by Amy Jarecki
“Aye. They turned tail and ran.”
Ian’s heart squeezed. “’Tis perhaps a good thing. The pirates from Rona are ruthless. They could have stolen everything ye own, or worse.” Ian didn’t want to frighten her, but he’d fought the bastards hiding out on the small island to the north. He had no doubt if Merrin hadn’t scared them away, she’d be dead, most likely raped first. “And why does your da leave ye alone when there’re pirates about?”
Sadness darkened her eyes and she shuttered them with long, dark lashes. “He kens they will no’ touch me. Aside from that once, no one ever sets foot on this island.” She tossed the scarf around her neck, loosely this time. “Ye say Ye’re putting me in danger? I ken Fladda is the safest place ye can be. Men are afraid of this land because of me birthmark. They call it the mark of the devil.” Merrin’s voice strained with her last words, as if she hated herself as well as the spiteful moniker.
“Nay, lass. ’Tis just a spot of red skin.”
She brushed her hands across her eyes. “Aye? Tell that to the rest of the world.”
“Have ye ever done anything witch-like? Can ye fly or cast a spell?”
“Of course not. Me da has the cottage surrounded with charms to keep the bogles and fairies at bay.”
“Have ye ever seen the fairy folk or a true witch?”
“Nay, I doubt they would dare set foot on Fladda either.”
“I haven’t seen them, no’ once in me life. I doubt they’re real.”
“If they’re no’, I’ve spent a lifetime of shame for naught.”
Ian rubbed the fringe of her scarf between his fingers. “Mayhap ye have.”
Wide-eyed, Merrin stared at him. When she blinked, a tear spilled down her cheek. She briskly swiped it away and cleared her throat. “Ye need to go back to the cottage. Ye shouldna come after me. Your color is pale as your shirt.”
“Do no’ mind the likes of me. I’ll not get back to rights if I do no’ push meself.”
With an absent shove, Merrin roused Gar from a nap, then stood and offered her hand. “Ye need to build your strength afore ye set out. Will ye stay now that ye ken me secret?”
“Aye. As long as I’m no’ a danger to ye.”
She smiled for the first time—a brilliant, white-toothed grin that lit up her face as if the sun had burst from behind the stormy clouds. “Did ye forget already? I’m the dangerous one here. Ye could be cursed for life just for looking at me.”
Ian grasped her hand and let her pull him to his feet. “I guess I’ll take me chances, then.”
He slung his arm over Merrin’s shoulder and together they hobbled back to the cottage with Gar beside them. Ian’s energy sapped, he no sooner could have escaped the island even if she attempted to cast a spell to rob him of his soul.
Chapter Six
Niall still hadn’t returned when Merrin fluffed a pillow behind Ian’s back. “Is this comfortable enough?”
Ian gingerly reclined. “Ta. ’Tis good.”
Merrin ran the dagger in a circular pattern on the sharpening stone. “Are ye sure ye want a shave now? ’Twill only grow back in a day or two.”
“Aye. I cannot stand the itching.”
“Very well.” She rubbed her thumb across the edge to test its sharpness. “But I think the dark stubble makes ye look dangerous.”
He chuckled and grasped her free hand. “I wouldn’t think ye would care for a man who looks like a pirate.”
Merrin’s insides fluttered out of control and she pulled her hand away. “I wouldn’t say a pirate.” Ian was far too handsome to be thrown in with an unsavory lot. His eyes bored through to her heart, and that dark beard contrasting with his flaxen hair practically made her so lightheaded, she may very well have gone daft. Perhaps a good shaving was what he needed to stop her insides from tricking her into thinking he had feelings for her. Ian would take his leave as soon as he was able. He’d set out to rejoin Janet, the woman he’d risked his life to save.
Ian arched his brow at her. “Are ye apprehensive about cutting me?”
“Nay, just thinking is all.”
He raised his chin. “Go ahead, lass. ’Tis itching like a bad rash.”
Merrin started at his upper jaw and ran the blade in a straight line to his chin. “Me da never complains of the itching.”
“Aye, that’s most likely because his beard is long. Once it grows out, the discomfort stops.”
Merrin examined the trail of reddened skin she’d made and prepared the blade for another swipe. Ian kept his chin steady as a statue while she scraped away the stubble. Warm breath from his nostrils caressed her fingers when she shaved away his moustache. Silently, he watched her with those pale blue eyes. His gaze was hypnotizing as well as trusting. Merrin didn’t understand why he was different, why he hadn’t fled when he learned her secret. Ian showed no fear at all. Not that she was to be feared. She knew in her heart she was good. Even Niall and Friar Pat believed in her virtue. But for some reason, God chose to mark her—or else it was a mark of shame that had appeared upon her mother’s death. Believing she had to bear it for her mother made the humiliation easier for Merrin to accept. If it had helped her mother’s lot in any way, she would wear the mark without a qualm.
Ian’s long, dark lashes rose. “Ye’re awfully quiet.”
“I do no’ want to cut ye.”
“Your hands are much gentler than me own.”
“Good.” Merrin took one last swipe and stood back to examine her work. “I think Ye’re shaved clean.”
She doused a cloth in the basin and cleansed his face. Merciful fairy feathers, Ian was more beautiful without the beard. Heaven help her, the fluttering in her stomach swelled into her breasts. She glanced down to ensure they were still in their proper place, terrified her body would give her feelings away.
Ian slid a warm hand around the back of her neck and gently rubbed. “Ye’re blushing.”
Merrin slapped both hands to her inflamed cheeks. “Am I?” Why had Niall not returned? She had no idea how to face Ian. He was in love with another woman. A man as bonny as Ian MacLeod would never, ever look fondly upon her.
She tried to pull away from his grasp, but Ian slid his other hand to her shoulder and drew her toward him until she perched upon his lap. Merrin’s eyes fell to his lips. His tongue slipped out and moistened them, his eyes focused on her mouth. Her head spun as she realized he was moving closer to kiss her again.
Merrin couldn’t pull away. She wanted this too much. Every inch of her skin alive, trembling, the only thing that existed was Ian. Her senses filled with his spicy scent. He touched his lips to hers, but not like he had before. This time he lingered. His tongue probed inside her mouth as his lips pressed more urgently. Her shoulders tensed. Merrin had no idea how to react, except she wanted this, wanted him to show her how a man courted a woman—if that was what this was called. Ian caressed the tip of her tongue with gentle strokes. With an exhale, she gave into him and mimicked his kiss, their tongues entwining together in a delicious dance.
Merrin kept her eyes closed as his lips left hers. She wanted to savor the moment, commit it to memory for the rest of her life, positive this would be the most wonderful sensation she would ever experience.
Ian gently pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. “Apologies. I shouldna been so bold.”
She snapped her eyes open. Her spirits dove. “No. Ye shouldna.” Merrin forced herself to stand on wobbly legs. “No’ when Ye’re in love with another.”
***
Gar sprang from his mat and launched into a barking cacophony before Ian could explain. And what was he doing, anyway? He’d kissed her—a virgin, an innocent. Boar’s ballocks, she’d done nothing but show him kindness, and he’d taken advantage. He should be hung by his thumbs for kissing her. Ian couldn’t fall for a woman marked by the devil. He’d stupidly fallen in love with Ruairi’s wife, and that had all but ended in Ian’s ruination. How could he return to Brochel and ask Alexander for
a place at his table with a witch on his arm, no matter how endearing?
Of course Ian didn’t believe Merrin to be a witch of any sort—aside from a temptress. She’d done nothing to make him kiss her—nothing except smell like primrose, her smile endearing as a fairy’s. Perhaps she was enchanted—enchanting, certainly. Ian ran his fingers through his hair. Women were his weakness. He’d become a warrior, made his body hard. Few men could best him in a fight, but a beautiful woman could bring him to his knees with a look.
He ground his fist into his palm. None of his worries mattered. It was best Merrin thought him in love with another.
Footsteps crunched up the path. Merrin snatched the dog’s rope collar and gave it a yank. “Shut up ye wily hound, ’tis only Da.”
Niall pushed through the cottage door. He stopped for a moment, his eyes darting from Merrin to Ian and back to Merrin. “I thought he’d be abed for at least another two days—if he rose at all.”
Ian wanted to claim the bath Niall ordered on his behalf had been a miraculous cure, but that would incite a father’s ire for certain. Ian had no idea how he’d stayed upright for so long with his head spinning from the stabbing pain in his back.
Merrin’s cheeks flushed red. “Ian’s very weak.”
Niall took a seat across from him and frowned. “Ian, is it? What clan are ye from?”
“MacLeod of Raasay. Sir, I want to thank—”
“That’s an outright lie.”
The wound in Ian’s back throbbed with his clenched gut, but he held up a hand and explained who he was. Merrin shook her head. Ian ignored her. He couldn’t see lying about his identity. It would come out sooner or later. “Me father was Calum MacLeod. I’ve been away for me fostering.”
“Ian, is it?” Niall repeated with a tad more respect in his voice. He squinted his eyes, then lifted a brow as if remembering something. “How did ye end up with a musket ball in your back?”
Ian’s head pounded. The pain drained him more than facing his demons. “I spirited a lady away from a tyrant and created a diversion for her escape. I’d nearly made it to Raasay when the shot hit me.”
“A tyrant, ye say?” Niall’s eyes narrowed. “Do no’ tell me ye stole a man’s woman.”
Ian propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. He rubbed his face and looked up. “I cannot lie to ye.” Sweat bled from his brow and dripped to the table. He wouldn’t be able to sit upright much longer.
Merrin rushed to him with a cloth and dabbed his temples. “Stop your badgering, Da. Can ye not see that he’s too ill to answer your questions? Leave him be. At least until his strength returns.”
Niall slid into a wooden chair. “I’ve only one more question to ask.”
Ian gazed across the table expectantly. Once he answered, Niall would be a fool not to put him out. Ian needed another sennight to regain his strength. He didn’t want to confront his brother until he was a whole man, could prove his worth with a sword. If he crawled to Alexander now, the laird might take him in, but only through pity. And once Alex learned of the shame he’d brought upon the clan, his brother would shun him for certain—especially if Ian was too weak to prove his value to the clan. Any Highland laird would spurn a man who had crossed his ally, even if he was a wounded brother.
Merrin placed a pitcher of ale on the table. Niall’s glare snapped to his daughter’s neck. “Where’s your scarf?”
Merrin clapped her hand over her mark, the corners of her mouth drawn down in a cringe. “He kens, Da.” She backed away as if she feared her father would launch himself over the table and strike.
Niall stood, wrapping his fingers around his dagger. “Do ye fear her?”
Ian slowly spread his palms to his sides and kept his voice even. “How could I fear the hands of a maid who nursed me from death’s door?”
Niall didn’t draw his knife, didn’t follow through with the challenge, but his hand remained fixed on the hilt. “Were ye sent by the fairy folk? Do no’ lie to me.”
“Nay.” Ian would have laughed if it were not for the stern countenance staring at him from across the table. The only way to handle a superstitious man was to play his game. “I doubt the King of the Fairies would be so bold as to shoot me in the back and risk me death by tossing me into the sea.”
Niall paused and squinted. Ian didn’t move, regarding him intently. The older man’s grip eased.
A relieved breath slipped through Ian’s lips.
Merrin set a trencher with a roasted chicken on the table. “All this talk of fairy folk is hogwash. Ian’s a man of flesh and blood, just like ye or Friar Pat.” She sat in the chair beside Ian. “We all need some food in our bellies afore we go completely daft.”
Niall resumed his seat, reached for a pitcher and poured three tankards of ale. “Ye have that right, lassie.”
Ian accepted the tankard and drank. Would Niall continue with his questioning?
Merrin used an eating knife to cut a leg and thigh quarter and placed it on Ian’s plate. She gave him a sly wink—Ian’s heart skipped a beat.
“What news from Brochel, Da?”
Niall cut off a bit of breast meat. “Looks like there’ll be a good harvest come fall.” He popped a morsel in his mouth. “Me tincture set the sick to rights straight away.”
“That’s good.”
“The laird was mighty grateful.” He shoved another bite in his mouth and regarded Ian. “He’s your brother, no?”
“Aye. Though I haven’t seen him since I was four and ten.”
Niall eyed him. “Ye have the look of your mother.”
“Do I still?” Ian couldn’t hold back his smile. When he was a lad, the women at Brochel Castle always remarked how lucky he was to inherit his mother’s fair hair. Surely he’d had no problem attracting women—it was just that they never ceased to bring parcels of trouble with them.
Merrin reached for her tankard and examined Ian over the top of it. “I do no’ think he looks at all feminine.”
Niall chewed with his mouth open. “’Twas not what I meant. He’s a brawny man, all right, but he has the coloring of Lady Anne. By the shape of his features, I can tell they’re kin.”
Merrin’s eyebrows arched. “How exciting, to be the son of a highborn English woman, and your father, the most feared laird on all the seas.”
Ian tossed his head back and laughed. “Me ma is certainly a woman of correct manners, though I believe ye’ve been deceived about me da’s reputation.”
Niall’s thick brows drew together. “Your da was called the Robin Hood of Raasay. I remember Brochel was but a rundown village before he came. And he built his empire on account of his own strength.”
“That he did.” Ian smiled appreciatively. “I simply meant there are many powerful lairds in the Hebrides. To say my father was the most feared is a wee bit presumptuous.”
Niall shoved the rest of the chicken breast in his mouth and washed it down with ale. He slammed the tankard on the table and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “I’ve got to check on me herbs. But first, ye still haven’t told me who shot ye in the back.”
Ian looked him in the eye, his chest tight, the throbbing in his back spreading up his neck. “Rewan. Henchman for Clan MacLeod of Lewis. I spirited the chieftain’s wife back to her kin.”
Niall placed both palms on the table. “Ye mean to tell me ye crossed Ruairi?”
“Aye.” Ian swallowed his urge to heave. “And I’d do it again to spare that woman from his lash.”
The color drained from Niall’s face. “Heaven help us all.”
Chapter Seven
Merrin tiptoed across the floor, careful not to wake Ian. She’d hardly slept, terrified about what Niall would do now he’d uncovered the reason Ian had been shot. Rather than lock horns, her father had pressed his palms to his temples and trod off to his workshop.
She could have followed him, but decided it would be best to let Niall work through the situation alone. He was no fool. Ian
was safer on Fladda than anywhere in the Hebrides. Scarcely a soul knew of the island’s existence, and of the handful who did, only a small number knew it to be inhabited.
Niall told her stories near every night, and he’d often refer to the tales he’d heard at Brochel, tales of Ruairi’s tyranny. She knew he would not be surprised Ruairi turned wife beater. Merrin opened the door and shuddered. Doubtless, Niall would fear retribution for harboring a fugitive running from the tyrant. That he’d allowed Ian to stay in the cottage another night was a good sign. Merrin only wondered what her father would do come morning. Niall rarely made rash decisions, but once he fixed his mind on something, his word was final. He’d returned not so quietly in the wee hours—at least that would keep him abed late this morn.
Gar followed her out the door and to the coop. She snatched up a basket and tossed out some grain for the chickens. Most of the hens hopped from their nesting boxes, save one. “Are ye growing cluckie again, Lucy?”
Merrin reached her hand under the hen. Lucy rewarded her with a vicious peck. “You’ll no’ be threatening me.” Merrin ignored the sting, gave the bird a shove and ran her fingers across two warm eggs. “So ye think ye want to have a go at being a mama again?”
The bird fluffed her feathers and settled back over the nest.
Merrin took an egg from her basket and rested it beside Lucy. “If Ye’re going to set, ye may as well have another to keep warm.” If the hen was still nesting on the morrow, Merrin would slip a couple more eggs beneath her.
The chickens scattered and squawked as Merrin traipsed about the yard. She stopped at the gate. Yes, she couldn’t sleep last night because she worried about Niall’s reaction to Ian’s plight. But the one thing that consumed her mind—had her heart aflutter—was Ian’s second kiss. Nothing else had existed when his eyes lowered to her lips. In her limited experience of the world, she’d never seen a man look so hungry. Even Gar did not stare at her with such intensity, so much desire.
And then when their lips met, Merrin could no longer keep her eyes open. Fire ran through her body and out the tips of her breasts as his tongue caressed her mouth. Every inch of her flesh wanted to touch him, but she’d merely placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.