Highland Flame (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “Like what?” His tone was husky, his stare as steady as a falcon’s.

  “Like you’d like to devour me.”

  The world around them was silent. “If ye dunna ken that, ye are na as smart as I suspected,” he said and rose slowly to his feet.

  His manhood reached nearly to his navel, hard and erect and still throbbing.

  Flame gulped and forced her gaze to his face. He had, then, found no pleasure in their embrace, and so he was angry, she deduced, but she would not apologize, for in the past, apologies had gained her little. Haughtiness served her better. “Fetch my clothes,” she demanded.

  “Am I ta be yer maidservant then, lass?” he asked.

  She nodded once, hoping he couldn’t see how her hands shook. “Since ye have taken me far from my own servants, ye will need to serve me in their stead.”

  For a moment, she thought she saw a hint of amusement light his eyes, but then he bowed from the waist. “As ye wish, me lady,” he said, and scooping her garments from the sand, hurled them into the lochan.

  Chapter 19

  “What are ye doing?” Flame gasped, rising with a jolt to her feet. The sudden movement caused her naked breasts to jiggle and his loins to throb with need.

  Roderic gritted his teeth. “I be saving ye from yerself.”

  “You’re demented!” she rasped angrily and spun toward the lochan, but in an instant he caught her arm. Her wet hair lashed about them both, binding them together for a moment

  “Nay, lass,” he breathed, finding even the touch of her hair was nearly more than his strained self-control could handle, “I am randy. And ye are verra bonny when ye are…” Her eyes fairly sparked green flame. “…naked,” he finished.

  “This was not my idea,” she reminded him, trying to pull away. “So do not blame it on me.”

  “Were I ye, lass, I wouldna do all that bouncing about or there will be more blame to be placed. Lest ye forget,” he said, drawing her against his aching body, “I be only a man. Na a saint.”

  He watched her throat convulse and fear vie with pride in her eyes. Hauteur won the battle. She lifted her chin. “Fetch … my … clothes.”

  There was nothing he could do but laugh, for despite it all, her spirit thrilled him. “Nay, lass,” he said with a chuckle and backed away a half a step lest her proximity be his undoing. “For they would only find ye trouble.”

  “Trouble?” She yanked at her arm but he held it fast.

  “Aye. Ye be too proud for yer own good. Ye would march like a triumphant queen to yonder cottage and demand provisions.”

  She glared at him. Her hair was slick and shone in copper-bright radiance. The sun stroked her golden face, showing every line, every slope of her features. This was not a pampered young lass with milky complexion and sparrow-light bones. This was a maid born to match a man in spirit and wit and raise bairns to make them proud. This was a woman!

  “Now then, lass. ‘Tis like this,” he said, “though I sometimes canna say why, it would grieve me ta see ye taken hostage … unless ye be my hostage. Therefore, I canna allow ye ta hie yerself up to the Lamonts’ in yer manly garb, for they would recognize ye even afore ye spoke.”

  Her eyes narrowed as understanding began to dawn on her. “Drag me naked to that cottage and ye’ll regret the very day ye were born.”

  Roderic struggled with his smile and miraculously won. “Nay, lass. Na naked. We have the tartan I found in the broken hut.”

  “Surely ye do not expect me to march up to that cottage wearing nothing but a blanket.”

  He shrugged. “If it puts yer mind at ease, lass, I will confess that I, too, am leaving me telltale garb behind.”

  “I will not share the blanket!”

  This time he laughed aloud. “Ye are so fickle, lass. First ye refuse to wear it, then ye refuse ta share it. And ye say ye are na like other women.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but Roderic controlled his chuckles and stopped her.

  “Though I realize yer appetite has been sated, lass, me own has been stoked to an aching edge.” For a moment her gaze dipped, but she darted it back to his face before it had reached its destination. “Take me word for it, Flanna,” he all but whispered, “it aches.”

  Again she opened her mouth to speak, but though he didn’t stop her this time, she seemed unable to utter a response.

  “Come,” he said finally, “surely even the Lamonts will feed two needy travelers who have been set upon by brigands.” He tugged at her hand. For a moment, she hung back, but finally she allowed him to propel her along in his wake. It was only a short distance to where their ratty tartan lay in the sand. Dropping her wrist, Roderic picked it up and swung it over her bare shoulders.

  Foolishly, he allowed his knuckles to brush her flesh. He drew in his breath with a start, then gritted his teeth and found control. “Ye must quit tempting me, lass.”

  “I did nothing,” she gasped.

  Roderic shrugged and loosened his tightly knotted muscles with a good deal of effort. “Ye breathed.”

  Turning away from her took all the fortitude he possessed, but in a moment, he had tugged his shirt over his head. It scraped along his wet skin and as he struggled to drag it away from his face, he felt her gaze burn his exposed manhood.

  “Lass,” he said, finally yanking the shirt lower to peer at her above the laces, “I told ye ta quit tempting me,” he said, trying to untangle the great length of the thing. Unfortunately, the garment was now wet and stubbom and refused to be pulled down past his waist.

  “What?” She gasped and swung her gaze to his, looking like nothing more than a wayward urchin caught stealing eggs.

  Roderic eased a draft of air into his lungs and gave up his battle with the shirt. He must not move. He must not fulfill his most fundamental desires. True, she was tempting. True, she was lovely beyond words. But he could not afford to touch her again until his desire had cooled. “Ye’re staring,” he warned with quiet control.

  For a moment, he thought she might flee, or at least deny her actions. Instead, she dropped her chin slightly.

  Looking up through her lashes, she asked in a voice no louder than a whisper, “Does it really ache?”

  Against his will and better judgment, Roderic stepped forward with a growl.

  Her eyes flew open wide. He wrapped one arm about her waist, pulling her closer. The tartan gapped away from the tender swell of her beautiful bosom.

  “Lass,” he rasped, “methinks ye be intentionally spurring me on.”

  “Nay.” Her stunned disclaimer could not have sounded more honest. “I but…“She blinked. “…wondered.”

  Roderic fought his lusty nature with every scrap of self-discipline he possessed, but it seemed she felt no compunction to assist in the battle, for her body relaxed a whit and she spoke again but only in a whisper.

  “Is it always so … hard?”

  Never in all his life had he wanted anything more than he wanted her, but he had promised to be strong. ‘Twas a vow that made his arms tremble and his brow sweat. He stood in immobile self-control, trying to deny his need, determined to fulfill his vow.

  “Is it?” she whispered, watching his eyes.

  Heaven’s gate! She truly was intentionally tempting him. But why? Because she wanted him or because she wished for him to break his vow so that she could denounce him as unworthy as all the men in her past? Either way, her goading brightened his mood and fortified his self-discipline. Employing every ounce of control left to him, Roderic dropped his arm and retreated a scant step. “That be for ye ta find out, lass,” he murmured huskily, and turning his naked backside to her, bent to retrieve his sporran.

  The short walk to the crofter’s cottage was silent. Flame could still feel the blush burn her cheeks. What the devil was wrong with her? For pity’s sake, hadn’t she done enough damage? After all, she had almost allowed him to …

  Allowed him! Her choice of words made her scoff at herself. She hadn’t almost allowed
him to do anything. She had almost begged him. What a fool she was. What a weak-willed ninny.

  And yet, even now, her stomach felt queasy at his nearness. He led the way, forcing a path through the bracken and holding branches aside so that she could follow more easily. She couldn’t ignore how the tendons stood out in hard cords in his broad throat when he turned to her. She couldn’t still the pounding of her heart when his hand inadvertently brushed her shoulder, and she couldn’t help but wish he would stop and …

  Damnation! She was not some limp-willed milking maid who swooned when a brawny lad looked her way. In fact, she was more likely to spit in his eye. So what was wrong with her?

  Flame’s gaze skimmed to Roderic again. His damp shirt clung to the shifting muscles of his back. He had finally, thank God, forced his damp shirt over his hips. At least she could look at him and manage to keep drawing air into her lungs now. But he had not donned his tartan. Instead, he had tossed it casually over his shoulder. Her attention settled on the back of his powerful thighs. His clothing, or the lack of it, was the problem, she deduced.

  “Lass?” he began, turning toward her.

  “It’s your clothes!” she blurted, snapping her gaze from his legs to his face.

  His brow rose slightly. “Yer pardon?”

  She swallowed hard and hoped a large hole would open up beneath her feet. ‘Twould be a suiting demise for a fool such as she.

  “I said…” She tried a disarming smile, but disarming smiles were not her forte. She was better at throwing a dirk and better still at archery. Somehow she doubted if she could best this man at either. “I said, ‘tis yer choice.”

  He scowled. “What is?”

  “Whatever ye were about to ask.”

  His brows lowered a little. “Are ye feeling dizzy?”

  She all but sighed with longing as she looked into his face. “Aye, a bit.”

  Placing the back of his hand to her forehead, he deepened his scowl. “Must be the lack of food.”

  “Must be,” she agreed weakly.

  “Come along. “Tis but a wee bit further.” Placing a hand to her back, he urged her forward. “Ye must let me do the talking.”

  His hand felt like a thousand tiny sparks against the small of her back. She tried to ignore it. “Why?” she asked, attempting to concentrate on something other than his touch.

  “Because I’m charming,” he said.

  She stopped in her tracks and stared into his face. “And I’m not?”

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. Vaguely, she wondered if other parts of his anatomy were still tight and hard.

  “Look at the man of the house like that, lass, and ye’ll find yerself either tossed on yer back or out the door, depending on whether there be a mistress about.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  His jaw muscle tightened a bit more, but he looked away and nudged her forward. “Just keep quiet,” he ordered hoarsely and after hiding his sporran and his telltale Forbes plaid in a patch of heather, strode off toward the cottage.

  It was extremely small. A battered barn of sorts listed to the north not far from the house. A shaggy-footed steed and a trio of goats watched their approach. Bonny sniffed at the heady smells and bolted off to explore.

  “What be ye wanting?” a gruff voice asked. It took Flame a moment to find the speaker in the shade of the dilapidated barn.

  The old woman held a metal-bound wooden bucket in each hand. Her heavy gray brows were beetled over her eyes, and her back was bowed.

  “We’ve come to beg assistance,” Roderic said.

  “Assistance!” Despite Flame’s doubts that the old woman’s eyebrows could drop any lower, they did so, all but covering her eyes. “Well, ye’ll find none here. We’ve nothin’ ta spare.” Taking a few bandy-legged steps, she began toward the house as if to ignore them.

  “Here now, mistress,” Roderic said, quickly stepping forward to take the. buckets from her. They were nearly brimming with milk. “Surely ye have a brawny son ta carry these for ye?”

  “Aye.” She scowled up at him from her crooked position. “I’ve a pair of sons, but both of them thought it more thrilling ta soldier fer the Lamont than ta do a bit of honest labor here.

  “Well, so long as ye got them buckets, ye might just as well take them inside.”

  Roderic turned toward the cottage, but her scratchy voice stopped him.

  “By the stars, lad! Ye be half naked! What happened ta yer tartan?”

  “Ahh…” He twisted slightly toward her, not spilling a drop as he did so. “‘Tis a wee bit of trouble we’ve had. But ‘tis plain ye’ve had yer share and be needing none of ours.”

  He turned toward Flame. “Cara, will ye open that door?”

  It took her a moment to remember the alias she had given herself upon their first meeting. Grasping her tattered blanket in one hand, she hurried to the hovel to swing the wooden latch from its cradle. The low, slanted portal creaked partway open on cracked leather hinges, then settled firmly into the mud. Tugging harder, she managed to control her blanket while dragging the thing open.

  “Just put them buckets down there by the door,” ordered the old woman.

  Roderic did as told, bending his wide back and showing a bit more muscular thigh.

  Three young women in drab gowns drifted to the doorway. Their eyes were wide, their jaws slightly lax as they noticed him. He nodded in greeting. “So these be yer bonny daughters, mistress?”

  They were, Flame thought, each as plain as field turnips.

  “Aye, they be mine. And a working they’re ta be,” she said, shooing them back to their duties.

  “And na men ta care fer ye?” Roderic asked.

  The old woman turned a jaundiced eye up toward him. “Why ye be wanting ta know?”

  The right corner of Roderic’s mouth lifted in a characteristic half smile. “Maybe I’m thinking ta take ye into the woods and ravage ye, mistress.”

  Flame froze in stunned surprise. The old woman’s eyes snapped wide. And then she laughed, cackling like a laying hen and bending double to slap her thigh.

  “Ye’re a live one, ain’t ye, lad.” She snorted raucously. “Me Jamie was lek that.” Straightening to the best of her ability, she looked him in the eye and nodded. “Aye, ye’re a live one. What be yer name?”

  Roderic widened his stance a bit, seemingly unaware that he was scandalously short of clothing. But perhaps he was not unaware at all. Indeed, he was likely using that fact to his advantage, Flame thought irritably. “Me name be Gillie McNaught. And this be me sister, Cara.”

  Sister! Flame almost opened her mouth to retort, but found that his widened stance had somehow allowed him to press his heel sharply upon her bare toes. She scowled and remained silent.

  “And be the two of ye always marching about bare as the day ye were birthed, or be this an exception?”

  Roderic grinned again. “’Tis na me usual way, mistress. Though I admit, on these warm days, such garb, or the lack thereof, has a way of cooling me…” He paused as if thinking something wicked and flapped the bottom of his lengthy shirt. “…toes.”

  The old woman cackled again. Flame gritted her teeth.

  “The truth now, lad,” ordered the crone. “Afore I needs send me blushing daughters out of hearing.”

  The grin fell from Roderic’s face. “The truth be that the MacGowans are Satan’s curs.”

  The increased pressure on Flame’s toes warned her to stay silent, lest she be limping for a week.

  “Tell me something I have not said with me own lips, lad,” suggested the crone.

  “I tell ye this then,” said Roderic with a sharp nod. “I was but delivering me sister ta her betrothed when they fell on us. They took everything. Our horses, our provisions.” He gestured angrily toward his own scantily garbed person. “Our garments.”

  There was a decided twinkle in the old woman’s rheumy eye. “And how is it that the sniveling MacGowans have left ye with yer shirt?”

&nb
sp; “The truth, mistress?” Roderic asked, then tilted his mouth slightly. “They planned ta take that, too, but once they’d spied me … assets, they felt too inferior ta leave me all bare.”

  The old woman’s cackle was definitely beginning to grate on Flame’s nerves. She set her teeth and glared at Roderic, but the crone patted his back and failed to notice Flame’s ire.

  “‘Tis lek the MacGowans ta ruin me fun,” she said, then chortled at her own wit. “Ahhh,” she sighed, looking into his face, “I ken I shouldna expose me tender daughters ta the likes of ye, lad. But come on in, nevertheless.” She stepped inside and bent to retrieve the buckets, but Roderic already grasped the frayed rope handles.

  “None of that now, mistress. Let me get them.”

  Flame followed the crone, who followed suspiciously close behind Roderic.

  The daughters, it appeared, had not returned to their work. They stood, all three, with their mousy hair drooping beside their narrow faces and their soft mouths gaping at him.

  “Well, dunna just stand about,” rasped the mother. “Take the milk and find him a place ta sit.”

  The buckets were taken by a blushing maid who bobbed a curtsy before rushing away. A stool was drawn up by another. Roderic sat down, knees lax, damn him. All three daughters’ eyes were as round as mushrooms as they stared at him in open-mouthed admiration.

  Flame ground her teeth, propped herself against the wall, and hoped the earth would open up and swallow Roderic whole.

  Chapter 20

  By nightfall, Flame’s attitude toward Roderic was a bit more charitable, for her stomach was full. He had worked all day for the Lamonts, and in exchange, the two of them had been fed and clad.

  “So the steed is of the MacGowan clan?” he was asking now. He sat upon a three-legged stool, looking very large on its small seat, but somehow appearing no less manly or graceful.

  “Aye,” said the old woman, “the great beastie wandered onto our land and we felt it was our duty ta give it a home.”

  “If we could have the use of the animal, we would make certain ye were repaid once we reached our kin in Inverness,” Roderic said.