Wild Roses

by Hannah Howell

  “Stop apologizing,” she said, idly trailing her fingers over his rib cage. “If I hadn’t been completely willing, I’d be going after my shotgun by now and you’d be trying to run and tug your clothes back on at the same time.” She smiled when he chuckled, then grew serious. “I think, however, that it’d be wise to finish our talk.” Taking a deep breath to steady herself and shore up her flagging courage, she asked, “What do you mean when you say you came here for me? You haven’t really explained that.”

  “Do you know how often those beautiful, big green eyes have haunted my dreams and my every waking moment?” He gently traced the fine bones of her face with his finger.

  “That’s very flattering,” she said, feeling a blush heat her cheeks, “but it doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I was trying to be romantic. I came here to ask you to marry me.”

  Ella tensed, pulling away from him a little. She had briefly thought she had heard the three little words she was so starved for just as she was swept away by passion, but she had discarded the idea as the result of some delusion. Now she began to wonder. Surely he must love her or why would he want to marry her?

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice so soft it was little more than a whisper.

  “Very sure. Ella, I gave up all I know and all I have worked for to come to you. I realize that I have been unkind and stupid in the past, but I’m not sure what more I can do to prove my sincerity.”

  “Tell me how you feel while I’m thinking straight and looking you in the eye.”

  Ella’s heart was beating so fast and hard she was sure he could hear it. She could not believe her own daring, but decided that, if she was going to be waking up beside this man for the rest of her life, she needed to know what was in his heart. Her eyes widened slightly when he blushed faintly and looked a little embarrassed.

  “I’ve already confessed that I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to you.”

  “Marriage is for life, Harrigan. I need to know how committed you are to it and to me.”

  He held her face between his hands and brushed a kiss over her mouth. “I’m here because I love you,” he whispered. When she trembled and a sheen of tears brightened her eyes, Harrigan felt a lot braver. “I tried very hard not to and then I spent a lot of time trying to call it anything but love. When I finally beat the Templetons, the joy of that success was somewhat hollow, for you weren’t there to share it with me. I think that was when I stopped trying to fight what I felt. And, although I ask this question with some trepidation, I think I need to know how you feel about me.”

  Not surprised to see that her hand was shaking, Ella caressed his cheek, her emotions so strong that it was a little hard to speak. “I think I began to love you the moment I saw you.” An unsteady laugh escaped her when he wrapped his arms around her and held her almost too tightly. “I fear I wasn’t as strong a fighter as you and had to face the fact that you had stolen my heart fairly early in the game.”

  “Despite how I treated you?”

  “I didn’t say it was the wisest thing I have ever done.” She laughed along with him.

  Although she ached to savor the tenderness of the moment, Ella gently pulled away from him. There was one more thing she had to tell him. She thought it a little odd that, even though he had asked her to marry him and had told her that he loved her, she was still afraid of telling him about the child. The only way to tell a man such news, she decided, was as directly as possible.

  “One last time—are you certain about your feelings and about wanting to marry me?”

  “Of course. I’ve said so. While even I feel that words are inadequate, they’re all I have. I’m not sure what else to do to make you believe me.”

  “I just wanted to hear you say it one more time before I tell you something.”

  Harrigan tensed and slowly sat up. “You’re sounding ominously serious. All of a sudden all I can think of is that you haven’t actually accepted my proposal.”

  “The answer is yes, although you may be so angry in a moment, you will consider taking it back.” She held up her hand, gesturing him to be silent when he began to speak. “Please, let me say this. Trust me, it needs to be said. Remember the last night we were together in Philadelphia?”

  “Those memories were both a torment and a comfort.”

  “I know what you mean, but I think that time of indulgence left me with a great deal more than a memory.” She waited tensely as his expression slowly changed from one of confusion to one of wary understanding and shock.

  “You think you’re carrying my child?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Oh, I don’t think it. I know it. I just think it happened that night.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”

  “No,” she replied honestly. “I wanted a husband, but only a willing one. I wanted love and caring, not obligation and duty. Are you angry?” she asked, no longer able to accurately read the expression on his face.

  After taking a deep breath, Harrigan admitted, “For a moment, I was furious.” He looked at her, let the full realization that she carried his child sweep over him, and felt pure joy push away the last of his anger. “Are you sure you aren’t accepting my proposal just because of the child?”

  “Idiot,” she replied gently. “If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant to begin with.” Ella sighed with relief and hugged him when he took her into his arms.

  “Ah, Ella, my wild mountain rose, how I love you. I’m here, I have no idea what I’ll do to earn a living, and I already have a family on the way. You have a true skill at turning my life upside down. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Just love me as much and as madly as I love you.”

  “Oh, I do, and I will.”

  “Forever?”

  “Even when my rose’s thorns are at their sharpest.” He grinned when she gave him a mock scowl, then grew serious again. “Yes, forever. Ten times forever,” he added grandly.

  Ella smiled as she touched her lips to his. “That will do for a start.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Hannah Howell’s newest historical romance,

  HIGHLAND SINNER,

  now on sale!

  Scotland, early summer 1478

  What was that smell?

  Tormand Murray struggled to wake up at least enough to move away from the odor assaulting his nose. He groaned as he started to turn on his side, and the ache in his head became a piercing agony. Flopping over, he cautiously ran his hand over his head and found the source of the pain. There was a very tender swelling at the back of his head. The damp matted hair around the swelling told him that it had bled but he could feel no continued blood flow. That indicated that he had been unconscious for more than a few minutes, possibly for even more than a few hours.

  As he lay there trying to will away the pain in his head, Tormand tried to open his eyes. A sharp pinch halted his attempt and he cursed. He had definitely been unconscious for quite a while and something beside a knock on the head had been done to him for his eyes were crusted shut. He had a fleeting, hazy memory of something being thrown into his eyes before all went black, but it was not enough to give him any firm idea of what had happened to him. Although he ruefully admitted to himself that it was as much vanity as a reluctance to inflict pain upon himself that caused him to fear he would tear out his eyelashes if he just forced his eyes open, Tormand proceeded very carefully. He gently brushed aside the crust on his eyes until he could open them, even if only enough to see if there was any water close at hand to wash his eyes with.

  And, he hoped, enough water to wash himself if he proved to be the source of the stench. To his shame there had been a few times he had woken to find himself stinking, drunk, and a few stumbles into some foul muck upon the street being the cause. He had never been this foul before, he mused, as the smell began to turn his stomach.

  Then his whole body tensed as he suddenly recognize
d the odor. It was death. Beneath the rank odor of an unclean garderobe was the scent of blood—a lot of blood. Far too much to have come from his own head wound.

  The very next thing Tormand became aware of was that he was naked. For one brief moment panic seized him. Had he been thrown into some open grave with other bodies? He quickly shook aside that fear. It was not dirt or cold flesh he felt beneath him but the cool linen of a soft bed. Rousing from unconsciousness to that odor had obviously disordered his mind, he thought, disgusted with himself.

  Easing his eyes open at last, he grunted in pain as the light stung his eyes and made his head throb even more. Everything was a little blurry, but he could make out enough to see that he was in a rather opulent bedchamber, one that looked vaguely familiar. His blood ran cold and he was suddenly even more reluctant to seek out the source of that smell. It certainly could not be from some battle if only because the part of the bedchamber he was looking at showed no signs of one.

  If there is a dead body in this room, laddie, best ye learn about it quick. Ye might be needing to run, said a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his squire, Walter, and Tormand had to agree with it. He forced down all the reluctance he felt and, since he could see no sign of the dead in the part of the room he studied, turned over to look in the other direction. The sight that greeted his watering eyes had him making a sound that all too closely resembled the one his niece Anna made whenever she saw a spider. Death shared his bed.

  He scrambled away from the corpse so quickly he nearly fell out of the bed. Struggling for calm, he eased his way off the bed and then sought out some water to cleanse his eyes so that he could see more clearly. It took several awkward bathings of his eyes before the sting in them eased and the blurring faded. One of the first things he saw after he dried his face was his clothing folded neatly on a chair, as if he had come to this bedchamber as a guest, willingly. Tormand wasted no time in putting on his clothes and searching the room for any other signs of his presence, collecting up his weapons and his cloak.

  Knowing he could not avoid looking at the body in the bed any longer, he stiffened his spine and walked back to the bed. Tormand felt the sting of bile in the back of his throat as he looked upon what had once been a beautiful woman. So mutilated was the body that it took him several moments to realize that he was looking at what was left of Lady Clara Sinclair. The ragged clumps of golden blond hair left upon her head and the wide, staring blue eyes told him that, as did the heart-shaped birthmark above the open wound where her left breast had been. The rest of the woman’s face was so badly cut up it would have been difficult for her own mother to recognize her without those few clues.

  The cold calm he had sought now filling his body and mind, Tormand was able to look more closely. Despite the mutilation there was an expression visible upon poor Clara’s face, one that hinted she had been alive during at least some of the horrors inflicted upon her. A quick glance at her wrists and ankles revealed that she had once been bound and had fought those bindings, adding weight to Tormand’s dark suspicion. Either poor Clara had had some information someone had tried to torture out of her or she had met up with someone who hated her with a cold, murderous fury.

  And someone who hated him as well, he suddenly thought, and tensed. Tormand knew he would not have come to Clara’s bedchamber for a night of sweaty bed play. Clara had once been his lover, but their affair had ended and he never returned to a woman once he had parted from her. He especially did not return to a woman who was now married and to a man as powerful and jealous as Sir Ranald Sinclair. That meant that someone had brought him here, someone who wanted him to see what had been done to a woman he had once bedded, and, mayhap, take the blame for this butchery.

  That thought shook him free of the shock and sorrow he felt. “Poor, foolish Clara,” he murmured. “I pray ye didnae suffer this because of me. Ye may have been vain, a wee bit mean of spirit, witless, and lacking morals, but ye still didnae deserve this.”

  He crossed himself and said a prayer over her. A glance at the windows told him that dawn was fast approaching and he knew he had to leave quickly. “I wish I could tend to ye now, lass, but I believe I am meant to take the blame for your death and I cannae; I willnae. But, I vow, I will find out who did this to ye and they will pay dearly for it.”

  After one last careful check to be certain no sign of his presence remained in the bedchamber, Tormand slipped away. He had to be grateful that whoever had committed this heinous crime had done so in this house for he knew all the secretive ways in and out of it. His affair with Clara might have been short but it had been lively and he had slipped in and out of this house many, many times. Tormand doubted even Sir Ranald, who had claimed the fine house when he had married Clara, knew all of the stealthy approaches to his bride’s bedchamber.

  Once outside, Tormand swiftly moved into the lingering shadows of early dawn. He leaned against the outside of the rough stonewall surrounding Clara’s house and wondered where he should go. A small part of him wanted to just go home and forget about it all, but he knew he would never heed it. Even if he had no real affection for Clara, one reason their lively affair had so quickly died, he could not simply forget that the woman had been brutally murdered. If he was right in suspecting that someone had wanted him to be found next to the body and be accused of Clara’s murder, then he definitely could not simply forget the whole thing.

  Despite that, Tormand decided the first place he would go was his house. He could still smell the stench of death on his clothing. It might be just his imagination, but he knew he needed a bath and clean clothes to help him forget that smell. As he began his stealthy way home Tormand thought it was a real shame that a bath could not also wash away the images of poor Clara’s butchered body.

  “Are ye certain ye ought to say anything to anybody?”

  Tormand nibbled on a thick piece of cheese as he studied his aging companion. Walter Burns had been his squire for twelve years and had no inclination to be anything more than a squire. His utter lack of ambition was why he had been handed over to Tormand by the man who had knighted him at the tender age of eighteen. It had been a glorious battle and Walter had proven his worth. The man had simply refused to be knighted. Fed up with his squire’s lack of interest in the glory, the honors, and the responsibility that went with knighthood Sir MacBain had sent the man to Tormand. Walter had continued to prove his worth, his courage, and his contentment in remaining a lowly squire. At the moment, however, the man was openly upset and his courage was a little weak-kneed.

  “I need to find out who did this,” Tormand said and then sipped at his ale, hungry and thirsty but partaking of both food and drink cautiously for his stomach was still unsteady.

  “Why?” Walter sat down at Tormand’s right and poured himself some ale. “Ye got away from it. ’Tis near the middle of the day and no one has come here crying for vengeance so I be thinking ye got away clean, aye? Why let anyone e’en ken ye were near the woman? Are ye trying to put a rope about your neck? And, if I recall rightly, ye didnae find much to like about the woman once your lust dimmed so why fret o’er justice for her?”

  “’Tis sadly true that I didnae like her, but she didnae deserve to be butchered like that.”

  Walter grimaced and idly scratched the ragged scar on his pockmarked left cheek. “True, but I still say if ye let anyone ken ye were there ye are just asking for trouble.”

  “I would like to think that verra few people would e‘er believe I could do that to a woman e’en if I was found lying in her blood, dagger in hand.”

  “Of course ye wouldnae do such as that, and most folk ken it, but that doesnae always save a mon, does it? Ye dinnae ken everyone who has the power to cry ye a murderer and hang ye and they dinnae ken ye. Then there are the ones who are jealous of ye or your kinsmen and would like naught better than to strike out at one of ye. Aye, look at your brother James. Any fool who kenned the mon would have kenned he couldnae have killed his wife, but he
still had to suffer years marked as an outlaw and a woman-killer, aye?”

  “I kenned I kept ye about for a reason. Aye, ’twas to raise my spirits when they are low and to embolden me with hope and courage just when I need it the most.”

  “Wheesht, nay need to slap me with the sharp edge of your tongue. I but speak the truth and one ye would be wise to nay ignore.”

  Tormand nodded carefully, wary of moving his still-aching head too much. “I dinnae intend to ignore it. ’Tis why I have decided to speak only to Simon.”

  Walter cursed softly and took a deep drink of ale. “Aye, a king’s mon nay less.”

  “Aye, and my friend. And a mon who worked hard to help James. He is a mon who has a true skill at solving such puzzles and hunting down the guilty. This isnae simply about justice for Clara. Someone wanted me to be blamed for her murder, Walter. I was put beside her body to be found and accused of the crime. And for such a crime I would be hanged so that means that someone wants me dead.”

  “Aye, true enough. Nay just dead, either, but your good name weel blackened.”

  “Exactly. So I have sent word to Simon asking him to come here, stressing an urgent need to speak with him.”

  Tormand was pleased that he sounded far more confident of his decision than he felt. It had taken him several hours to actually write and send the request for a meeting to Simon. The voice in his head that told him to just turn his back on the whole matter, the same opinion that Walter offered, had grown almost too loud to ignore. Only the certainty that this had far more to do with him than with Clara had given him the strength to silence that cowardly voice.

  He had the feeling that part of his stomach’s unsteadiness was due to a growing fear that he was about to suffer as James had. It had taken his foster brother three long years to prove his innocence and wash away the stain to his honor. Three long, lonely years of running and hiding. Tormand dreaded the thought that he might be pulled into the same ugly quagmire. If nothing else, he was deeply concerned about how it would affect his mother who had already suffered too much grief and worry over her children. First his sister Sorcha had been beaten and raped, then his sister Gillyanne had been kidnapped—twice—the second time leading to a forced marriage, and then there had been the trouble that had sent James running for the shelter of the hills. His mother did not need to suffer through yet another one of her children mired in danger.