A Protector in the Highlands

by Heather McCollum

  At the bottom of the stairs, she hastened to the fire and added some peat, thumping it with the iron poker. She turned around to survey the shadowed, silent room. The walls were still bare, since the tapestries had burned in the fire that the English captain had ordered set before she and Evelyn had arrived. Then Finlarig would be free to trap King Charles in an assassination. Even though they hadn’t been successful in ridding the castle of what Captain Cross had called Scottish vermin, the castle had been scorched, the beautiful tapestries destroyed.

  Scarlet’s gaze traveled along the largest of the stained walls, the plaster daub mottled with black and brown streaks. The basket of shattered fragments sat next to the glue she’d helped Molly prepare earlier to fix the cups Molly had dropped when finding Aiden sucking out Scarlet’s soul.

  She strode across to the basket. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t sleep. Aiden had sucked away part of her soul with his kiss. It certainly had sucked away her practical, non-heated thoughts.

  The shards clinked together as she tilted the basket toward the lamp she’d lit on the table nearby. Reds, blues, greens, whites, nearly all colors of the painter’s palette collided together. Lady Campbell, Grey’s mother, must have had a rainbow of china. It was a tragedy that they’d been crushed under English boots.

  If we pick the pieces up and dust them off, we can make them into something even more beautiful. Evelyn’s words smothered some of the questions swirling in her head.

  She picked up a red piece that was curved into what looked like a flower petal. As she studied the wall, a form took shape in her mind. She poured the shards slowly onto the table and picked out a rounded swirl piece. Perhaps it had been a decoration on a platter or bowl. And now it was rubbish unless Scarlet used it separate from its original purpose.

  She stood, lifting the horsehair brush out of the pot of glue, and made a thick dot on the wall and pressed the swirl there. The glue was sticky and held the piece in place. She added the petal next to it, then dug through the pile on the table, extracting petal-type shapes. She also separated out green and brown pieces for the stem and leaves.

  Working in silence, she focused on the shapes, colors, and the vision she had for the mosaic. Sharp, small, flat, swirled, darker red, light red, rounded…

  One by one, she glued over the constant questions about Aiden’s kiss with the individual shards. She added a series of slivers downward to make a stem, vines veering from it. The sharpest brown pieces made perfect thorns.

  “A rose.” Aiden’s voice shot through her, making her spin.

  “You’re back,” she said, looking toward the window. Was it already dawn? But the windows were filled with the inky blackness of night.

  “I’ve been spoiled by Grey’s massive bed,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep on Rebecca’s floor.”

  So, he had gone to his sister’s cottage. She turned back to the wall, placing the little brown shard into the glue she’d just dabbed.

  His footsteps came closer. “I didn’t know ye were also an artist.”

  She continued to study the wall, hiding the rapid thud of her heart. “I wouldn’t call me an artist,” she said softly.

  He walked up next to her, leaning in to stare at the arranged pieces in the glow of the lamp. “Aye, an artist to see what these broken pieces can become.” Gently he touched one of the brown shards sticking out from the main stem. “Complete with thorns.”

  “Those who wish to draw close to the beauty of a rose, risk the sting of its thorns,” she said with a smile, although the words came out as a warning.

  Even without touching or seeing him next to her, she felt his presence, his strength, pulling her in like he’d done in the practice room. It lit a rush of sensitivity along her skin, making her feel flushed. “It’s worth asking,” she said softly. “Is the rose worth the sting of its thorns?”

  God help her, she had more thorns than most. If he knew the mess that tangled within her almost incessantly, he’d surely keep his distance.

  She heard his inhale in the silence of the night, and his voice came rough. “I think…’tis the thorns that make the rose sweeter won.”

  She gave one chuckle, sliding her gaze to him. “You are a poet?”

  “Don’t tell Kerrick,” he said, still looking at the beginnings of her mosaic, hands clutched behind his back. But she could see the corner of his mouth tipping upward in a half grin. She didn’t say anything but placed another thin green shard into the leaf. “Why are ye working on this now?” he asked.

  She pressed the piece firmly, watching the glue fill in the cracks between. “Evelyn says that if we pick up the pieces, dust them off, we can make the most shattered mess into something beautiful. I was thinking about it and decided to start since the glue was fresh.” She picked up another piece. “And I couldn’t sleep.”

  He stepped closer as if studying her design. “Why couldn’t ye sleep?”

  Scarlet paused, her eyes following the lines of her design. She could throw wit at him, make him grin. She could tell him that she couldn’t stop thinking of their kiss, which was the truth and might lead to another. But standing there in the dark, still feeling the loneliness of him leaving without talking to her, she felt more like throwing her dagger than giving in to the passion that had plagued her all night.

  She turned to lean against a clean part of the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why did you ignore me at supper and then retreat to your sister’s cottage for the night?” she asked, meeting his gaze without blinking. “Are you afraid of me sucking away your soul?”

  Her straightforward question made his gaze sharpen. He took a step to the side to look at the pile of pottery and china shards. Heart pounding, she waited as he pushed his finger through the pile that she hadn’t sorted. “It’s possible,” he said. “For all I know of ye, ye’re a witch out to ensnare me to do your bidding.” He picked up a green piece and moved to the mosaic to grab up a second paintbrush sitting in the glue. “I know nothing about ye really.” He glanced over his shoulder and then back to the rose. With a dab of glue, he placed the green piece as part of the vine she’d begun.

  “I was born in June, over a score and four years ago,” she said, moving to pick up a yellow piece that could start another rose. “I’ve been taught all the socially expected feminine arts such as embroidery, the harpsichord, French, and dance. I also paint and sketch with some degree of precision.” She lifted another glob of glue, setting it higher where she envisioned a climbing yellow rose, and set her round piece. “I had a beautiful bay horse, named Margarette, when I was a girl. She was my best friend, besides my sister, and I cried for a month when she died two years ago.”

  Scarlet walked around Aiden, who had picked up another green piece, holding it before him as if trying to follow her vision for the mosaic. “And,” she continued, picking up a few yellow petal-like pieces, “I was christened as an infant in the Church of England, I’ve never attended a coven before, nor prayed to Lucifer, so your soul is safe.”

  “No devil’s horns,” Aiden said, glancing sideways at her. “But plenty of thorns.”

  “Is that then what frightened you away?” she asked, turning toward him. “My many thorns? I am not a sweet, tame peony, and never will be now that you’ve taught me to arm myself.”

  Aiden squashed his brush on the wall with more force than needed, and she watched the glue drip. “I do not retreat, and I am not frightened by your thorns, Scarlet,” he said. He used the pottery piece to wipe up the glue and stuck it into place on the wall before stepping back to look at her.

  Shadows hid his blue eyes so that she couldn’t read them, but she stared at them anyway. “Then why did you leave?”

  He let out an exhale. “I was born in February almost a score and ten years ago. I was taught by my father, Jack, and Grey’s father to wield all types of weapons from the mattucashlass to a mace to a claymore to a bow. I prefer the claymore. I drink whisky at festivals but prefer ale daily. My favorite sweet is ba
ked pudding. I had a small dog named Pearl when I was a lad. And I have plenty of thorns, though I’m no rose. I’m more of blackberry bramble.”

  She blinked, taking in all his little facts. He wasn’t going to tell her why he left earlier. Perhaps he had no answer. She wet her lips. “What type of dog was Pearl?” she asked.

  “A spaniel,” he answered, without looking away.

  “A spaniel? Up here in the Highlands?”

  “Aye,” he said, turning back to the pile of shards. “She was cold and shook most of the time. She hated it here and died.”

  Scarlet’s tight face released with sympathy that she only allowed because he looked away. “I am sorry,” she said. “Pets are our friends.”

  He picked up another piece. “She wasn’t my pet.” Before she could say anything else, he held up a blue shard. “And ye trust me to put pieces into your picture?”

  Exhaustion from the day and the heavy thumping of her heart seemed to catch up to her. She sat down in one of the chairs close by. “I can chisel your mistakes out in the morning if they are atrocious.”

  Aiden dabbed and placed his piece way out in the middle of nowhere on the wall. She chuckled, and he turned toward her, dropping the brush into the glue pot. “I expect that will be gone by noon,” he said.

  Scarlet ran her fingers up through her hair, which she left free for sleeping. She shook her head a bit, meeting Aiden’s gaze. “What are we doing here?” she whispered.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the bare wall near his planted blue piece. His jaw moved back and forth as they stared at one another. “Let’s see,” he said. “I surprised ye. Ye started questioning me when I asked why ye couldn’t sleep. I accused ye of being a witch because I know nothing of ye except that ye have a fire of passion like I’ve never felt before. Ye told me about your schooling and horse, Margarette, and that you’ve never known Lucifer. I told ye that I don’t retreat and that we had a spaniel named Pearl when I was a lad. And I’m happy to help ye with your mosaic if ye can fix my mistakes.”

  “Back up,” she said, moving her finger in little arches through the air as if jumping backward on a written page.

  “To your horse?” he asked, his stare intense.

  “No.” She shook her head. “To the passion like you’ve never felt before. I’d like to…hear more about that.”

  A slow grin tipped up the corners of his mouth. Lord, he was handsome, in a rugged, full of warrior’s grace kind of way. Scarlet was glad she was sitting, as the sudden rush that accompanied his grin made her legs weak.

  Aiden exhaled and grasped the back of his head with one hand, which made his bicep strain against his sleeve. “I couldn’t stop thinking about ye, the kiss earlier. ’Tis why I came back, not because Rebecca’s floor is hard. I can bloody sleep on a pile of rocks if need be.”

  Truth. She heard it, knew it. Aiden Campbell had spoken plain truth to her without innuendos, orneriness, or cleverness.

  A shiver rushed through Scarlet. “I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking about kissing you again,” she said. “And I worried that I’d done something wrong to send you away.”

  He stepped closer to her chair. “Ye did do something wrong,” he said and squatted down so they were on eye level, his hands braced on the arms of her chair. “Ye made me break my own law against kissing a Sassenach without regretting it,” he whispered.

  Her brows pinching inward. “I’m not your enemy, Aiden.” Her gaze slid from eye to eye, studying him. She shook her head slightly. “I have no evil plans against you. I am just a woman…” She swallowed, her tongue wetting her bottom lip. “A woman who again wants to feel what I felt in the room above.”

  “What was that?” he asked, his face leaning closer.

  “A wildfire that consumed me without scorching my skin,” she answered, her whisper just above a breath.

  “Scarlet, lass, ye are a poet, too,” he whispered, and then his lips met hers.

  The warnings that Aiden had bombarded himself with as he’d walked back through the night to Finlarig turned to ash under the heat that sprung up as he pulled Scarlet into him. Lifting her to stand, his arms encircled her warm, soft frame, and her face tipped to the side as she returned his kiss. The darkness and silence in the hall covered them, making it seem like they were the only two people alive.

  Nothing else mattered as Aiden’s heart strummed a wickedly fast beat. Not Scarlet’s English, aristocratic tongue, not her family home back in Lincolnshire, not her fragile form that could become ill in the harsh Highland winter. None of it could withstand the onslaught of her sweet woman’s scent and the lushness of her curves and hair as she pressed into him.

  Sliding his thumbs along her soft cheeks, he tasted her deeply. She responded, touching the tip of her tongue to his lips. A groan, born of the ache he’d been unable to rid himself of all day, wound its way up his throat. “Bloody hell, lass,” he murmured, stroking down her back. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he barely noticed the bite of his burns over the raging heat within.

  “Bloody hell, Aiden,” she murmured back, pressing her body against him, feeding his coiled need. Her hands slid up under his shirt to stroke his chest. She wore only a smock and a robe that lay open, the thin linen barely hiding her from his view. Och, he wanted to see her without it. But not here, not in the great hall, where anyone could see. Not like she’d witnessed at Castle Menzies.

  Breaking the kiss gently, Aiden laid his forehead against Scarlet’s, both of them breathing in quick gusts. “Lass,” he said. “I will not make ye feel tricked into lying with me. I am not like those bastards.”

  Her fingers, still inside his shirt, wrapped around to his back, and he held his breath. Feather-soft, her fingertips slid across his bare scars, the ridges of thick skin. She didn’t pull away, but placed her cool palms against them. “Are you tricking me, Aiden? Telling me we are going to marry and raise our children together just to get me to buckle in and raise my skirts?”

  “Nay, I’ve said noth—”

  She silenced him by pulling her hand out to lay a finger over his lips. “Are you promising me riches and luxuries?”

  “I have none,” he said against her finger. “Only my cabin and a large bed.”

  A small chuckle came from her, and she pulled back her finger. But then her smile faded as she inhaled through her perfectly shaped nose. “Will you tell me that you love me beyond the heavens and then order me to sleep with another man?”

  Aiden stared at her, trying to read behind the words. “I will never wish for ye to give yourself to another, unless that is what ye desire to do all on your own.” He shook his head slightly without breaking eye contact.

  She nodded once. “Are you keeping secrets from me?”

  Och, his stomach tightened. “Everyone has secrets, Scarlet.” The lass had several of her own. “But none of mine have to do with ye.” His past was better left behind.

  A slow smile returned to her lips, lips he longed to taste again. “You have no idea how attractive the truth is to me.” She stepped into him. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Scarlet pressed her body to Aiden’s, her softness up against his gloriously hard everything. The aching that had pooled within her sprang anew as his arms lifted around her. “Ye want more,” he whispered at her ear and then slid the tip of his nose along her exposed neck, inhaling. “Ye smell like my favorite flower.”

  “What flower is that?” she asked, tiny bumps of sensation rising across her skin.

  He kissed her neck. “Scarlet flower,” he said and bent, his strong arm lifting under her legs. His lips met hers as he carried her across the room, leaving the fire in the hearth and the lamp to burn out under the glass. He tucked her head under his chin as he climbed the steps.

  “Let me down,” she whispered. “You’ll be too exhausted by the time we reach the fourth floor.”

  She felt his nearly silent chuckle through his chest. “Too exhausted for what? I�
�m going to bed.”

  “Exactly,” she answered, her heart flipping about in her chest. Aiden let her slide down his body but held her hand as they climbed the chiseled rock steps together. His largeness seemed even greater in the dark, tight tower, leading her toward what her mother would call disgrace, though she wasn’t fearful at all.

  Protecting one’s body was vastly different from protecting one’s heart. This has nothing to do with my heart. She wanted Aiden and the heat he kindled in her. She wanted to take charge of her virginity and give it to whom she chose. She wanted to be an independent woman without a prized maiden’s status to woo a royal lover. None of that had to do with wanting to capture a Highland warrior’s heart.

  They reached the fourth floor, her heart beating fast with the climb. It was completely dark with only the faint glow of the last sconce on the stairs. He seemed to wait, giving her time to retreat. He didn’t know that her mind and body were, for once, in agreement.

  “My turn,” she whispered, although there was no one else sleeping on their floor.

  “To lead me?” he asked, his voice gruff even though he teased.

  “To tell a truth.”

  He held her hands but didn’t pull her one way or another. The large bed that was his, for the time being, was way down the hall to the right. Her much smaller bed was to the left.

  She cleared her voice softly. “I saw you washing in the snow earlier.” Thankfully, the darkness hid any blush that might be infusing her cheeks. She lifted one hand to her face and felt the heat there. “Is that something you do all the time?”

  He stepped closer into her until she could feel him brush the front of her through the wool of his kilt. “Nay,” he answered. “Only when a thorny rose has left me aching and so hard I couldn’t be seen by my men.”