With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

That square jaw set, grim, his eyes darkening. "I'm sure if you did choose to jump off a cliff, it would be my fault when you hit the bottom. You have my most sincere apology. I can't imagine what possessed me to touch you."

  Yet for a heartbeat, those gray eyes swept down the bare, white curve of her shoulder. The slender length of her leg peeked from beneath the crumpled folds of coverlet that drooped about her like the petals of a wilting flower. Something simmered in those silvery depths. Something that frightened her, intrigued her. Then it was gone.

  He levered himself up, supporting his ribs with one sinewy arm, his features white, drawn. His broad shoulders gleamed with sweat, the glistening droplets snagging in the gold dusting of hair that spanned his chest.

  She couldn't help but watch the subtle play of muscles as he moved. The knowledge that she had been nestled against that bared masculine flesh made her stomach do a wild flip. More galling still was the certainty that, while lost in the safe haven of slumber where she didn't have to decide anything, where she didn't have to be strong, she had liked being held in his arms.

  Shadowy sensations stole through her—the scent of heather, the salty tang of sweat, the warm glow of something foreign to her experience—tenderness.

  Her fingers clamped into fists as the Glen Lyon slowly made his way to the desk. The oil lamp balanced all too precariously where Mama Fee had set it down, spilling its light into the chamber, next to the fresh bowl of water and a cloth for washing that lay atop the tray. Doubtless, the Scotswoman didn't allow grubby boys—or men—at her breakfast table, Rachel thought with a stab of hysterical amusement. No, the rebel traitor Glen Lyon must be freshly scrubbed, with hair brushed, before he sat down to his bannocks.

  Gavin dipped the cloth into the water with his right hand, and pressed it to his face. One glimpse of the bandage, stained with his blood, should have been enough to rein in Rachel's tongue. Yet the sight of the wound, the memory of his amusement over the incident, his kindness to the old woman and Adam, and, most uncomfortable of all, to Rachel herself nagged at her.

  It wasn't supposed to be this way—so confusing. The world was simple, her papa had always taught her—heroes and villains, knights and dragons, cowards and the brave men. It was a simple mosaic for living, one in which the pieces had always fit so neatly. Why was it she suddenly felt as if Gavin Carstares was the one piece that wouldn't fit anywhere? Desperation filled her as he turned his back to her. With the light running its golden fingers across the muscles of his back, she was tempted to touch him as well. Suddenly Rachel froze, as she saw the scars.

  How could such wicked gashes have escaped her notice the night before? They were slashed across the vulnerable plane of his back as if someone had tried to cut him down from behind in an act of pure cowardice.

  No. Lord Gavin Carstares was the man labeled coward. Coward. She clutched that thought as if it was the most powerful of talismans.

  "What happened to your back?" she demanded. He turned to her, and for once there was something dark in those eyes, a wound it would be dangerous to probe too deeply.

  "How do you think I got them?" he inquired evenly.

  "I don't know. Otherwise, I wouldn't make a fool of myself by asking"

  "I'm a coward, Rachel. I'm sure you haven't forgotten that. How do you think a man would get cut down from behind, unless he was running away?"

  She couldn't stifle her gasp, recoiling from him and the picture he painted with his steady confession. Hadn't she known that such an incident must have occurred to label him with the dread sobriquet of coward? Why did it shake her so thoroughly to hear the bitter mockery in his voice?

  "My men were in the thick of the fighting at Prestonpans. Prince Charles had wanted Glenlyon to lead—an honor for having served the Stuarts so well in other glorious, futile butcheries. I'd never killed a man before, never faced that kind of death and destruction. But I was supposed to hurl my command down into the midst of that hellhole, to send them down to die."

  He glanced at her, something discordant in his gray eyes—a haze that shielded him somehow, or hid some part of him away. "I turned coward the instant my men began to fall. I turned and ran. A cavalry officer charged across the field and cut me down. I'm certain your father would say the only pity was that the officer's sword thrust wasn't deep enough to kill me."

  She'd been raised on tales of glorious charges, epic heroism, instead of the usual fairy-tale nursery fare. And the beaus who had flocked about her had stumbled over themselves to provide her with the most stirring tales of battle. She'd never thought of it as a curse until the scene Gavin Carstares had painted with his words played out all too vividly in her mind.

  Soldiers, blinded by confusion, helpless without their commander, flailing in the battle Gavin hadn't had the courage to face himself.

  She turned away from him, trembling. A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to be attempting to beat their way out of her breast. Never had she felt a deeper need to escape this cave, this man, these new feelings that were tearing her apart inside.

  "If you dare so much as touch me again, I swear I'll shoot straighter this time."

  He stilled, his voice suddenly quiet. "I'm counting on it."

  Rachel's fingers clenched in the folds of the coverlet, a desperate litany rampaging through her head. She had to escape—get away from him—before it was too late.

  Chapter Eight

  Rachel stalked out of the cave into the sunshine, chipped plates tucked against her midsection, a hard knot of desperation lodged inside her. After two weeks of miserable weather, the makeshift table had been dragged out into the fresh air. Mama Fee had instigated the move, determined to dine beneath the spreading branches of a tree so that the "wee bairns" could catch some sunshine before the winter came.

  The children raced about in some raucous game of murder and mayhem, battle cries that should have been heard all the way to Edinburgh piercing the air. The dread Glen Lyon held the first casualty of the game—a sprite of a little girl—on his lap, distracting her from her scraped knee by teaching her to paint a flower in Celtic interlacing.

  They might have been a family on holiday, except that Papa and his brother practiced treason instead of playing at piquet, and the gentle old woman had misplaced her mind.

  But then, it was little wonder that Fiona Fraser's wits had frayed. After two weeks as the Glen Lyon’s hostage, Rachel was beginning to doubt her own sanity. And it was all Gavin Carstares's fault. The man was a wizard who made the ridiculous seem sane, the impossible seem logical, miracles seem commonplace. But as for reality—Rachel gave a snort of disgust—reality had no place in the Glen Lyon’s domain.

  For over two weeks, she and the Glen Lyon had pretended to be lovers, going off to share a bed. Nights which were, in reality, spent on opposite sides of the room, trying to forget hot kisses and accidental embraces. He was more concerned with this charade than the real dangers that threatened the glen.

  If she had been in the Glen Lyon’s place, she would have been making ready for battle. She would be arming the oldest of the children, teaching them how to fight. She would be plotting strategies for defense and stockpiling ammunition and foodstuffs, making certain that every person in the camp was alert to the possibility of an attack.

  And an attack would come. Of that much, Rachel was certain. Nathaniel Rowland had said that Sir Dunstan was hunting the Glen Lyon with all the powers at his command, and Dunstan Wells was a force to be reckoned with—a soldier down to the marrow of his bones, a fierce commander, a hero, bathed in the glory from a dozen different victories, a man willing to sacrifice anything for king and country.

  As if that were not dangerous enough to those he judged as his foes, the Glen Lyon had fanned the flames of Dunstan's enmity higher still by taking Rachel captive.

  That was a direct assault against Dunstan's honor. It would be answered with a ruthlessness Rachel understood all too well.

  Rachel banged the plates down onto the surface of the ta
ble, and caught her lip between her teeth. The notion that she would be avenged should have brought her pleasure. The certainty that she would be rescued should have filled her with relief. It might have except for one minor difficulty. She could picture the scene all too clearly—the horses thundering, the sabers flashing, the righteous fury in the eyes of her betrothed as he and his men charged down into this tranquil glen.

  The image filled her with dread instead of relief.

  No, she was going mad as well, here in Gavin Carstares's private insane asylum. That was why she had to find a way to escape—today.

  Rachel glanced over to where Adam sat, honing his sword. He seemed preoccupied by the task, but she was aware that, as always the past weeks, he was watching her with those hooded gray eyes, guarding her the way his brother would not. It was as if those warrior eyes knew of every desperate plan, every scheme she had managed to hatch during her captivity.

  Rachel was able to gather tidbits of information from the Glen Lyon’s followers as they stopped at the cave, seeking their leader's counsel. These men looked at Gavin Carstares with adoration and hero worship in their eyes—an adoration that had only deepened the sparks of sadness that lurked in the depths of his.

  The information she had gleaned was pathetic at best. She knew where the horses were tethered and the fact that a troop of English soldiers had set up headquarters at Furley House, a day's ride to the west. Yet the strangest thing that Rachel had discovered during the days in which she had shared a cave room with the traitorous rebel was that no matter what she did, no matter how much trouble she caused, or how far she ran, Gavin Carstares would never hurt her.

  That was the most terrifying, confusing knowledge of all.

  Rachel glanced over to where the mob of children had surrounded Gavin, wielding sticks for weapons.

  The oldest boy, Barna, had eschewed his role as Pict warrior, and was involved in yet another disturbingly bloodthirsty game. But the ubiquitous lump of sugar loaf was tucked once again into his cheeks, giving him that strange, deformed appearance that had horrified Rachel the night she'd arrived at the cave.

  Rachel had never spent much time around children. Babies and bonnets and sticky-fingered waifs appeared to her like some sort of strange-smelling exotic creatures, completely unpredictable. She'd never been quite sure if they would burst into tears when she approached or attempt to bite off her fingers. She had little doubt that Barna, at least, was of the finger-biting variety.

  But these children had disturbed her even more greatly than usual. Their games chilled her and their carelessly flung out revelations about what dragons lurked in their imaginations were dark and frightening things. God only knew what horror they were re-enacting today, but it seemed a particularly vicious one.

  Barna swaggered up to Gavin, his face drawn into lines of patent villainy. "Hand Catriona over at once! She must be killed right off. Cut up to ribbons and left as a warning!"

  Gavin cuddled the little girl closer, and gently drew her paint-splattered fingers away when she attempted to stick them in her rosy mouth. "Consider my lap a sanctuary," he said, smiling down at Barna, his silvery eyes astonishingly appealing behind the wire rims of his spectacles. "Do you remember I explained about it when we were reading the story before bed last night? The one with the marvelous pictures?"

  It was evident the boy remembered quite clearly, but he feigned ignorance, shaking back his tumbled curls. "Can't say as I remember. I was thinkin' about the sorcerer turnin' me into a falcon so I could swoop down an' pick out some Sassenach's eyes."

  Rachel's stomach rolled at the grisly picture, but Gavin only tugged on the tail of the boy's clumsily made shirt, explaining again with patience. "In medieval times, an embattled knight could retreat to a church, and on holy ground, no one dared harm him. It was against God's law. Man's, as well."

  Barna and his band of stick-wielding brigands fell into disarray for a moment, discomfited by this development in the game. A moment later, the precocious boy swaggered back to face Gavin. "I don't care 'bout sank-chew-ary," he said, thumping his narrow chest with one fist. "I march right into churches and drag the traitorous curs out, skewered on the point of my sword. An' then we toss 'em back an' forth on swords until we're too tired for the game."

  Rachel shuddered as the boy continued.

  "Nothing can stop me from es-sterminating Scots vermin! Now, hand her over at once. We're all done burning the cottages an' killin' sheep an' cows an' such. An' all the other people are dead. I plan to rack up a right magnificent heap o' corpses over there, an' I need her to make it higher. Come on, Catriona. Please!"

  "Don't want to be dead like my mama." The girl sniffled. "'Sides, I'm too little to make the stack much bigger."

  "I kill everybody—no matter how little they are! Even babies!" Barna boasted. "Then soon as everyone's dead, Lachlan here gets to be the Glen Lyon an' swoop down an' kill me! It's great fun to die. You can scream an' roll on the ground an' get all dirty. Besides, if you play, I'll. . ." Barna's face twisted in a grimace. "If you play, I'll pretend any game you want later."

  "Will you be my husband an kiss me on the cheek afore you go off to fight with the Bonnie Prince?" Catriona asked, her wide eyes hopeful.

  The boy sputtered, all but gagged, his cheeks bright red, but his impressive pile of corpses was important enough for him to endure even the indignity little Catriona had planned for him.

  "All right," he groused. "As soon as I'm dead. But it'll take some killin' to get to me! I'm the wickedest devil ever to wear skin! With a pile o' corpses to my credit that'd reach all the way to London if I laid 'em out nose to toes!" He danced around, wild, his stick slashing at the air. "I'm Sir Dunstan Wells!”

  Blood drained from Rachel's face, and she gripped the edge of the table. She felt as if Barna had buried his stick in her stomach, disbelief stabbing through her. At that moment, she caught Gavin's eyes, saw in them a sharp regret.

  "Enough of that game, now," he admonished, giving Barna the sternest look she'd ever seen him level at one of the children. "It's time to play something else."

  A chorus of objections rose from the children, and Barna's grubby chin jutted out. "But I want my pile o' corpses! It'll be lovely fun!"

  "You can play Merlin, and instead of turning people into corpses, you could turn them into anything you wanted," Gavin said. "Ducks and lions, dragons and princesses."

  Little Catriona crawled down from Gavin's lap and tugged at Barna's arm. "If you were a sorcerer, you could make my mama come back alive again, and then I'd never ever make you kiss me."

  Barna looked as if he wanted to protest, but one more glance into his hero's eyes and he succumbed.

  The children ran off, demanding magic instead of bloodshed under the crystalline sky.

  Rachel turned her back to the scene, concentrating on wedging the plates rim to rim on the too-small surface of the table. But her hands were shaking at the fierce hate the children had revealed.

  True, she was certain Dunstan had taken some harsh action during his time in Scotland—it was a commander's duty. And yet. . .

  I kill everybody . . . no matter how little . . . even babies . . . Barna's claim echoed through her.

  "Rachel?"

  The sound of Gavin's voice at her shoulder made her drop the plate she was holding, chipping off another piece of the rim.

  She wheeled on him, clutching at her anger to keep away the chill uneasiness that swept through her.

  Rachel lashed out. "I suppose you slipped bedtime tales of Sir Dunstan in between reading them 'The Song of Merlin' and recounting tales of your own heroism in battle. It seems you are a monstrous good liar."

  "I wish I could make them forget they ever heard Sir Dunstan's name." Gritty with loathing, the words battled with the compassion that still lit Carstares's face. "Rachel, I'm sorry if they upset you."

  "Upset me? I've grown used to madness while I've been here. I probably should have forgotten about setting the table, and go
ne to add to the pile of corpses myself. But then," she said bitterly, "I'm not a baby, so Sir Dunstan probably wouldn't bother to murder me."

  Gavin's jaw knotted, something firing in his eyes. He battled it back. "I didn't realize what they were playing until you did. The instant I did, I told them to stop."

  "Of course you did," Rachel said, banging down another plate. "You're the most infernally courteous kidnapper in all Christendom. Heaven forbid that the children's game should be impolite in my presence. Maybe you should have them play the Glen Lyon . They could kidnap innocent women and hold them hostage, then apologize until their faces turn blue."

  Gavin's face turned a far different hue.

  Embarrassment darkened his cheekbones. "It was necessary. I explained my reasons to you."

  "I'm certain Sir Dunstan would have a perfectly logical reason for playing 'skewer the baby'—as if there could be an ounce of truth in such rubbish! A soldier, murdering children!"

  She attempted to jam the last plate into place, but there wasn't enough space left for it. Rachel clamped her jaw tight in irritation.

  "This is the most ridiculous of all," Rachel snapped. "We don't even need this extra plate."

  Gavin said nothing. He didn't have to. Rachel winced at the memory of the first morning she'd plopped down at the table, garbed in a scarlet gown with a neck so low she was certain she'd catch lung fever. Gavin's eyes had rounded in astonishment, his throat working as his gaze had skimmed over her. Adam had teased. She'd been sizzling with discomfort, angry with herself for the telltale blush that stained her bosom, half exposed in the harlot's gown.

  Wanting to get as far away from the two men as possible, she'd started to scoop the extra plate off the crowded table in a huff, when Gavin had gently grasped her wrist.

  "Leave it."

  "There's no reason we have to be wedged together so tight we can't breathe! There's no one sitting here!"

  Mama Fee had smiled at her, serving her a hot oaten cake. "Why, my sweet lamb, it's for Timothy. He'll be hungry when he comes in from his ramblings."