by Mary McCall
He found it amazing that so few scars marred her body, considering the abuse from her father. A thin white line streaked about three inches along the inside of her left inner forearm, and a jagged pink line, slightly longer, ran across her right pelvis. A thin hairline scar almost completely encircled her left calf, as if someone had taken a wire and sliced all the way around the limb. The injuries all showed evidence of stitchery and were well healed. Other than the two lash wounds she now suffered, her back was surprisingly free of defects or blemishes beneath the bruises.
He frowned as he again assessed the lacerations. Healing flesh formed in the wounds, but she would wear reminders of this beating for the rest of her life. The linen had come free from her right hip after a day of constant soaks with hot water. The spot over her waist proved more stubborn, for the material was deeply enmeshed into her flesh.
Leonce sent Freya and Bertie from the room. Aonghus and Bowyn held Hope down while Leonce took a hot knife to the wound. As the gown came free, thick, putrid fluid gushed from her body. He cleaned the wound with watered-down wine and applied the salve from the green jar to both areas.
Over the next three days, the lass fought hundreds of demons the raging fever inflicted upon her mind. She thrashed and cried out in torment. A few times she screamed at him to get the blood off her and begged him not to drown her. On other occasions she mistook him for her father and cringed in terror.
Near dawn that morning, she raised tear-filled eyes to his and held out her upturned palm, whispering, “'Tis her precious heart."
She was living in another time and place, but at that instant ‘twas his heart she held. Her agony tore at him. He longed to free her from her haunting memories. He pressed his lips against her open palm.
She moved her fingers away from his mouth and tenderly caressed the scar on his left cheek. “'Tis well healed. Does it pain you?"
He took her hand and held her fingers between both his hands. “'Tis only a bad memory."
"I wish my back was a memory. ‘Tis hurting cursed bad now."
"'Twill become a memory soon. Just sleep with sweet dreams, and let the healing happen."
"I did not oversleep this time, Lion,” she mumbled.
Leonce wondered at her last remark and caressed her hair, watching her eyelids drift shut. Soon afterward sweats drew the fever from her. He glanced toward the window where the giant eagle had perched four days earlier. “'Tis almost over. She will be with us soon."
The eagle flew to the bed and nuzzled his head against her damp cheek. Then he ducked his head at Leonce, spread his wings, and soared off into the early dawn.
Leonce bathed and dried her body, then repeated the process with each new flood of sweat. After every washing, he rubbed the balm into her back and the salve over her lacerations. While massaging in the balm that evening, he heard a purr, and her shoulder rolled into his hand. He glanced at her face and smiled. Tension had fled, and she wore a soft look of feline satisfaction.
With her sweats over, and her slumber peaceful, he stretched out on the bed and pulled Hope into the crook of his arm.
* * * *
Returning from oblivion, Hope snuggled against the warmth beside her and rubbed her temple against the soft fur. Her hand mindlessly stroked and petted Diable. A contented sigh blew from her mouth.
A viselike grip seized her wrist. “You invite more than you can handle, Hope."
Hearing the burr in the deep masculine voice, Hope tensed. She lifted her gaze in the early dawn light and looked into the amber feline orbs of the only man in the world she feared more than her father. Zounds! She lay draped across him totally naked! Hope opened her mouth, but all her paralyzed brain channeled through her lips was the dreaded whisper, “MacPherson!"
Leonce smiled. “'Tis good you decided to rejoin the living. You have been ill for almost five days. Bertie and your friends are fretting about you."
She stared at him with luscious lips parted, and her silky thigh nestled against his groin. He absently caressed her soft, supple bottom, which his hand just happened to rest upon.
Hope jerked as if she had been burned and pushed at his chest. Her thigh rubbed against his unadorned shaft. Breathing hard from the effects of the unintentional caress, Leonce clamped a hand over her legs and pulled her head down against his chest with firm but gentle grips. “Lay still, Hope. I do not wish to hurt you."
His heart pounded under her ear. She went rigid, sensing some inner battle waged in the huge body beneath her. A tense moment passed before the pounding slowed and his breathing eased. The hold on her head and thighs loosened. She raised her gaze back to his face, and wonderment replaced apprehension. She reached up and cupped one side of his jaw. “You caught me."
Leonce arched an amused brow. “'Twas my pleasure."
"Why?"
"Why did I catch you, or why was it my pleasure?” Leonce placed a hand over hers and rubbed his jaw against her palm.
Hope nodded as her breath hitched. Zounds! The scraping of his unshaven cheek against her flesh made her stomach tingle.
"I caught you because you needed catching, and ‘twas my pleasure because I despaired of ever finding a lass half so bonnie to share my bed."
She snatched back her hand. “You ravished me?"
"Of course not."
She began relaxing.
"I want you awake to enjoy my every caress when—"
"I'll not let you hurt me!” Hope pushed away from him, rose to her knees, and then swayed, cringing as he reached toward her. “Nay!"
Leonce swiftly sat up and caught her by both arms. “Steady."
Her open palms braced against his chest. “Please do not rape me,” Hope said quietly.
"I have no intention of such a thing. Is that why you ran after Bertie came to me—you thought I would rape you?” Leonce's raised brow suggested his irritation.
She lifted trembling fingers to her temple. “My father took your son to rape him. ‘Twas intent, I thought; an eye for an eye.” She felt bewildered and looked to him for guidance. “Do you not hate me because of my father and want revenge?"
Leonce placed a hand against her cheek. “Any vengeance is between me and your father. You have nothing to do with it."
"Then you're truly not going to rape me?” she asked in disbelief.
"Do you want me to?” he replied in a husky voice.
Hope's jaw dropped as the tingle in her belly erupted into a flutter. She shook her head, forcing herself to look away. “Nay."
"Then I'll not.” Leonce nudged up her chin. “Poor, cailen. What a terrible opinion you must have of me. I'll never hurt you, and I'll kill anyone who ever tries to harm you in any way."
At the draw of his gaze, her flutter went erratic. She gasped and placed her hand over his. Zounds! What was he doing to her insides?
Leonce grinned knowingly. “Good, lassie. Now, come lie back down. You need more rest."
He reclined and held out a hand toward her. She glanced around her dim confines, trying to comprehend her situation. She couldn't focus on anything besides Leonce. Her eyes widened as they landed on his unclothed loin. She gasped, “Diable!"
Leonce glowered. “Did you just call me the devil?"
"Nay.” She darted her gaze to his face, then back to his groin. “'Tis as big as my horse-friend. ‘Tis why you decided not to rape me, isn't it? You bloody well knew we wouldn't fit."
Leonce rolled his eyes. “'Twill fit well. Are you obsessed with being raped?"
"Nay, ‘tis just I have never...” She reached toward his groin, then pulled her hand back and frowned. “Do men have to cut women with a knife so they can fit? Is that why they bleed the first time?"
"Nay, ‘tis not why they bleed.” Leonce appeared to stifle mirth at the ridiculous question. “Most women appreciate my size."
Her eyes widened at that bit of information and turned back toward his manhood with fascination.
He pulled her against his side, with her head upon his s
houlder. She felt he was close to full-blown arousal as he moved the covers over them. “You need more sleep,” he said. “The fever has sapped your strength. I do not want you overdoing afore the wedding. You'll probably have to stay off your back for another week, though the bruises are fading, and the wounds look to be healing."
"I do not hurt so bad now.” She smothered a yawn and lowered her hand upon his chest, petting him gently a few times.
"I'll rub more balm on you when that lot wears off.” He placed a hand over hers, and she could sense he was enjoying the feel of her soft body snuggled against his.
"Are you the one having the wedding?” Hope frowned and suppressed another yawn, not understanding why the thought upset her.
"Aye."
Zounds! She felt bloody wretched inside, because he was getting married. “Is she very wonderful?"
"She is as bonnie as the morn's mist rolling back from the heather-clad hills and as brave as Aife, the legendary she-warrior who once protected them."
Hope blinked. What was wrong with her? Had he some power to inspire such melancholy into her heart? She'd not allow it. She pushed up and glared. “You must be bloody good to her and never beat her. Promise me you'll not beat her, MacPherson—no matter what she does. I mean it. If I ever hear that you have, I'll hunt you down like a cursed swine and kill you. I swear it. You must promise me."
"Calm down. I'll never beat her. ‘Tis a chieftain's promise.” He stroked a finger along her jaw, sending a tingle of trust into her soul. “No one shall ever be permitted to harm a single hair on her head."
Hope didn't understand why she believed his words. She didn't like it either. Trust could get her killed. She remembered what his betrothed had done to Bertie and almost regretted asking for the promise. Settling her cheek back upon his chest, she yawned. Lord, she was tired. His body made a cozy, warm and wonderful pillow. She took a deep breath. He even smelled good—like pine and rosemary and sandalwood and...Why, ‘twas like all her favorite herbs and spices mixed together with his own manly scent. Hope released a long, sleepy sigh. “I think your wife will be a happy woman."
Leonce kissed her brow. “Her joy will be a chieftain's order,” he said softly, as Hope felt herself drifting away.
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Chapter Six
* * * *
Slumber slowly released her sweet embrace. Hope stretched and rolled onto her back. She winced from the sting behind her waist, and then relaxed her sore muscles upon the cozy linens. Contentment swept through her. Her duty was done, and she was safe—at least for the moment.
She glanced about the chamber. Then her eyes drifted shut, and her lips curved into a dreamy smile. Zounds, this bedding felt wonderful. The MacPherson was nice too and had promised he wouldn't hurt her. Mayhap he would let her stay long enough to regain her strength before she went in search of Cassie.
Of course, she would have to get the most stubborn stallion in the world to agree; Diable had become downright mulish. Hope grinned at the mule jest and decided she would have to share it with Harry later.
She stretched again and groaned. She wouldn't mind another backrub. Leonce's warm hands had felt mighty fine as he rubbed balm into her aching flesh that morning. Her whole body felt totally relaxed after he had finished. She hadn't even worried that some wolf might sniff her out and pounce on her. Then he had kissed her cheek and told her to rest.
As the memory ended, a fiery blush heated her entire body. Hope sat up and pressed her palms against hot cheeks. How in perdition could she face The MacPherson again? She had lain blissfully naked on top of him, as if it were something she did all the time. No wonder the man kissed her. He probably thought her a cursed slut.
She would just make sure she didn't have to face him again. She would leave to find Cassie before he returned. Diable did most of the walking after all. She moved over to the edge of the bed. Every bone and joint rebelled, causing her to grimace. She would have to work the soreness out before she went anywhere.
Hope wrinkled her nose as she pushed back her greasy hair. It would take hours to comb out the tangles if she didn't wash it. Her stomach growled, telling her food was more necessary than grooming.
Looking around the stark chamber, Hope shivered. A tall, narrow window bathed the room with light that provided no warmth. Did the cursed Highland winds not know ‘twas spring? Other than the massive carved bed, she saw an ablution table set against the wall on which sat an earthenware flagon, basin, cup and a cloth. A dormant fireplace dominated the wall opposite her, and a long sword with an unadorned black hilt hung on the wall above a bare mantel.
Her gown was draped across the back of a chair in front of the hearth. Hope slipped her feet down to the chilly floor and ordered her wobbly legs across the room. She picked up the garment and gasped.
"Zounds! ‘Tis destroyed!” She grabbed the cut belt and snorted. “Bloody rot, MacPherson. Think me rich? All you had to do was pull the cursed string."
Her dirk remained sheathed, but where was her whip? She remembered swinging into the tree and groaned. “The boar! Now The Lion will think I'm a slut and a coward."
She spotted her possessions on the floor by a large chest near the window. Her whip lay atop the pile, and she had another gown in the pouch. “My thanks, Lord. I do not have much, and I need all I have."
Hope approached the window, and her gait wavered. She raised a hand to her brow. “Zounds! I'm too cursed weak to travel anywhere!"
A caw reached her ear. Harry landed on the window ledge and fluttered his wings.
"Harry!” She staggered over wearing nothing but a happy grin and hugged her friend. “I'm so glad you're here."
The eagle nuzzled her cheek and warbled.
"'Tis much better, but I'm still tired. Would you tell Diable I am well and will call him soon? Then I need you to take a message."
Harry flew off. Hope pulled a gown from her pouch and frowned at the worn, stained yellow linen. “'Twill have to do. This bloody well isn't William's court."
After donning the frock, she perched on the edge of the bed with her whip, dirk and cut belt. She punched holes on either side of the damaged leather with her blade. Then she pulled a brown ribbon from the handle of her whip where several strips in a rainbow of hues were tied. She used the ribbon to lace up the back of the belt. She tried tying on the cinch, but hissed at the sting slicing through the laceration across her waist. She cut a piece from her rabbit pelt, cushioned the area, and found the fit tolerable.
Harry returned as she secured her coiled lash at her side. Hope pulled a faded magenta ribbon from the whip handle and held it toward him. “Here, my fierce warrior. Take this to Cassie."
The eagle soared off with the strip clutched in a claw. Hope pulled a valued sliver of soap and an old broken-toothed comb from her pouch. Her eyes drifted toward the chest, and her inquisitive nature took hold.
Kneeling before the big box, she lifted the lid and inhaled the heady aroma of heather mixed with pine, rosemary and sandalwood that filled her dreams. A tray across the back of the chest held The MacPherson's chief's badge—a large, bejeweled shoulder brooch—plaid-trimmed garters, an ornate silver sporran and other items belonging to Leonce.
Hope was possessed by coveting at the sight of a comb with all its teeth and a large chunk of divinely fragrant soap. She tugged at her lower lip with her teeth and took a fleeting glance toward the door. Then she looked back at the treasures.
"'Tis not stealing. ‘Tis borrowing.” Grabbing the items, she closed the lid, slipped the prizes into her pocket, and placed her own inferior goods inside her pouch.
Now to find Bertie. She must convince him to tell his father what that horrid Mildread woman had done. Then she would go to the falls for a fish and a bath.
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Chapter Seven
* * * *
Freya entered the back of the hall, intent upon taking to the young lady the tray of food she carried. Spyin
g Bertie by the stairs, staring at Justice, she pushed a fallen mousy-brown curl behind her ear and smiled. The lad awaited her return so he could visit the woman whom he planned to call “Mam” until their game ended.
"Here I am, Bertie,” she called. “We can—"
The front door suddenly flew open. A tall, fair-skinned woman with a fury to match her long red locks and glaring green eyes stormed into the hall amid a swish of white linen and red, green and yellow plaid. “Where is he?"
Freya glared. “Mildread, you—"
"Stow it, Freya. I'll see The MacPherson now! ‘Tis said he took in—” Mildread broke off as she caught sight of Bertie.
Freya didn't like the fire kindling in the woman's eyes. “The chief is—"
"Why you no-good filthy bastard!” Mildread crossed the huge chamber with a swift, angry stride and struck Bertie, cutting his lip and making him cry out. “I warned you what would happen if I ever saw you again."
Freya slammed the tray on a table and ran toward them. Bowyn came through the back door, accompanied by a young blond warrior, and spotted the abuse as Mildread struck Bertie a second time. Bowyn also rushed toward the attack, calling over his shoulder, “Darach, go for the chief."
As the young warrior left, an angry crack resounded. A long leather braid wrapped around Mildread's throat, and everyone froze.
"Do not move, you crone, or I will break your cursed neck."
"Release me!” Mildread demanded.
* * * *
"I think not.” Hope descended the last two steps and walked around Mildread, furthering the coil about her neck. Rage burned in Hope's gut as she faced the woman who had dared strike the lad. “At least not until we come to an understanding about what are acceptable manners in this keep."
"The MacPherson will kill you for this. You assault his betrothed, bizzem.” Mildread's gaze raked Hope as she added the last insult.
"So, you are Mildread.” Hope tightened the coil. Fury gnawed at her like a ravenous demon as she recognized the plaid Mildread wore. This despicable shrew was her cousin. “Mayhap The MacPherson will be interested in hearing the price paid in exchange for his son."