Though, indeed, she had yet to tell him of her own. Surely all would come aright when she did?
Without a doubt, she would know the truth when she told him.
Light crept over the threshold of the cavern, the first glow of sunlight touching his dark hair. Jacqueline, certain there need be no secrets between them after the night before, eased away from him. He had claimed her hair near the ends of the long strands, so he did not limit her ability to move. She sat up, her hair spilling around her, and looked fully upon him.
The morning sunlight touched his face gently, as if it would not make the truth more harsh than it was. The soft light did not flinch from the scar surrounding his lost eye. In the sharp shadows cast by a flickering candle, he might have looked demonic—certainly, if he had been scowling, the look of him would have made any soul take a step back. But now he slept, his features at ease.
And truly, Jacqueline had seen his face before. Though she knew she would never tire of looking upon him, in this moment there was something else she would look upon. She eased his cloak lower, half certain Angus would awaken and be displeased, but wanting to know all of him.
The scar he had tried to hide from her was fearsome indeed. It began below his shoulder and continued over his chest, every increment of it making Jacqueline shake her head.
Here she identified a stab wound, the pucker of skin and the heaviness of the stitches molded into his flesh forever hinting at its initial severity. And all around it, there were burns, healed but still disfiguring him so that her tears of sympathy rose anew.
’Twas an enduring testament to the pain he had endured, though Jacqueline could not imagine for what reason. But he neither catered to it nor let another guess at its presence.
He had said he had no need of pity.
’Twas not so hideous as Angus believed, though she did not doubt that some would spurn him. As a woman who had been judged for years by the merit of her beauty alone, Jacqueline knew the emptiness that appearances could hide. Angus had no such hollow within him and so his physical scars were as naught to her.
Indeed, they hinted at the valor of the heart they concealed. With reverence and respect, she bent, and kissed the tip of the wound made by a blade. She touched her lips along the scar in a dozen tiny kisses, her own heart swelling with the weight of the love she felt for this man. She thought of the family he would never see again, the holding he had lost, the pain he had tolerated, and one of her tears slipped free to splash upon his flesh.
Angus awakened with a start, his eye wide for a heart-stopping moment as he surveyed her.
And then his countenance darkened. “I bade you not to look upon me,” he said sharply, casting aside his fistful of her hair. He averted his face and rose, retrieving his garb, with quick gestures.
Jacqueline spoke calmly, hoping to ease his embarrassment. “You are too shy. I do not think ’tis so dreadful as that.”
“No one has asked for your opinion.”
“Angus...”
“I will not have your pity,” he declared fiercely. He donned his chausses with a haste born of anger, his back toward her. “Even if ’tis the reason you came to my bed, I will have no more of it. Do you understand? Save your pity for one who deserves it.”
“I do not pity you.”
“Liar!”
Jacqueline smiled. “Nay, Angus, ’tis no lie. I love you.”
He must have heard her, but he did not turn to face her. He found his boots and hauled them on, shaking out his crusading tunic with impatience.
’Twas as if she had ceased to be.
He could have chosen no response more irksome. She confessed a love for him, she was prepared to change the course of her life if her regard was returned! How dare he not grace her with a reply?
Jacqueline strode after him, infuriated. “Did you hear me? I said that I love you! That and that alone is why I welcomed you between my thighs.”
“Then I suggest you cease,” he declared through gritted teeth.
Jacqueline felt her eyes round. Nay! It could not be so! Angus was too much of a man of honor to treat her poorly.
Was he not? Jacqueline recalled all too well how she had begged him to take her maidenhead.
With no request for tender feelings.
“What nonsense is this?” Her words were uneven in her distress. Surely she could not have misjudged him?
Angus turned to face her only when he was fully dressed, even to the patch over his eye. He might have been a stranger, for all the warmth in his expression, the same remorseless stranger who had swooped down upon her only days past.
Jacqueline’s conviction that she knew him faltered.
“I would not recommend your course,” he said coldly.
“Whyever not?”
“’Twill only bring you grief.” He gave her a hard look, and she could not find the words to hurl before this knight who so little resembled the man who had granted her such pleasure. “See yourself dressed. We depart immediately.” And he left her there, concealed only by her hair, while he saddled his steed with unseemly haste.
’Twas as if he could not be rid of her soon enough, which told Jacqueline much of their coupling—and worse, of his reasons for it.
It seemed that men saw only her beauty and desired no more than the possession of it. She had made her choice, whatever its price might prove to be.
Her hands shook, but her determination was as resolute as that of her companion. If she conceived a child of his, she would bear the babe in the convent. She had not been raped and she would not shirk from whatever shame came of her own decision.
She had always insisted she wanted only a choice. Having made a bad one changed naught.
How could she regret what she had learned, both good and bad, this past night? Jacqueline dressed with similarly quick gestures, sparing not so much as a glance for the man with whom she had only moments past shared such intimacy.
For now, she knew its worth. Angus might be anxious to see her gone from her side, but his repudiation of the love she offered made her equally anxious to find herself behind the convent’s high walls.
She loved him still, but she would be damned to hell if she told him so again. ’Twas his loss, for she would beg no man to accept all that she might give.
’Twas a particular irony that the one time Angus had not planned to convince Jacqueline to be angered with him, he had succeeded admirably. She was furious, nigh spitting sparks, though she did not deign to grant him so much as a glance. Her confession had terrified him, and he had responded from the grip of that fear.
Aye, ’twould be tempting to let this maiden love him, a balm to his pride if naught else, but ’twould be wicked. Jacqueline knew naught of the truth of his past or of his intent for the future. Angus knew he had no right to tie her fate to his in the face of that ignorance—and he had no right to pledge himself to a woman when his future was so uncertain.
Of course, he had had no right to take her maidenhead, though that had not halted him the night before. He was torn between the proposal that he knew he should offer and a determination to make the best choice for Jacqueline’s future, regardless of how unconventional it might be.
The fact remained that he would probably not survive his attempt to reclaim Airdfinnan. Where would she be left then? Betrothed to an outlaw and a dead man, a penniless corpse whose deeds might draw repercussions to herself.
He could not allow that to happen.
Jacqueline did not know him, after all. Since she did not know him, her affection must be no more than a whimsy. As much as he would have liked to welcome a true love to his side, in this case ’twould be folly. They had been in each other’s company but three days. Her attachment would fade before the obstacles yet before him, but not before it ruined the choice she had already made for herself.
Indeed, it had already led to a poor choice on both their parts. He should not have taken her maidenhead. He should not have touched her. He should not have w
eakened before her appeal. There were no excuses sufficient for his churlish behavior, so not a one of them made him feel less a knave.
Perhaps ’twas better this way. Angus would cherish the memory of her sweetness for all his days and nights. The recollection of the light she had brought into his deepest darkness would sustain him when the demons came again.
But that did not make it right. And it did not give him any right to feed her romantic illusions, or to take more from her than he had already been weak enough to accept. Even if she did love him in truth, ’twas far better for her to be angered with him and put that affection from her thoughts.
Every step closer to Airdfinnan made the prospects most clear. He had been chased from the gates when last he visited here, pursued with the claim that Angus MacGillivray was dead and that he lied in claiming his own name.
’Twould be easier for all involved if he were dead. And the more Angus thought of the matter, the more convinced he was that anyone who would murder twice to claim Airdfinnan would not hesitate to murder again to see that holding secured.
He could not leave the matter be, even knowing that his own death might ensure the result. He had to seek justice for his own blood.
Angus would leave none behind him to grieve. His family was already gone. If Rodney survived, he would see to Lucifer, though indeed the stallion was enough of a prize that he would be sure to find a new master. But Angus would allow no others to fret for him, most especially not this woman from whom he had already stolen so much.
’Twas a matter of principle, though he was honest enough to admit to himself that he wished his circumstance might have been otherwise. Indeed, this was yet another dream stolen from him by the thief who had claimed Airdfinnan.
Angus looked forward to having restitution from that man’s hide, whoever he might be.
Chapter 14
Angus was even more grim than was his custom—which said something indeed—though Jacqueline was far from merry herself. They rode in a silence so complete that even the birds seemed to cease their calls as they drew near.
Jacqueline refused to be the first to speak. She folded her arms across her chest and held herself apart from Angus, not caring if she bumped along awkwardly. She was tempted to ask him to take her immediately to the convent, but that would have involved speaking to him.
She preferred to ignore him and seethe at her own foolishness. She cursed her companion silently more than once, for he seemed untroubled by her censure.
Then she told herself that ’twas only proof that he was not the man she thought him to be. Nay, an honorable man would have apologized for granting insult, or for claiming what he should not have done, or for irking her at the very least.
Not Angus. He said naught.
They returned to the main road, then made good time along it, taking another side trail just before midday. The valley had closed in on either side that morning, the land becoming more rolling even as high hills rose from the road itself.
That side trail had risen crookedly, ascending steadily, oftentimes making the stallion hesitate to choose his footing among the rocks. Angus dismounted and led the steed at intervals, the trust between them so well established that Jacqueline imagined the horse would follow him into hell.
The land flattened and the trail completely disappeared. Angus led Lucifer into the surrounding forest, tethering him there. Angus held up one fingertip in a bid for continued silence, then offered Jacqueline his hand. She nodded understanding but spurned his hand, slipping from the saddle without aid, then picking up her skirts as if she would step past him.
“I thought you did not know the way,” he muttered. Jacqueline knew he glared down at her, but she did not give him the satisfaction of glancing up. Indeed, she was all too aware of his proximity and would not let him see any spark of unruly desire in her eyes.
Cursed man! She held her ground and stared straight ahead, waiting for him to take the lead.
Angus murmured something that perhaps she was glad to have not fully heard, then abruptly turned. He led her through the forest, picking his course with care, and as they walked, the wind increased. Angus offered his hand repeatedly, despite her constant refusals.
They could not have gone more than a hundred paces when the trees suddenly thinned and there was naught beyond them. Angus dropped low and she followed suit, nigh crawling through the undergrowth to the lip of the cliff. They lay on their bellies and eased forward to the very edge.
Jacqueline caught her breath. Spread before her was a verdant valley, sheltered by the surrounding hills like a jewel protected by its setting. And in the very midst of that valley, perched on an isle in the midst of a rushing stream, stood a fortification.
“Airdfinnan,” she whispered.
Angus merely nodded, his gaze fixed upon the activity below. Jacqueline watched him for a moment but could not guess his thoughts, so looked again.
There was none of the isle that was not encompassed by the keep. Indeed, the heavy walls seemed to rise directly from the stream, which was swollen and dirty with the waters of spring. Those walls were straight and wrought without so much as a chink on their faces. Heavy stone comprised their lower levels, expertly cut and fitted, while above that they seemed to be made of packed earth. They were high and wide, and breached by only one gate.
The river had been widened by artifice, she realized, seeing the rocks that dammed its course. A wooden bridge connected that gate to the shore, and its course bristled with men. Indeed, men paced the top of those wide walls.
Beyond the keep and well away from its main access was clustered a village of considerable size. ’Twas prosperous from the look of the homes there, and there was a wooden palisade around their perimeter. The tower of a chapel rose in its midst, and fields, already tilled, spread from there across the valley.
Jacqueline spied grazing stock, sheep and the occasional cow, and noted that they were plump beasts. In the distance a trio of men tilled a field with a pair of oxen. Half a dozen boys cavorted around the plow while marauding birds swooped low, hopeful of seed.
Airdfinnan seemed incomparably wealthy, reaping the gains of its sheltered locale. Any man would covet such a holding as this. She wondered anew at Angus’s motivation and stole a sidelong glance.
He ignored her.
Within the keep’s walls, Jacqueline could see little of interest. One square abode was there, as well as a chapel marked by a cross upon its roof and a variety of leaning wooden structures. There were many sentries: at the gate, on the bridge, on the top of the walls, inside the courtyard.
Curiosity had the better of her before Jacqueline knew it. “Airdfinnan is most heavily guarded. Is it frequently assaulted for its wealth?”
“’Tis prosperous, indeed, but that is not all its merit.”
“What then?”
Angus braced his chin on one hand, seemingly fascinated by the men pacing below. He pointed to the right, to a deep cleft in the surrounding hills. “There is an easy path to the east, one of the only easy courses from east to west in this land and thus one of the only weaknesses in the defense of the Kingdom of the Isles.
“From there”—He pointed to the left, Jacqueline seeing that the keep perched in the middle of a glen—“an army might ride to Skye.
“And from there”—He pointed harder to their right, back the way they had come, and she saw another breach in the surrounding mountains—“that army might ride to Mull and the very court of the King of the Isles. Of course, the King of Scotland sees Airdfinnan as a means of his western rival reaching his lands. Airdfinnan sits at the crossroads, positioned to halt an assault in either direction.”
“Your family must have been trusted by the King of the Isles to win such a responsibility.”
“My father saved the hide of Somerled once in battle and that king never forgot his debt. Airdfinnan was his payment, though a cynical man might perceive that the richness of the gift was his assurance of my father’s continued lo
yalty.”
“And Cormac of Clan MacQuarrie?”
“Believed that he too had served the king loyally, perhaps more loyally than my father. He desired Airdfinnan as his own reward, though he was granted Ceinn-beithe, a site held to have great import for his clan.”
“Did he protest to the king?”
“He did not dare. But when Somerled died, Cormac made his intention clear. He marched once on Airdfinnan, though was repulsed and was consequently chided by Somerled’s son and heir Dugall.”
“Somerled had died in an assault on the Scottish king’s defenses.”
“Aye, and his son was disinclined to tolerate dissent within the ranks of his supporters, poised as they might be for war. Cormac made his threat to my father, though, and many of us doubted that he would bide his time for long. A chieftain’s pledge of vengeance is not so readily forgotten.”
They stared in silence for a moment, Jacqueline trying to determine how she might make the most of Angus’s talkative mood. She clung to a winning theme. “Airdfinnan seems most formidably defended,” she said, hoping he would expound upon military matters at least. She was interested in the keep, though she knew ’twas because she hoped to learn more of him in his recounting.
Aye, when he was not angered with her, ’twas difficult to remain angered with him. Jacqueline decided ’twas because Angus never spoke to her as if she were a witless fool.
“’Tis indeed,” he agreed. “The obstruction of the river was my father’s pride. He maintained that Airdfinnan could never be taken by force but that ’twould fall only by treachery from within.”
“Yet ’tis in the hands of another.”
Angus said naught to that, his gaze slipping over the property that should have been his legacy in his brother’s stead. Did he believe there was treachery from within, or had his father been wrong?
She knew better than to imagine he would answer her. “How do you know that your brother was murdered?”
His lips tightened. “I know it.”
“But how? By Edana’s telling, he was ill before you departed, and any man who has fallen ill may surely die. And you cannot have witnessed his death, for you had left for Outremer.”
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 115