by Aileen Adams
“Och, nay, nay,” she whispered, shaking her head before once again applying cold water to her burning skin. Her entire body held a heat she had never known, as though she’d lingered too close to a blazing fire and singed herself. Only the heat came from within rather than without, starting at her core and spreading through her like she was nothing more than dry kindling.
“Ye do share it, then?”
“I do,” was her tart reply on hearing the teasing note in his voice. “And I would have let ye know otherwise.”
“Aye, lass. I’ve no doubt ye would.”
She watched from the corner of her eye as he hobbled the last of the horses, leaving them to chew happily on thick, rich grass growing near the stream. She could barely breathe. He was coming closer. What should she do? What would he do?
“Davina.” There it was again. The way he spoke her name. Touching her without placing a hand on her body. Caressing her, stroking her, leaving her breathless and wanting more. All by merely saying her name.
She stood, legs shaking. “Rufus?”
“I must confess something to ye. I—I have never said anything of this nature before, and I dinna know how well I shall manage it. I hope ye dinna think less of me because of it.”
Was it true? Could it be? Because oh, she loved him. She’d loved him ever since the day at the river when he saved her, risking his life for hers. When she had come to on the riverbank and gazed up into his face, all mud-covered and relaxed in exhausted sleep. She had begun to love him then, and that love had grown when he awoke so weak. Needing her as she had needed him. Leaning into her, trusting her to keep his secret on the ride to Killiecrankie.
“Ye can tell me anything ye wish,” she whispered over the lump in her throat. Never in all her years had she dreamed of this happening to her. Finding love, and with one such as the man standing before her. The sort of man she’d never known existed.
She could just make out his face in the darkness, the shape of his shoulders and arms. Memory filled in the rest, for she had memorized every bit of him long since. Would he reach out? She steadied herself, bracing for his touch.
“I—I dinna know what to do, now that Kenneth is no longer here to take his rightful place.”
Never had she fallen from the dizzying heights of joy so quickly. “I see,” she whispered, straining to conceal her disappointment. Once again, she’d allowed him to mislead her, though this was no fault of his own.
He sighed, shaking his head, looking at the ground. “I have never seen myself as the man to stay in a single place, to manage a farm and breed bairns and continue the family name. That was supposed to be Kenneth’s duty, his lot in life. Not mine.”
“Now that he has abandoned the land and his birthright, the duty falls upon ye,” she mused, feeling for him—if not still more than slightly dismayed at having misunderstood him so completely.
“Aye. I’m not entirely sure I want it. I’ve been turning the idea over in my head for days, wishing I could make sense of it. I ought to want the duty, I ought to be proud of my place in the family.”
“Does being proud mean your needing to go along with tradition which ye had no hand in creating?” she asked, her head tilting to the side. “Can ye not be proud of who ye are, where ye came from, without blindly following along as others have done?”
“I must admit, I dinna know. I thought that was the way it ought to be. That’s the way it has always been, for certain. If the eldest son dies or canna manage the responsibility, it passes on to the next son in line.”
“I know, but why does it have to be that way, if ye dinna wish it to be?”
“Who would manage the land in my stead?”
“What about Drew?” she suggested, the name coming to her out of nowhere. “Ye might send word for him, tell him he has a home there if he wants it. I know he is the last in a long line of sons.”
“Aye, five of them before him.”
“There is no chance of him inheriting his family land, then. Ye might give it to him, or even to another of your cousins. So long as it stays in your family, where it belongs.”
He snickered. “Ye have a sharp mind. I have often thought so.”
“Thank ye. I have, as well.”
His laughter was soft, warm. When he reached out to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his touch both took her by surprise with its suddenness and sent a shiver down her spine.
“Also,” he whispered, stroking her cheek again, “the land and the duty would be wasted upon me. I have no woman to live with, no one to bear my children.”
“Och,” she breathed, fighting the temptation to close her eyes and sink into his caress. “That is a shame.”
“Tis, indeed. I would want a woman to be there with me, ye ken. A man ought not live alone.”
“To do your chores, your mending, your washing?”
“Nay, lass. That is not what I would want her for.” His other hand touched her other cheek, and soon he held her face between them, tilting it up and back. Slowly, tenderly, giving her ample time to resist.
He need not have worried himself, for she would not have protested for the world.
“Wh—what would ye want?”
The fingers of his right hand trailed down her left cheek, over her jaw, then back behind her head where they stroke her hair. “I would want a fierce, bold woman for my own. Someone who would not just be a servant, but a partner. Life can be difficult. Terrible, even. A man needs a woman who can stand up to those things and still be by his side when another day dawns. Who stirs him. Who challenges him, perhaps.”
She placed a trembling hand over his chest, the pounding of his heart betraying the calmness of his voice. “And if ye had that woman?”
“Then I would have the world, wouldn’t I?” He lowered his head, hesitating for one heart-stopping moment—would he or would he not?—before brushing his lips over hers in a sweet, tantalizing manner which drew a strangled groan from deep in her throat.
He chuckled, the sound beginning in his chest, rumbling under her palm. “Do ye want me, lass?” he rasped, his hand tightening in her hair, his breath coming in hot, uneven rasps.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I do.”
He pressed his mouth to hers this time, tilting his head, positioning himself just so. He had kissed many a woman before, it seemed, and he used his skill on her. Nibbling, tasting, probing with his tongue.
His arm around her waist was welcome, as she lost the ability to support herself on knees that had turned to jelly. She leaned into him, allowing herself the luxury of finally melting into his embrace, of knowing what it meant to be near him this way. Finally, she could touch and hold and be held.
Her arms twined around his neck, her fingers running through his thick hair as she had imagined doing so long ago. He groaned, making the fire which burned inside her leap to new life. This was passion, and tenderness, and what she wanted for the rest of her life.
No man would ever kiss her like this. No man would ever make her feel as though she were burning with desire and soaring through the clouds all at once. She held him tighter, closer, afraid to let go.
Yet there was no choice but to do so. He broke the kiss with a mighty sigh, his chest heaving. “Good God, lass, I didna expect that.” He touched his forehead to hers, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and allowed his fingers to skim her neck.
“What did you expect?” she gasped, finding it difficult to breathe as well.
“Not that I would want to throw ye to the ground and have my way with ye until the sun comes up.”
She weakened at the sound of it, the thought of it, even as her heart soared to new heights. He wanted her, really and truly. He wanted her to be his woman, the one he described. The one who would one day be his partner in this cruel, surprising, wonderful life.
Why, then, did the image of her brother’s sneering face cross her thoughts and dampen her spirits? Just like him, the fiend, to destroy the happiest moment of
her life.
Rufus felt it. “What happened?” He leaned back, studying her.
“Not a thing.”
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness by then, allowing her the sight of his mouth quirking up at the corner in a smirk. “Ye thought of him.”
She sighed, defeated. “How did ye know?”
He kissed her forehead. “Because I did, too. I dinna know what shall happen on the morrow, lass. Ye must understand that.”
“He cannot win. He must not.”
“I will not allow him to,” Rufus assured her, his palm cupping her cheek. She leaned into it, closing her eyes and just for a moment allowing herself the pleasure of a simple touch. She’d had no idea how she missed it. How she’d longed for this. “But ye must understand that I might not survive the fight.”
“Ye must.” Her hands grasped his tunic, balling into fists. “Ye must!”
“I will do everything in my power, and ye know I dinna easily give in,” he added. “I didna give in during the flood, did I? And the mighty power of a flood-swollen river is far worse than anything your brother could manage.”
“That is so,” she allowed, though her heart was not in her words.
He knew it, too. “Ye dinna believe me, then?”
“I believe ye, I do.” She leaned in, resting her head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. His good, true heart. “I only know how devious he can be. The river is not devious. Nature is not devious. Ian is.”
“I know it,” he murmured. “I will do my best to make it out for your sake, if for nothing else. Ye have my word on it.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks, soaking into his tunic. She believed him. She trusted him.
But she knew what she had to do.
26
For the first in so many nights, save when he was ill, Rufus slept soundly.
Perhaps it was happiness.
He had never known such happiness before, had always rather looked down upon it. Women could afford to fall in love and be happy with the one they had chosen for themselves. They knew nothing of the world, how cruel and unforgiving it could be. There could be room in their lives for fanciful dreams of love and marriage and family.
For men, there was no such luxury.
Yet there he was, smiling to himself as his eyes slid closed, with the image of her smiling face the last thing he saw before darkness closed in and he succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep.
One which seemed to last mere moments before a large hand shook him until his teeth rattled.
“Rufus! She is gone!”
Of all the nights for him to sleep soundly.
He sat straight up, blinking hard against the fog of sleep still clinging about him like a shroud. “Where?” he asked, his head moving back and forth.
Clyde shrugged. “Who’s to say? She took your horse.”
“Damn it!” He jumped up, panic threatening to overwhelm his good sense. He took a few slow, deep breaths to get his heart under control and clear his head. What could she be doing?
“Do ye think someone slipped in to take her?” he asked.
“Would they take your horse with them?” Alec asked.
He had a point. Rufus ran his hands through his hair as though to stop the top of his head from falling off due to the hundreds of conflicting thoughts, fears, dangers colliding inside. “I know what she did,” he whispered, his eyes closing as it all became clear. All he could do was offer a silent prayer that she had not made the most terrible mistake of her life.
“What?” Tyrone demanded.
Rather than answering, he said, “Gather up everything, prepare the horses and meet me in town. I’ll run ahead. I must find a horse for myself.”
“What are ye going to do?” Alec called out as he broke into a run.
“She went ahead of us to speak on our behalf!” Rufus shouted over his shoulder before running full-out in the direction of Inverness. Judging from the position of the stars, no more than two or three hours had passed since they’d retired. She’d likely already reached the house by then.
And what had she found when she arrived? The very thought sent his feet flying faster than before, kicking up stones and dust. Only her name, only the image of her face—smiling, lit by the dying fire, love and trust and the shared secret of their brief, intimate moment shining in her eyes—kept him moving. Only the memory of the touch of her hands, the feel of her skin under his.
What would Ian do to her?
He cursed her, even as he loved her. Even as he ran faster than he knew he was capable of, all in service of reaching the town and stealing a horse if need be. All to reach her.
Sweat rolled down his chest and back when he reached the first stable he came to. The fire in the small cottage adjoining the structure was out, the owner more than likely well into his evening slumber.
Rufus cared little for this as he pounded both fists on the front door. “Help! Please, I need a horse!” he shouted as his fists rained down on the splintered wood.
A flicker in the window. A lantern. The light seemed to float to him as the man carrying it crossed the room. “What are ye on about, then?” he grumbled.
“I need a horse. Please. Urgently.”
The door creaked open, and a wrinkled face peered out, yet not so wrinkled that Rufus could not recognize it. “Quinn! Tis I, Rufus MacIntosh. Ye trained my father’s horses.”
“Aye, I know it. A finer man ne’er lived. What brings ye here, and at this unholy hour of the night?”
“I’m in need of a horse, right away. I need to…”
The old man’s faded eyes lit up. “You’re going to pay the man back for what he did to ye? Is that it?”
“Some of it,” he admitted. So there were those in the village who knew. He had expected this. Perhaps they had even been waiting for him, hoping Ian MacFarland would get his due. “Please, can ye help?”
“Of course, I can. Been wondering these many months if ye would come back to take what belonged to ye.” He stepped out in his nightshirt, paying no heed to anyone or anything around him, and led Rufus into the stables. “Pick any of the lot, lad.”
It appeared as though fortune smiled upon him at last.
He met up with the others halfway out of town. “Follow me,” he ordered, bringing the swift horse about and cutting down a narrow passage before emerging just beside the road to his childhood home. It led straight over the bridge between Moray Firth and Beauly Firth, then north toward Avoch. His family’s home sat just beyond.
The horse was indeed fast, just as old Quinn had promised, its hooves pounding hard against the road. Deserted at that time of night, save for the four riders racing along its length.
What was Ian doing to her?
She was his sister, after all. He would not hurt her or torture her. Would he? There was no way for him to know if the two of them meant anything to each other, so he would not imagine using her as a way to strike a blow at Rufus.
Unless she told him.
Oh, please. Let her be wiser than that.
Of all the riders, it would be Clyde who Rufus least expected to keep up the pace, yet it was the giant man who rode beside him. Of course. The two of them exchanged a look, saying nothing—they could not be heard over the pounding of hooves, at any rate. But then, there was no need to speak. Rufus understood what the man thought as plain as if he’d spoken the words aloud.
He loved her, too, if differently than Rufus did.
He should not have allowed her out of his sight for an instant, should have sat up all night to look after her. But they were due to challenge Ian the following morning, and he had not thought it wise to be overtired when the time came.
He loved her. He ought to have known better. Looking back, this was precisely what he would have expected her to do. To risk herself for his sake. To ask her brother to stand down, to back away, to avoid fighting.
All because Rufus had told the truth, fool that he was. Because he’d adm
itted being uncertain of the outcome. Why had he not simply lied, told her a few pretty things to ease her mind and allowed her to go on believing all would be well in the end?
She would never have believed him.
The landscape was familiar, achingly so, telling him they drew nearer all the time. There were the foothills he had stared out over from his bedroom window. Night after night he’d laid in bed, looking out at them, longing to be there. Longing for adventure, for something more than a life of laboring over the cattle and the horses and bemoaning a sudden change in the weather.
He had his adventure. Now, this minute, riding like the Devil himself trailed behind, all but choking on the dust which rose up from the heels of Clyde’s horse but suffering through for Davina’s sake.
When the old stone wall came into view, so familiar, his heart rose in his throat. He pointed, knowing the men would understand.
He did not see the hooded figure lurking at the side of the road, behind a thick hedge, until he nearly ran them over. The horse stopped, forelegs kicking at the air, a sharp whinny piercing the night.
“Whoa! Whoa, ‘tis only myself!” Drew lowered his hood.
“Drew!” Rufus could hardly breathe after so much hard riding, much less speak. “What are ye doing here?”
“I was hopin’ to catch up to ye.” For the first time in all their years of life, Rufus watched his cousin’s face darken with guilt. “I was a fool to abandon ye, and I want to ride with ye to the house and cut down that bastard and his kin.”
“We shall need ye, I fear. Davina rode ahead. I believe she hoped to coax him out of the house and away from the land before we arrived.”
Drew muttered a curse. “Now I understand why ye were in such a rush.”
Together, the five of them finished the journey to the farm behind the stone wall. The little house had not changed a bit since he’d last set eyes upon it. They had not parted on good terms, he and Elliot MacIntosh, the older man not quite understanding why his son felt the need to join with the Jacobites in their battles against the government.
Would that he could have that time again. Would that he might apologize to his father, thank him for the many lessons he had passed down which had aided in keeping him alive.
