by London, Cait
Alek fought the tight pain in his chest, the cold that invaded his flesh, though he was dressed in layers of clothing and a heavy Arctic parka. His Russian blood reveled in the freezing temperature, heated by the passion of anger that had churned within him for months.
He leapt over a broken limb, his boots sinking into a mound of snow. He’d only just discovered Elspeth’s little secret when he’d had to go on assignment. He’d made a promise to a dying friend that he would complete the project. Now Alek had missed an additional four months of his child’s life by covering a senseless war and trying to stay alive through it.
Talia’s wedding photos had arrived last December in the middle of a storm, the sound of thunder matching the battery of gunfire and the rockets. Tucked neatly into his sister’s wedding party was, unmistakably, one Elspeth Fearghus. Tallchief, he corrected bitterly.
He wiped away the snow that clung to his beard, tossed it away just like Elspeth had done his child. He’d set his traps for her, one by one, and she’d have a fine time escaping him.
Alek stepped into a clearing, searching the shadows enfolding the lake. Outlined against the fierce, wind-tossed lake was Elspeth.
Her long black hair flew up and away in the wind. In the dying light, her face was blurred, a pale oval turned to the mist high on the mountain. She leaned into the wind as though it were her lover, as though something wild and fierce within her matched the icy blast. Her fringed leather shift offered little protection against the cold. Her legs were encased in leather with thongs laced around them to keep them tight.
She walked slowly by the black fury of the lake, blending with the elements rather than fighting them. The wind bowed and battered the cattail reeds bordering the lake; it pasted the shawl and her shift against her, the dim light revealing the trim, lithe outline of her body.
Alek controlled his need to rage at her; control ran contrary to his impulsive, passionate Petrovna blood. So she thought she was safe here, did she, a lady strolling through a winter storm? A private retreat away from her brothers and family where nothing could harm her?
Family wouldn’t keep her safe against him, not this time. Alek stripped away his gloves and fished for a small box from a safely buttoned inner pocket designed to hold camera film. The earring, a fragile affair of dangling beads that ended in a silver feather, seemed to leap into his hand and nestled there, taunting him—as it had hundreds of times before—with the memory of that night.
He smoothed his thumb over the earring. He’d come through hell to face this woman and to claim his child.
“Alek.” The name cut through the emotion that tightened her throat.
He stood in the shadows of the pines bordering her clearing. There was no mistaking the set of his shoulders beneath the battered parka or the arrogant stance of his long legs clad in camouflage print.
He shoved back his parka hood, and that same black stare locked on her, this time without the laughter. His hair curled wildly, tossed by the wind, and there was nothing gentle in his set jaw darkened by stubble.
One look at Alek Petrovna, and Elspeth fought a wild rage she hadn’t known since her parents’ death.
One look at Alek Petrovna, and she knew he’d come for her, like a black wolf facing his prey.
The first time she’d seen him, almost five years ago, she knew that fire stirred between them—like flint striking sparks on flint. They’d come together, full circle, and with the look in his eye and the emotions unravelling her, they would surely lift swords—
Elspeth inhaled and held her breath, steadying her impulse to run from him. Alek wouldn’t raise her emotions, not this time. She’d worked through her pain, and now it was ashes.
Elspeth straightened and watched him walk to her, that swaggering, loose walk of an athletic big man, focused and sure of his purpose.
Alek didn’t stand near her; he loomed over her, his black eyes locking with hers. “Say something.”
Just like that. A demand drawled in the deep tones of a Texan, skipping the pleasantries. He was nothing like his fair-skinned, light-hearted sister Talia.
“Hello, Alek.”
She noted the scarring on his left cheek and throat; she remembered as though it were yesterday, instead of almost five years ago, the burned-smooth texture beneath her fingertips when they made love. A new scar ripped through a black eyebrow, and another ran from his bottom lip into his chin.
“Hello, fair Elspeth. Or should I say sister-in-law? We’re related, aren’t we?” He pushed the fact at her like a spear. “Too bad I missed the wedding. I was trapped by the siege for two weeks.” He caught the wild spray of her hair in one big hand, taming it. “But I’m here now.”
In the next heartbeat, Alek lightly jerked her head back, lifting it for his inspection. “Older,” he murmured, not sparing her in his appraisal.
“Wiser.” She eased her hair away from his grasp, and wondered if anyone escaped Alek Petrovna unless he granted permission. But she would, because she’d already paid the price.
“Where’s my child?”
His question slammed into her, shattering the layers of protection she’d pasted around her. There was no way he could know—Elspeth fought for the smooth level of her tone. “Please explain.”
The line between his brows deepened. He spaced the words precisely, a predator more than a journalist marshaling facts. “Our child. I know the how of it. Where is it? What is it, a boy or a girl? And again, where is our child?”
She refused to let him tear open her private wound. She wouldn’t let him push her back into her pain. Elspeth straightened her shoulders, meeting his searing stare with her calm one. “I’ve just put tea on to steep. If left too long—”
“Dismissing me? Just tell me what I want to know, and then I’ll leave. I want to see my child.”
She would not allow him to pounce in and out of her life so easily. “But you’ll come back because you’re angry. More than angry. You want to hurt me.”
“Damn right I do. And I will,” he shot at her in a low, passionate voice. His lips tightened. “You should have told me. I’m easy enough to find.”
Elspeth glanced at Aide’s powerful six feet four-inch body, then lifted her chin. She had given him more than what was safe, and now she owed him nothing.
“I know your strength, fair Elspeth, and your passion. You can clasp a man dry…wring a child from him, then—Is the child mine or—?”
She gripped the Tallchief tartan shawl to keep her hand from flying at his face. She refused to enter a verbal duel with Alek, now or ever again.
The doctor had thought her baby had been a boy.…
She lifted her face to the wind, letting its bite cool her heating temper. “You’d better leave. More snow is coming.” Then she turned and walked toward her tepee.
No sooner was the tepee flap closed behind her than Alek ripped it open and stepped inside in a blast of wind and snow. She let him loom, his head angled from the slanting, insulated canvas of the tepee. Elspeth ignored him; she kneeled to toss wood on the fire. She watched the flames lick and grow, and then settled to pour tea into a china cup. She folded the tartan and glanced up, only to find him glowering down at her. His anger vibrated in the small space.
She resented his harsh presence in the soothing tepee, draped with bundles of herbs. The disquieting scent of an enraged man swirled through the small space.
He opened his fist, broad palm up. Her mother’s silver-feather-and-obsidian-bead earring gleamed against his dark skin. Elspeth’s grandmother had given it to Pauline Tallchief as an engagement gift. The earring looked fragile in Alek’s scarred palm. “You lost this that night. A village woman, a midwife, gave it to me last fall. She said that by the look of you, you were ‘breeding’ when you left Seonag two weeks after we met at the festival.”
Elspeth sat upon her pallet and clasped her arms around her bent legs, resting her chin on her knees. She studied the fire and wished Alek Petrovna back into the past.
> He threw his gloves down and ripped open his insulated jacket. “Well? Where is my child? How old is it—he…she—now, four?”
Elspeth slowly lifted her head to face him. She wouldn’t give in to the temper that flickered at his taunts. She’d dealt with a houseful of wild Tallchiefs, every one of them difficult and arrogant, and nothing could be gained by facing Alek on this primitive plane.
For a moment he held her eyes, then ripped off his coat and tossed it into a corner. While Elspeth forgot to breathe calmly, he ripped the dangling beads and silver feather from the stud and slowly pushed it through his right earlobe. Blood ran freely from the wound, dripping onto his thick sweater.
“Alek!” She leapt to her feet, grabbed a towel and lifted it—
His fingers circled her wrist, staying her. “I’ll wear your mark, you bloodless witch, until I’m damn well ready to remove it.”
He took the towel and sent her sprawling upon the neat pallet. As he placed the cloth to his wound, his black eyes slowly, insolently studied her body.
She knew he was taunting her, driving her to the edge, making her remember that night with the huge silver moon when he’d spread her beneath him, anxious for her first taste of this laughing, passionate lover. “Alek…there is no child!”
Elspeth glanced at Alek’s powerful six feet four-inch body, then lifted her chin. She had given him more than what was safe, and now she owed him nothing.
“I know your strength, fair Elspeth, and your passion. You can clasp a man dry…wring a child from him, then—Is the child mine or—?”
She gripped the Tallchief tartan shawl to keep her hand from flying at his face. She refused to enter a verbal duel with Alek, now or ever again.
The doctor had thought her baby had been a boy.…
She lifted her face to the wind, letting its bite cool her heating temper. “‘You’d better leave. More snow is coming.” Then she turned and walked toward her tepee.
No sooner was the tepee flap closed behind her than Alek ripped it open and stepped inside in a blast of wind and snow. She let him loom, his head angled from the slanting, insulated canvas of the tepee. Elspeth ignored him; she kneeled to toss wood on the fire. She watched the flames lick and grow, and then settled to pour tea into a china cup. She folded the tartan and glanced up, only to find him glowering down at her. His anger vibrated in the small space.
She resented his harsh presence in the soothing tepee, draped with bundles of herbs. The disquieting scent of an enraged man swirled through the small space.
He opened his fist, broad palm up. Her mother’s silver-feather-and-obsidian-bead earring gleamed against his dark skin. Elspeth’s grandmother had given it to Pauline Tallchief as an engagement gift. The earring looked fragile in Alek’s scarred palm. “You lost this that night. A village woman, a midwife, gave it to me last fall. She said that by the look of you, you were ‘breeding’ when you left Seonag two weeks after we met at the festival.”
Elspeth sat upon her pallet and clasped her arms around her bent legs, resting her chin on her knees. She studied the fire and wished Alek Petrovna back into the past.
He threw his gloves down and ripped open his insulated jacket. “Well? Where is my child? How old is it—he…she—now, four?”
Elspeth slowly lifted her head to face him. She wouldn’t give in to the temper that flickered at his taunts. She’d dealt with a houseful of wild Tallchiefs, every one of them difficult and arrogant, and nothing could be gained by facing Alek on this primitive plane.
For a moment he held her eyes, then ripped off his coat and tossed it into a corner. While Elspeth forgot to breathe calmly, he ripped the dangling beads and silver feather from the stud and slowly pushed it through his right earlobe. Blood ran freely from the wound, dripping onto his thick sweater.
“Alek!” She leapt to her feet, grabbed a towel and lifted it—
His fingers circled her wrist, staying her. “I’ll wear your mark, you bloodless witch, until I’m damn well ready to remove it.”
He took the towel and sent her sprawling upon the neat pallet. As he placed the cloth to his wound, his black eyes slowly, insolently studied her body.
She knew he was taunting her, driving her to the edge, making her remember that night with the huge silver moon when he’d spread her beneath him, anxious for her first taste of this laughing, passionate lover. “Alek…there is no child!”
Heartbeats later, as he stared coldly at her, her words echoed in the tepee. She’d never spoken the secret buried in her heart, and now it tore her apart once more.
Alek slowly removed the towel, ignoring the steady flow of blood. “No? Another lie, like the name you used when we met? Fearghus. Yes, that was it…Fearghus, not Tallchief.”
She hated giving him anything. “Fearghus was my great-great-grandmother’s name. I used it to make connections, to make my studies easier—
“Ah, yes. The American weaver woman, they said, come to Scotland to study the Paisley shawl at its Scottish roots and to dig out some legend about the one you inherited. Now tell me about my child.”
“Alek…” Elspeth swallowed the pain that had never dimmed. From his sister Talia, Elspeth knew how deeply the Petrovnas cherished their children. Perhaps he needed peace just as she did, and then he would leave. “There was a baby. I miscarried—”
In that instant, Alek paled, his eyes closing as the knuckles on his fists turned white. A vein pulsed in his muscled throat, standing out in relief, and his nostrils flared, dragging air deep in his lungs. Then the next heartbeat, he crouched before her, his brilliant eyes damp and cutting at her from beneath fierce brows.
“Damn you! If it’s true, not another lie, you must have taken something…did something. You discarded my baby like dirty laundry without the slightest care about…the father. Then you ran back here where you’d be safe, tucked away in this nest of Tallchiefs. Oh, yes, I’ve researched the entire family and I’m good at what I do. They won’t be able to help you….
Well, nothing can protect you now, Elspeth. Not from me. You’ve given me no choice—”
Elspeth leapt to her feet; she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop the anger welling up and bursting from her. Alek had stepped into her life, wrenched her pain from the past and spread it before her. If he believed she had deliberately lost their baby…She hit his chest with the palms of her hands with enough strength to send him sprawling backward.
Elspeth slashed a dark look at him as she stalked back and forth over the small area near the fire. She stooped to toss the bloody towel into the fire, wishing Alek were as easy to remove from her life. The towel ignited, and so did her temper. “Your baby. Your choice…Pushing earrings through your ear—”
“Earring. One ear. Singular.”
“Oh, yes. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Five years ago, you were off for a little romantic holiday before you returned to the wars. What was that you said when you were done and ready to be on your way—‘As good as I’ve had. Thanks for the good time’? I burned that wad of money you tossed at me, Alek. Thanks, but no thanks.”
Because he looked so shocked, she saw no reason to spare him. She doubted that anyone had cut Alek down to size, but he’d forced her into a corner. “I’ve never told anyone, Alek. You want the clinical details? Fine. I’ll send you the doctor’s name and the hospital in London. I was studying with a talented weaver, a distant relative, when—”
She dashed away the tears flowing down her cheeks and folded her arms protectively across her body. “Damn you, Alek.”
She closed her eyes, waves of pain crashing over her again. Elspeth felt herself sink to her knees, heard her trembling whisper above the cold mountain wind. “He was only three months into term, Alek. According to the doctor, it was for the best…. For the best…” she said, repeating the phrase that had echoed through her heart for years.
She hated the sobs tearing out of her, and pressed the tartan to her face to muffle them. She was naked now, stripped of control by
Alek Petrovna, and she hated him for that.
Two
Elspeth’s cries tore into Alek; he hadn’t prepared for this …twist, he decided was the right word. A story twist that didn’t make sense for him. He’d planned a methodical revenge, not the softening within him.
Well, hell, Alek thought, suddenly drained of all his revenge, his motivation for bringing Elspeth to her knees. He’d planned his revenge, devising a plot that would tether Elspeth to him. He’d intended to take his revenge methodically, slowly. He’d hated her for hiding his child, for leaving him with an ache too deep to bear.
There was no child to hold in his arms.…
The ache grew within him, even as his hatred for Elspeth eased. The miscarriage had torn her apart, her sobs proof of her mourning. Elspeth had wanted that child as desperately as he—Alek read that knowledge in the aching curl of Elspeth’s body, her fingers gripping her tartan length. She’d always mourn the baby—
Alek carefully placed the china cup upon its saucer when he wanted to smash it. He rose slowly, a healed broken bone or two aching now. He stood very still, his fists clenched at his sides, bracing himself against losing a child he’d never known.
Elspeth lay curled upon the woven blankets. The sobs came raw, straight from her soul.
He swallowed, moistening a throat clogged with emotion.
Alek closed his eyes, listened to the wind howl beyond the canvas and saw Elspeth as she was back then—dancing passionately around the Scottish bonfire. He saw her lie upon the ancient rock, her face flushed with desire, her lips swollen from his kisses. Half-drunk on native brew and whiskey, he’d thought of her as a moonlit goddess with slender curves and dark, mysterious places. He’d teased her, enchanted with the chase…loved her—took her virgin body for his own. She’d tasted of life, a drink he’d needed to remember his attachment to the human race.
He’d wanted that child desperately, because he wanted his life to go on, a damn Petrovna trait. Then, too, the selfish gene within him needed more, a healing only the gift of a child could offer.