Lion's Lady

by Suzanne Barclay

  "Of course. The night was made for dancing." Glenda cast a wistful glance at Alexander, who stood by the hearth deep in conversation with Georas and Eneas.

  An unholy trio if ever there was one, Lion thought. Nor did he like it that the earl ignored Glenda more each day. "Shall I see if Alexander will join us?"

  "Nay," Glenda said quickly. Her fingers fluttered nervously to a dark spot below her right ear. A bruise? Surely Alexander would not dare strike the lady. "He—he has more important matters to attend than my amusements."

  "I will stay and continue our conversation," Rowena said.

  "Nay." Lady Glenda squared her shoulders and stood.

  "Go along and dance. I must speak with Donald about the arrangements for tomorrow's games."

  Rowena came away with Lion readily enough, but when they reached the small space that had been cleared for dancing, she balked. "I do not feel like dancing." Her features were shuttered, her mouth set in a mulish line he knew well.

  "Aye, it's too close in here." He took her arm without waiting for her consent and steered her from the hall.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Not to my chamber or yours, though I'd prefer that above all things." He led her out into the corridor, then up the tightly winding steps. Three stories they climbed. When he thrust open the door to the battlements, fresh, cool air rushed in to greet them.

  "Ah." She slipped past him, flinging back her head as she crossed the parapet to the chest-high wall beyond.

  Lion joined her, leaning against the cold stone as they gazed out into the dark night. The breeze was light, scented with damp earth. It chased a few wispy clouds across a wee crescent of a moon. From below them came the gurgle of the burn flowing past the outer walls, punctuated by the cry of night birds on the hunt. "Jesu, but I missed this," he murmured, lifting his face to sample the air again.

  "Then why did you go to France and stay so long?"

  "You know the answer to that."

  "Because your father wished you to be educated in the ways of the world." She faced him, pale and sad. "Was it worth it?"

  Lion frowned, considering. He could speak five languages and write a fair hand in three of them. A score of musical instruments did he play, and he'd a repertoire of songs a balladeer might envy. A master swordsmen had honed his skills with a blade. A French marshal had taught him the finer points of taking a castle, or defending one. But to mention all that would be bragging, and Lion had learned that if a man had to blow his own horn it was not worth playing.

  "I learned that half the world thinks we Scots are unco' savages," Lion said, mockery deepening his burr.

  "Not you, surely," Rowena said. "Your whole family can read and write."

  "Aye. Have you found time to keep up your studies?" he asked, remembering the warm summer afternoons he'd spent teaching her her letters…among other things.

  "I still have the two books you gave me." She smiled faintly. "Though they're a bit tattered from heavy use."

  "I'll have to see if I can find a few more." He recalled the extensive library at Kinduin and wondered how he'd get her there to see it. "My puny education did not impress the French. I was treated like a pig farmer who had wandered into court."

  "It must have been a bit dampening to that swaggering ego of yours," she teased.

  "Oh, aye, it was that." Lion chuckled. "But there were too many of them for me to fight. 'Twas the first lesson I learned. To get even without raising my sword or my voice."

  "How did you do it?" She rested her arms on the wall, her gaze eager and intent as she waited for his answer.

  "I became better than them…at everything."

  Aye, he had the determination, the will and the intellect to do that, she mused, studying his profile against the night. His features were strong, the heritage from his Viking ancestors. His carriage was proud, unbending, yet it was his eyes that captured her attention when he suddenly turned toward her. They glowed with a life of their own, brilliant as the torch set in the wall a few feet away. That vitality, that power were what had drawn her to him from the first. The magic had not dulled with pain or time.

  "What are you thinking, lass?" he asked softly.

  "That you are different, yet much the same."

  "I suppose that's true enough." He sighed, covering her cold hand with his warm one. "You asked if it was worth it, my tour of France and Italy. In some ways, aye, it was, for I left a selfish, pampered lad and came back a man, better able, I hope, to lead my clansmen." His grip tightened fractionally, and his voice dropped. "But I lost that which was more valuable to me than all I gained. I lost you."

  "Don't." She pulled her hand free and turned away. "Don't do this to me." Don't make me feel again.

  "I must." He pulled her back against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. "I am not one to give up what I want without a fight. And, by God, lass, I do want you."

  "Nay." She shook her head, fighting the pull of his words.

  "Aye," he whispered. His lips found her ear. "And you want me, too. Only you are too stubborn to admit it."

  "It is not stubbornness. I—I have changed. I no longer desire you…" The words trailed off in a moan as he traced the shape of her ear with his tongue.

  "This has not changed. I still know what pleases you. I could pleasure you again…if you'd let me."

  "Stop," she said, but so weakly she scarcely heard her own words. "Please stop."

  "As you will." He loosened his hold on her and turned her to face him, his hands resting lightly on her waist. "But before we go back inside, I would tell you why I left without a word."

  "It does not matter," she replied, thinking of Padruig. And Paddy. Explanations would not change what was.

  "It does to me. 'Tis a matter of honor, for I'd not have you believe I was so callous as to abandon you."

  "I long ago accepted the fact that your father made a change in your departure date and you had not time to get a message to me." She'd accepted, but she hadn't forgiven him for choosing family over her.

  "My departure was not speeded up by my father's will, but by a brigand's blade."

  "What?"

  "I was attacked on the way to meet with you and left for dead in the woods." Lion watched the play of emotions cross her face: shock, fear and something unexpected— wariness.

  "When I went to Kinduin, no one mentioned this attack."

  "You went to Kinduin? When?"

  She lifted her chin. "The next day. I—I was concerned, you see, and feared something had happened to you. Only to be told you'd sailed for France on the very day we were to have met."

  "I had not gone anywhere. I was gravely wounded."

  "Why would the guards lie to me?"

  "Because my father feared another attempt on my life." There was more, but he wasn't ready to share that yet. Not till she believed in him. "No one told me you'd come— not that I was in any shape to go after you." His voice turned bitter. "I was taken with blood fever and out of my head for a week or more. By the time I regained my senses, you were already wed."

  She trembled in his grasp, but he resisted the urge to pull her close. "Life is truly cruel at times," she murmured.

  "Aye." What was she thinking that made her expression so haunted? "But we've been given a second chance."

  Rowena closed her eyes briefly against the wave of pain. When she opened them, he was still watching her. His expression was so like Paddy's when he desperately wanted to make her change her mind about something that the breath caught in her throat. Their son. Lion's son. There could be no second chance. She could not let Lion Sutherland back into her life. Could not let him meet her son and possibly guess the truth.

  "I cannot," she whispered.

  Lion smiled to hide his disappointment. The anguish in her voice when she refused him had not escaped his notice. There was something going on here, some reason why she denied what lay between them. He meant to find out what it was. Hauling her downstairs and seducing her would h
ave satisfied the ache clawing at his gut, but that small victory might cost him the war. And the ultimate prize.

  "Come, I'd best get you back inside," he said lightly. "You're shaking with cold."

  She blinked, clearly surprised he'd not pressed. "Aye, there is a sudden chill in the air."

  "But not in my heart." He took her arm and led the way, opening the door and then preceding her down the stairs. His mind was on the myriad of problems he must deal with before the morrow. Just short of the landing for the third floor, she suddenly grabbed his shoulder, halting him.

  "I—I thought I heard something below," she whispered.

  Lion squinted against the gloom. The torch that had burned brightly when they'd come up was out now. Deep shadows pooled about the archway that opened onto the third floor. It contained storage rooms and, farther down the hall, a large chamber where the maids slept. He saw nothing, but heard a faint slither, a foot shifting on the stone floor.

  Someone waited there.

  In his mind, he saw a likely scene play out. The assailants would wait till he and Rowena had passed, then they'd creep after them to strike from above. Unexpectedly. With deadly intent.

  "Take off your slippers and hand them to me," he whispered.

  Rowena didn't question; she just did as he'd bid.

  Lion had his boots off by the time she gave him her shoes. He tiptoed down to just above the opening and set the footwear on the step. "Ah, Rowena, your kisses set my blood aflame," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Let us hurry to my chamber, for I can wait no longer to sample your sweetness."

  He winked at Rowena, drew his knife and flicked the shoes off the step, one after the other. They made little flopping sounds as they cascaded down the stone slabs.

  "It's them. Come on," said a coarse voice. Two dark shapes emerged from the archway, steel glinting in their upraised hands.

  Lion debated the wisdom of hand-to-hand combat in close quarters, outnumbered and with Rowena to protect. Safety won out over chivalry. He scampered soundlessly after the men, came up behind them at the next turn of the stairs. The men wore dark tunics, no plaids and, he thought, hoods over their heads.

  "Where the hell are they?" one grumbled, bending to peer down the curving flight.

  "Here." Lion jammed his fists into the back of the last man and shoved him at his cohort.

  A shout of surprise echoed in the stairwell, cut off by the thud of flesh hitting stone as the men tumbled down into the darkness below. They uttered a string of grunts and curses that brought a smile to Lion's lips.

  "Lion?" Rowena called softly. "Lion?" She hurtled down the stairs, a dirk glimmering in her hand.

  "Here." He caught her to him. "What are you doing? I told you to stay back."

  "I thought you might need my help. Oh, Lion, whatever possessed you to follow them instead of raising a cry?"

  He laughed. "To which they would likely have responded by slitting our throats ere help could come."

  "Of course." She leaned her head against his chest. "I was not thinking. I—I was so frightened."

  "They would not have gotten past me to you," Lion said curtly, as though annoyed she'd question his prowess.

  "I know," she said faintly. Beneath her ear, his heart thudded strongly. She had been worried about him, dammit. Damn him for making her want things she should not—the comfort and support and closeness of a man. And not just any man.

  "It's all right." He stroked her back, then set her from him. "We'd best collect our shoes and—"

  "What if they are waiting below?"

  "They won't be. Likely they are somewhere nursing their bumps and bruises." And plotting another strike.

  "Did you recognize them?"

  "Nay."

  Rowena sighed. "Wait, will they not limp or have scratches from the stone wall?"

  "An excellent notion, but after the football match, most of the men at Blantyre, myself included, are bruised and battered."

  "Drat. We must go and tell Lady Glenda—"

  "We will tell no one."

  "But she should be aware that some in her service are the sort to assault her guests and steal from them."

  "I do not think this was a random act of thievery. They were waiting here for us, and the reason I cannot recognize them is that they had hoods over their faces."

  "Eneas?" Rowena whispered.

  "Or Georas."

  "Do you…do you think they will try again?"

  " 'Tis possible. I want you to leave this to me," he said firmly. "I'll escort you to your room and post a guard outside. I do not want you to go anywhere alone."

  "I do not like having some man trail after me."

  "As your betrothed, it is my responsibility to guard you," he said silkily.

  "The betrothal is a sham," Rowena hissed.

  "But you have vowed to make it seem a truth. Come, now. If you do not get your sleep, your eyes will be dark in the morn, and folk will think I did keep you awake all night." Without giving her time to argue, he hustled her back to her chamber. As they approached the door, something moved in the dark at the end of the corridor, just beyond the pale circle of torchlight.

  Lion pushed Rowena behind him and drew his sword. "You there, show yourself."

  " 'Tis only me, my lord." Sim stepped forth. "I was waiting for the lady…" His eyes widened. "My lady, your hair is all tumbled and your gown is dirty."

  "We ran into a bit of trouble on our way down from the battlements," Lion said, sheathing his sword.

  "We were atta-tacked on the s-stairs," Rowena said. Unaccountably, her teeth were chattering.

  "What?" Sim cried. "By whom?"

  "Explanations must wait." Lion put his hand on Rowena's shoulder and kneaded gently, the gesture as natural as it was welcome. "We must get you within. Sim, would you run downstairs and see if Main would send up a cup of mulled wine?"

  Rowena allowed herself to be led into the room. She sat numbly in a chair while Lion rebuilt the fire.

  "Shall I help you undress?" he asked in a low voice.

  "What?" Rowena sat upright. "Certainly not."

  "I just thought your hands might be a mite unsteady."

  "And yours are not, I suppose?"

  "Well, 'tis not the first time a man's leaped out at me with a dirk." Lion grinned as he came to stand over her. "Not that I relish it, mind, but I'm a bit more used to it than you are." He touched her temple, his expression sober again. "Your pulse is still too quick. Are you certain you are all right?"

  "Aye." The hike in her heart rate was caused by his nearness, not any lingering affect of the attack.

  "I cannot stand to see you frightened."

  Rowena bit her lip. What could she say that would not reveal how close he came to tearing at the barriers she'd so carefully erected? Damn him for making her long and yearn and ache for what could not be.

  "It's been a hell of a night, my friend," Lion said to Bryce. They were alone in the large chamber Lady Glenda had assigned to him. Two Sutherlands stood guard outside Rowena's door, but still Lion had hated to leave her. He tossed back the whiskey he'd poured, welcoming the fire it lit in his gut. Slamming the cup down, he told Bryce of Robbie's warning and of the attack in the stairwell. "Damned if I know who they were."

  "MacPhersons, do you think?"

  "Or Eneas Gunn." He sighed and muttered, "Or, I suppose, I might also take it as a wee warning from Alexander."

  "If you really think that, mayhap it's time we left."

  A faint scraping sound came from outside. Both men looked at the window, open to let air into the stuffy room. It was on the second floor of the Angus Tower, the oldest part of Blantyre, and had been the master chamber for the first Lord Shaw. The tower's stone face was pitted, providing footholds for climbing. More than once Lion had exited his chamber that way when he wanted to meet in secret with his men. It might also be used by a man who wanted to watch and listen.

  Lion laid a cautionary finger over his lips.

  Bryce nod
ded and lowered his voice to a whisper. "We've had word about your sheep." More loudly, he added, "I spent the evening dancing with Mistress Jean Shaw."

  "Ah. A right bonny lass. Just passing the time, or has she caught your fancy?" Lion asked, creeping toward the window.

  "Oh, she's bonny enough, but not the lass for me. Too young and flighty."

  Dirk in hand, Lion whipped into the window opening and looked down. A fat orange cat glared up at him from the narrow ledge just beneath. "It's just a cat."

  Twitching its tail in disapproval, the cat continued on its way.

  "Even so, we'd best watch our tongues."

  Lion nodded and went to pour another whiskey. "What of the sheep?" he whispered, with a bit of a wink.

  "Arrived safe and sound. Two ewes and one lamb."

  The ewes were sheep, in truth. The lamb was Colin Ross. "Whatever possessed the lads to take the sheep?" he muttered.

  "Doubtless they're sick of dried meat and oatcakes."

  "They had no trouble, then?"

  "Nay, the key got them in through the postern gate and back out again with no one the wiser. The fool Stewarts had left only one man guarding the cell. A quick pop on the head and he was out, Colin free and no blood shed. What could be neater?"

  "There was talk of the rack. Was the lad badly hurt before our men could get to him?"

  "A few bruises. And, of course, he was scared nearly witless by what they'd threatened to do to him. Bastards."

  "Aye," Lion said absently, his mind racing ahead to other pitfalls. "What are the plans for tomorrow's games?"

  "None. After you left the hall, the earl declared that we would all ride out tomorrow and search for Colin."

  Lion gasped softly. His men would have to be warned to move their camp farther into the hills. Or mayhap he should send them back to his holding at Glenshee. Damn, he hated to risk moving them or the lad over open terrain while the earl's search parties ranged though the countryside. "What time do we go?"

  "At first light."