a sausage with her eating knife. “At least Ye’re no’ dead.”

  Ian took a bite then emitted a satisfied moan. His eyes rolled back, and he took a drink of ale. “Och, that’s what I needed for certain.” He crammed a whole sausage in his mouth. The juice dribbled from the corner of his lips.

  Merrin stared.

  “I’m starved.” Ian wiped his lips with the back of his arm. “This tastes like manna from heaven. Forgive me lack of manners. I cannot help meself.”

  Merrin smiled. “I suppose I’m the one who starved ye. I had some pottage for ye last eve, but ye fell asleep afore I could feed it to ye.”

  Ian cleaned his plate and drained his tankard. Firmly placing it on the table, he drew in a deep breath, as if coming up for air. “Thank ye for taking care of me. I’m sorry I was a bear. My hunger got the better of me temper.”

  Heat spread across Merrin’s cheeks. “Ye’re welcome. I become a bit ornery when I’m hungry as well.”

  He reached out and brushed his finger across her cheek. “How did I come to be rescued by a beautiful, selfless woman such as ye?”

  Merrin shook her head, her insides turning to mush. All he had to do was touch her and her entire body tingled, ached for more. Ian smiled and brushed a lock of hair from her face, his smile becoming thoughtful when he tugged on her scarf. Merrin grabbed for it, but in a flash, Ian pulled the cloth away.

  She could barely breathe as she wrapped her trembling fingers around her neck. Merrin pushed up from the chair. Ian’s brows drew together. The look of horror in his eyes. Now he knew the truth. She would always be a monster. The room closed around her. Merrin ran for the door, tears stinging her eyes. He’d seen her mark. Now he’d take his things and leave for certain. He’d not wait until he was healed—he’d flee from Fladda, run anywhere to wash her filth away.

  Merrin ran for the open lea. Tears streamed down her cheek and her sobs grew louder. How pathetic her life was. How utterly meaningless. She dropped to her knees, covering her face with her hands. “God, why am I to be eternally tormented? Why didn’t I die instead of Ma? She was beautiful and flawless, yet ye took her and left me here to rot on this miserable island.”

  Gar whined and pushed up against her. Merrin shoved the dog away and crouched into a ball. She could not go back to the cottage. She had no cloak, no scarf to cover the mark. Ian would surely cower if he laid eyes on her again.

  Her body shook with sobs. Merrin rocked herself, giving into the pain and torture of twenty years living a secret life of an ogre. Gar licked her face and she batted him away. The dog leaned against her, refusing to go. He curled up beside Merrin’s leg—a dog’s warmth, the only comfort to her unbearable shame.

  ***

  Bewildered, Ian watched Merrin’s smile transform into a grimace of unbridled panic. He’d barely caught sight of the dark pink birthmark she hid beneath her ridiculous scarf. She didn’t allow him enough time to truly examine it, but from what he saw, the scar did nothing to detract from her beauty.

  Ian sighed and cast his gaze to the rafters. With old Ruairi and his henchman Rewan after him, he already had more trouble than he needed—not to mention a gaping musket hole in his back. Why must I always happen upon bonny women in desperate need of being rescued?

  He leaned heavily on the table and stood. His legs trembled, but he couldn’t crawl back to his pallet when Merrin was so obviously upset. The hole in his back stretched with his movement, jabbing him like someone had taken an eating knife and carved out a kidney. However, Ian was not new to pain. A Scots warrior didn’t live long without experiencing a blade slicing through his flesh. A man must grow impervious to pain, lest it control him.

  After discarding the plaid from his waist, he pulled his shirt from the peg and yanked it over his head. Growing a bit stronger, he grabbed his kilt and wrapped it around his waist. He found his belt and dirk alongside the pallet and fastened them a good two inches below his wound.

  Ian picked up Merrin’s scarf and blinked his eyes to clear his vision. A soft blue-and-red plaid with a streak of yellow. He guessed she’d woven it herself. So many things about this woman confused him. That she had a good heart was for certain. No black-hearted woman would have tended him for two days with such selfless affection.

  He swallowed back a heave as he headed for the door, the pain close to overwhelming. Weak milk-livered sop, I’ve been abed for near two days, I can bloody well make it to the door. Grasping the latch, he hoped Merrin hadn’t gone far, else he might fall on his face before he found her. He hated weakness in a man, and detested it even more when he was the sorry blighter with a trembling hand. Ian gritted his teeth and pushed outside. The soil was sandy, and after he’d made an errant trip to the chicken coop, it wasn’t difficult to pick up the lass’s tracks.

  Atop the hill, Merrin looked frail, crouched in a ball. The wind flapped her skirts while wisps of chestnut hair spiraled in every direction. Even Gar appeared worried, his head resting between his front paws, yet the dog’s eyes scanned the horizon. His big ears pricked and his tail beat against Merrin’s hip as Ian approached.

  “Go away,” she shouted without looking up. The agony in her voice tore at Ian’s heart.

  He stopped in his tracks, wringing her scarf between his hands. He swayed in place, his knees nearly buckling. Merrin ignored him. Her staccato breathing reflected her difficulty in gathering her wits.

  Ian shook his head against the dizziness. With two more staggering steps, he dropped to his knees and rested his palm on Merrin’s back. “I cannot bear to see ye cry.”

  Uneven breaths shuddered through her back and he rubbed his hand in a circle to soothe her.

  “I’m a monster.”

  Never before had Ian heard such torment in a woman’s voice. This lassie had nothing to be ashamed of. Most women would give their firstborn to possess a morsel of her loveliness. Ian’s tongue twisted in knots. What could he say to ease her burden? “Ye’re a fine woman, of that I can attest with all honesty.”

  Her breathing stopped. “Are ye not afraid of me?”

  “Why on earth would I fear the likes of you?”

  She jolted upright and pointed to her neck, her eyes filled with anguish. “Because of this.”

  A distant memory triggered in the back of Ian’s mind. He was standing beside his brother, Alexander, looking across the caol toward a small stone cottage. His father placed a hand on each lad’s shoulder. Ye mustn’t ever cross the caol onto Fladda. A witch who bears the mark of the devil lives there. As long as we
leave her be, no harm will come to the clan. Neither Ian nor Alexander ever disobeyed him—the risk of being flogged was as great as putting their kin in peril.

  Ian recalled hiding on a hill across from the islet, hoping to spy the witch in action. He must have been eleven or twelve at the time when he saw lass of no more than seven or eight. It had puzzled him to espy a child.

  His mind clicked. With a gasp, Ian stared Merrin in the eye.

  The lass he’d seen had been her.

  Merrin was the witch to whom his father had referred.

  Merrin scowled and snatched the scarf from Ian’s hand. “Ye fear me. I see it in your eyes.”

  Ian’s gut clenched and he looked away. He didn’t believe her to be touched by the devil. Surely there must be a mistake. “I ken a wives’ tale that I cannot believe is true.”

  Merrin wrapped the scarf around her neck and tied it so taut, Ian feared she’d choke. “Aye? Are ye sure about that? I sent a band of pirates running for their lives not more than a month ago.”

  Ian laughed, the pressure of which strained against his wound, sending stars across his vision. With a grunt he pressed his palms into the mossy earth to steady himself

  “Ye laugh, but ’tis true.”

  The pain easing, Ian brushed his fingertips across her cheek, soft as rose petals. His hand lingered, unwilling to pull away. He cupped her lovely face and savored her warmth. “Now tell me, lass. How could a wisp of a woman take on a band of marauding pirates?”

  “They came ashore, hellbent on mischief, but I faced them and tore the scarf from me neck.” Merrin pulled it away and brushed aside her tresses, giving Ian a good look at the mottled, raspberry-colored mark. It fanned out from her ear and spread down one side of her slender throat, ending just above her shoulder. “I stood me ground and shouted, ‘If ye come closer, I’ll cast a spell of the pox on ye and your spawn, so help me God.’”

  Ian frowned against his urge to emit a hearty laugh. “I can see where they might feel some trepidation upon hearing such a bold tongue.”