by Aileen Adams
“Say one more word, and the slaps the lass delivered will seem like kisses,” Rufus snarled, leaning down into the man’s face. As he’d suspected, Ronald all but cowered. “Your brother isn’t here to defend ye now. ‘Tis only ye, and ye are not among friends. Choose your words wisely.”
“What shall we do with him?” Clyde asked in his deep, booming voice.
Ronald flinched at the sound of it.
“I know what I would like to do,” Drew smiled, stepping closer. “Hello. Ye might not know me. I am Drew MacIntosh of Clan MacIntosh, and those your brother murdered while you kept watch were my aunt and uncle. Ye might say I have a reputation for violence.”
“I know of it,” Ronald replied with a grudging nod.
“Then ye know not to cross me or anyone I care for, and yet, ye did.” Drew shook his head, clucking his tongue like an old woman. “Rather foolish of ye. But I suspect ye were afraid of your brother, which is why ye went along.”
“What of it?”
“Ye admit it, then.” Rufus sneered. The man was beyond comprehension. Who with an ounce of self-respect would admit being afraid of their own brother while a grown man?
“I do.” Ronald looked to Davina, whose face showed no expression. “I was afraid of him. I always have been. I am not proud of myself.”
“What brought ye to Killiecrankie?” Rufus asked.
“I was planning to go home, gather what was left of my things and the wee bit of gold I’d stashed away, and to sail far away from this country.”
Rufus snickered. “My brother did the same thing. Sailing away, that is. He had no choice but to do so when your family stripped him of everything that was once his. Pardon me, if my heart does not stir.”
For the first time, the man lifted his chin with a sort of quiet dignity Rufus could not help but respect—albeit grudgingly. “I dinna expect it to, nor do I wish it to. Ye asked. I told ye. Nothing more.”
“Ye were sailing away?” Davina’s head tilted to the side. “Truly?”
“Aye. Truly. I’ve no desire to spend another minute with the likes of them. Ye know I was never truly one of them—any more than ye were, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” she agreed.
“Why should we allow ye to live?” Drew asked. “Ye wish to escape this life, to escape your family? Fine, then. We can arrange that handily.”
Rufus held back a sigh. The man spoke out of turn, and his threats set Ronald to trembling. No, he was no true man—not like them, at least. More like Kenneth, who would not have fared any better in a family the likes of the MacFarlands.
Davina betrayed her feelings with a single, strangled whimper. She cared more than she let on, and rightly so. While the lass had every reason in the world to hate her brothers, it would strike him as unnatural if she rejoiced in their death.
Yet she did not speak on his behalf.
“What say ye?” he asked her. “What do ye think ought best be done with the cur, then?”
She looked to her brother, then to him. “I believe ye ought to do whatever ye feel is best.”
“How can ye?” Ronald demanded, lunging for her.
“Not so fast.” Clyde stopped him with one mighty hand, a hand as large as the man’s head, shoving him from the center of his chest and sending him sprawling. That the giant had not broken the man’s breastbone was a miracle in itself.
Ronald shook his head, dazed, but was quick to turn his ire back to his sister. “Our blood means nothing to ye? Ye would see me murdered, when all I wish is to get on with my life in peace? I mean no harm to anyone here!”
Rufus hauled him to his feet, holding him up to where their noses nearly touched before roaring. “Ye wish to get on with your life in peace? What of my parents? They shall never get on with their lives! They harmed no one, either, yet they lie under the ground!”
He threw Ronald to the ground, then wiped his hands on his tunic. “You’re a disgusting, vile thing, and I hope ye get everything ye have coming to ye. Go. I’ll not end your life today.”
“What?” Drew hissed. “You’ll let him go?”
“Aye.” Rufus glared at the man still lying on the ground, tangled in his own cloak. “I will not have his blood on my hands.”
“What of my hands, then?” Drew moved as if to go after the man, drawing another strangled cry from Davina which Rufus only vaguely noticed as he held his cousin back.
“Nay. None of us needs this on our hands. Let him go. Let him live with his guilt. Let him find that no matter how far he flees, it will follow him. He will never be free.”
Ronald cast a guilty, suspicious glance about him, expecting someone to attack. None of them did—not even Drew, who fell back with a grunt and spat near the man’s feet when he crept past. “To hell with ye,” he muttered.
“I suspect that is just where he’ll go.” Davina wrapped herself in her cloak, shivering.
“I dinna recall speaking to ye, lass,” Drew growled.
“Enough.” Rufus all but swayed on his feet as he stood there, watching Ronald mount his gelding and turn east. “Enough, now. We can speak of it later, though I canna imagine there being much to speak about. We need to eat, to drink, to bathe and to sleep. Once all is done, I suspect we shall all be better suited to continue from here.”
“And nothing of what we spoke of earlier?” Drew murmured, his eyes cutting toward Davina before returning to Rufus.
What they spoke of earlier? Rufus realized with a start what his cousin referred to.
“Nothing,” he grunted in reply, warning Drew with a single look not to pursue this train of thought. Not in front of her.
Not ever.
Not when his heart had all but burst from his chest at the thought of her being in danger—again. When he’d broken into a frantic run at the sound of her scream.
Not after relief had washed over him like a warm, welcome wave when he saw her safe and well. Only the thought of what might happen if he showed himself too soon had kept him from throwing himself at her, wrapping her in his arms and never letting go. Whispering sweet words into her ear, stroking her hair.
He would not leave her behind. Not then, not ever.
23
Davina stared up at the ceiling, the water which was once hot now merely tepid, only her head and knees breaking the surface. How long had she spent soaking in the washtub? Long enough for what had all but scalded her on entering to cool like a cup of tea left sitting too long.
She lifted a handful of water, letting it spill from her upturned palm and down her arm. Again. Again. Idly, without thought, simply allowing the water to run over her skin.
When in her entire life had she been idle like this? With nowhere to go, nothing to do? No chores to complete, no errands to run? Bathing, while nearly the only time she’d been allowed to spend alone, had always been a rather rushed luxury. Someone or something had always needed her attention.
Now? She need only soak until her skin wrinkled, which it had long since done. She had never been so clean.
Or so strangely relieved.
It was wrong, this sense of relief. It had to be. Who in their right mind would feel relief at the absence of their brother? She would never see him again, ever, not if he intended to sail away.
When she searched her feelings, prodding and poking at the most secret places in her heart, she found nothing but a giddy sense of relief. It did not seem at all right that a person should feel such relief at the loss of a brother, but that was the fact of it.
She would not miss him. She would not mourn him. While she wished him well, she would not waste time wondering if he’d found happiness—or if, as Rufus had predicted, his guilt would follow him wherever he fled.
He might as well have been a total stranger. No one of any importance.
Yet she couldn’t let Rufus kill him.
She sighed, tipping her head back against the tub. Why? Why was it one thing to never see her brother again—he might just as well be dead then, after al
l, and another to know he’d died at the hands one of she knew?
Of one she cared for?
They’d said nothing of their fight while returning to the village, had spoken not a word to each other during the walk to the inn. He had not looked her way as she stepped into the room reserved for her, as she slowly closed the door in hopes that he would at least spare her a glance.
He had not.
Who had glanced at her instead? Drew, and in his eyes had burned a wealth of resentment. He’d wanted to kill Ronald. He’d all but salivated like a hungry dog at the prospect. Rufus had stopped him, and now he resented her.
Did that mean Rufus had stopped him for her sake?
Would there ever be a time when one man or another did not resent her? What had she ever done to deserve this?
The water was beginning to grow uncomfortably cool, which meant hauling herself up with a heavy sigh and reaching for the linen sheet draped over the chair near the fire. It was deliciously warm, heating her skin, sending ripples of sheer pleasure up her arms and down her legs.
When was the last time she’d experienced pleasure for pleasure’s sake?
Something was happening to her. Something she could never have imagined. An awakening of sorts, as though her body and her heart had spent twenty-one years lying dormant under a thick blanket of snow. The snow had melted.
The sun warmed the soil above, encouraging her to wake up and bloom.
Just then, she wanted nothing more than to reach up, to meet the sun’s encouraging rays, to grow. To delight in a hot bath, in watching water run over her skin. In the comfort of a warm sheet on which to dry herself.
And a soft bed for which her entire body now cried out. It had been a fortnight at least since she’d enjoyed a bed, and that had been nothing more than the straw tick she’d slept on for years. A lumpy thing, that, no matter how she’d labored to make it seem more comfortable.
This, on the other hand, was a proper bed with proper pillows and a thick blanket she could hardly wait to curl up beneath. It was only early evening, yet thoughts of spending the rest of the night in that bed with nothing to do but rest and dream curled themselves around her, compelling her to draw closer.
The knock at the door stopped her in her tracks, still wrapped in a sheet, wet hair hanging down her back and over her shoulders. She was keenly aware of the way water trickled down from the mass of sodden curls, soaking into the linen.
“Who is it?” She strove to speak with as much authority as possible. The person on the other side of the door need not know she was wet, dressed in nothing but a towel, nor that she had spent the last hour or even two soaking in a tub.
“Rufus, lass. Might I speak with ye?”
Her entire body flushed. If steam had risen from her overheated skin, it would not have come as a surprise. “I… I am not suited to receive guests,” she stammered, looking about for her clothing and remembering having it sent down to be washed. She had intended to sleep wrapped in another sheet if her shift was not yet dry by the time she wished to retire.
She crept to the door, tiptoeing so as not to give away her anxiousness. He was just on the other side, in the hall, likely scowling at her unwillingness to open up to him.
“Not suited?” he snorted in derision. “Who are ye, of a sudden? The Queen?”
“Nay,” she hissed, her face close to the crack between door and wall. “But I have just now stepped out of the tub, if ye must know. Insolent, rude—”
“All right, then, lass. Ye need not go on.” He cleared his throat. “I only wished… that is, I only wanted to…”
She winced for him, knowing how awkward he was when it came to sharing kindness in words. He might be a man of many talents, but expressing himself was not one of them. Granted, she had not yet seen for herself just what he might be talented at. Swimming, for certain, but not much else.
“Aye?” she prompted when he trailed off into silence.
“Would ye at least open the door a crack?” he huffed. “I will not take advantage of ye, if that happens to be what plagues ye at the moment.”
“I know ye would not,” she muttered, “for I would now allow ye to.”
“Och, is that the truth of it, then? Ye would not allow it? If I intend to debauch a lass, there is not much in this world to stop me.”
She flung the door open wide, gasping in horror and dismay. “How dare ye speak that way to me? After all this time, ye would threaten me in such a manner!”
His open mouth snapped shut, his throat working as he swallowed hard. He, too, had bathed, and now wore a clean tunic and kilt, his long hair tied neatly back. He had shaved as well, his cheeks now smooth and clean. He was beautiful in every way in which a man could be.
And he was doing everything in his power to avoid looking at her. His gaze lifted, his wide eyes studying the ceiling. “I—that is, I meant to say—”
She might have just as happily curled into a ball and died on the spot. While the sheet in which she’d wrapped herself had made three trips around her slim frame, it was by then all but soaked through. There was no telling what the man might be able to see through the wet linen. And her hair! She had to look a mess.
Yet there she stood, the door still open, her heart pounding like mad.
And, truth be told, more than slightly amused. For when he had dared her by standing naked on the riverbank, taunting her, she had accepted his dare by turning and gazing fully upon his glorious form.
He, on the other hand, had all but blushed like a shy, inexperienced lad of twelve winters, only just finding out what made lasses different from lads.
“What did ye mean to say, then?” she asked, her head held high in spite of the utter humiliation she might have to suffer as a result of this moment.
He looked over his shoulder, into the empty hall. “I dinna like to speak of it just now, with ye as ye are.” He returned to studying the ceiling. “It is of a personal nature, and I believe it ought to be spoken of while ye are dry and dressed.”
Her heart went from pounding to stopping. “Personal?” she croaked.
“Aye. Nothing I feel comfortable speaking of while ye happen to be…” He waved his hands.
“Ye were the one who did not wish to speak with the door between us,” she reminded him in an icy tone.
“I know it.”
“And I told ye I was just out of the tub.”
“Aye. I didna think on it before speaking.”
“That seems to be a habit of yours.”
“Why must ye always twist me up so?” he growled, his eyes finally landing upon hers. “Why must everything be a fight? Why can ye not simply listen to a man when he tries to tell ye something?”
“What is it ye wished to tell me, then?” she asked in a calmer tone. “I would like to know.”
His gaze softened, if only a bit. “I wished to tell ye I was sorry for speaking as I did earlier. In the road, when I told ye to leave me alone. I was not myself just then. It was quite a blow, hearing that my brother left.”
“I know. I wanted to help ye.”
“Aye, and I was a brute to behave as I did. I took my anger out on ye when I had no reason to. I dinna fault ye for your brother’s actions, and I dinna think of ye as nothing but his sister. Ye are Davina. Not Ian’s sister.”
She let out a long, shaky breath, smiling all the while. “Ye have no idea how glad I am to hear it. I thought ye hated me, or at least that ye were angry. I was intent on leaving ye,” she admitted, then wished she had not when his face registered blank surprise, and dismay.
“Ye were?”
“Could ye blame me, Rufus MacIntosh? Ye spoke so harshly, told me to leave ye alone. I thought it was for the best that I do just that. All I do is remind ye of what my brother took from ye. Why would I hang about, then?”
“I thought ye had,” he confessed in a soft voice. “When I could not find ye. I thought ye left with another man, that I had driven ye away. I—I dinna know that I could have for
given myself if I drove ye to such action.”
This warmed her to her very core. Even her toes tingled at the gentleness of his voice. “When ye would not speak to me after Ronald, I did not know what to believe.”
“Och.” He sighed, running his hand over the back of his neck as he did when he knew he was at fault. Funny how she had begun noticing his tendencies. A sheepish smile touched the corners of his mouth, making him appear more youthful than ever. “I had to think, ye ken, before I could speak of it. To understand why I let him go.”
“Do ye understand now?”
He nodded, eyes never leaving hers. “I believe I do.” He blinked rapidly, then before taking a backward step. “That, I reckon, is a conversation for another time. We both need to sleep and prepare ourselves for what is to come.”
“Aye. That we do,” she murmured, watching as he retreated to his room.
“Goodnight, Davina.” Her name was a caress, a song. She had never much cared for it before then, always finding it rather plain. Now? It sent shivers down her spine and left her lightheaded.
This time he favored her with a look before stepping through the door.
A look which she carried in her heart all through the night. Lingering. Meaningful.
24
The day dawned bright and full of warm sunshine.
“A good omen,” Rufus decided as he saddled up a fresh horse.
“Ye believe so?” Tyrone asked.
“Aye. We could use a spell of dry weather to help make up for lost time.”
Alec finished saddling and loading his few packs before swinging up onto the back of his horse. “Aye, but we know the man is lying in wait. This is no longer a matter of catching up to him or taking him unawares. We know now that he expects us.”
“Just the same, I canna help but feel an urgency to get it over with,” Rufus muttered, cinching the leather strap which held his pack in place. They still did not understand what this meant to him.
Though he had done more than his share of thinking on the matter all through the night, and his own feelings on the journey were more than a bit muddied.
