Highland Storm

by Ranae Rose

  He paused. “Too warm? I could—”

  “No.” She answered quickly, before he could finish. There had been a slight shift in his hold that had indicated he had been about to put her down. She didn’t want that…because she didn’t want to catch a chill and a real fever, of course.

  He tightened his hold on her and wordlessly started forward again. Isla was gently buffeted by the subtle contractions and relaxations of his arm and stomach muscles as he moved.

  He really is verra strong…

  Not that his impressive strength made up for him being a Gordon. Nobody had ever said the Gordons weren’t strong—their faults lay in other areas.

  “Is this it, then?” Alexander asked, finally pausing.

  Isla snapped her head to the left, scanning the forest landscape for some sign of the spring, embarrassed to have so easily forgotten what she was supposed to be looking for. A silvery gleam caught her eye and she turned, relieved, to see a pool of clear water beneath several large rocks, from which the water flowed.

  “Aye, it must be.”

  Alexander carried her several more steps to the spring’s edge, then lowered her carefully onto the ground. His heat lingered on her for a few moments, though not strongly enough to chase away the chill that hung in the air. Caught up in the excitement of finally reaching the spring, Isla hardly cared. There, on the bank, rested a bunch of wildflowers secured with a ribbon. The blossoms had withered and the wide strip of pink satin was grubby and had faded almost to whiteness—a token left at the spring by some past visitor. Had that person felt the same fierce hope clawing at himself or herself that Isla now felt rising up from her own belly, clenching her heart in its fist and causing it to beat faster? She pressed a hand to her breast, as if to still it, and caught her reflection in the pool’s surface.

  She was somewhat dishevelled after the day’s events—a few rebellious locks of her hair poked out from beneath her hood like tiny, fiery snakes. She reached up to smooth them just as she noticed Alexander’s image peering over her shoulder, his blue gaze just as intense in reflection as it was face-to-face. She blushed and her likeness’ face went red as she lowered her hand.

  “Thank ye Alexander,” she said, “for bringing me here.”

  His reflection stared back at her, intense and silent.

  “I…” She didn’t know what to say. She had thanked him—would he not leave now that she’d done so? She could hardly do what she had come here for with him staring at her like that! “Are ye…”

  He dropped suddenly to his knees beside her, his kilt making the softest of sounds as it flared briefly in a rush of air, then fluttered down to meet the earth. “They say it’s so quiet and peaceful here that God hears ye a little better. Some say a prayer given on the banks of this spring cannae but come true,” he said, finally lowering his gaze to the muddy bank and the water’s edge.

  “Aye,” Isla said, “I’ve heard the same thing.”

  “Well,” he replied, “since I’m here, it would seem a waste not to pray.” His tone was pure practicality, but there was an air of reverence about him as he bowed his head slightly and tucked a hand into his sporran, searching. When it re-emerged he held a rosary—a simple thing strung with carved wooden beads and a small stone cross. Isla eyed it with disdain.

  A papist!

  But then, had she really expected him to be anything else, being the Gordon he was? And here she was, too, papist or no, kneeling at a saint’s spring. She looked away and closed her eyes, intent on beginning her own prayer. Her lips began to move almost silently. Beside her, Alexander was crossing himself, beginning a truly soundless imploration.

  What could he be praying so fervently for? Isla shot a quick sideways glance at Alexander and noted how he clutched the rosary as his mouth moved silently, his dark brows plunging between eyes that were shut tight.

  Never mind.

  Anger surged anew in her breast, though at herself this time, not Alexander. She should be focusing on her own prayer, not stealing glances at him! She closed her eyes firmly and resumed the most heart-felt prayer she’d ever made.

  “So,” Alexander said several minutes later, when they’d both opened their eyes, “is that why ye came here, Isla? To pray?”

  She nodded.

  “What did ye pray for, then?” He spoke casually, but a curious gleam lit his beautiful eyes.

  Isla shook her head. “I cannae say.” He wouldn’t loosen her tongue with his piercing blue gaze this time. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, prepared to resist any inquisition.

  “Och, no?” His tone was surprisingly casual, and he glanced to the side, apparently examining the ribboned bundle of wilted flowers instead of her.

  Isla shook her head again, feeling relieved as well as…disappointed? Her emotion surprised her, and she tried not to care that, for once, he wasn’t looking at her. “Truly, I cannae say a word. It shames me even to think it.”

  She frowned down at her knotted hands, which were strikingly white in her grey homespun lap. Why was she blabbering so much, and to a Gordon at that? She wished he would return his gaze to her. Somehow, the absence of it seemed to be unravelling her resolve more effectively than its presence.

  She was surprised when he slipped a hand beneath her chin, guiding her eyes, forcing them to meet his. His face was serious now, stormy—a look enhanced by his eyes, the colour of a sky that was slightly too dark for the sun to be out for much longer.

  “Your comin’ here…it didnae have anythin’ to do with those bruises, did it?”

  Isla’s eyes suddenly went wide, and she struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “I dinnae ken what you’re talkin’ about,” she said coolly. Her adamancy had sprung up suddenly again, and her hands trembled slightly under its force, knotted together more fiercely than ever.

  Alexander frowned silently down at her as he ran a finger under her chin, tracing the curve of her jawbone. The feel of his touch against her tender skin made goose flesh rise up all over her body, and her nipples did the same beneath her layers of sodden clothing. She found herself unable to break eye contact with him, and settled instead for compressing her mouth into a thin line of resolve. Her jaw twinged slightly as his touch skimmed a bruise she knew darkened her skin there.

  “Och, that…” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as unsteady to him as it did to her. “Ye cannae know that I didnae get the bruise when Briar knocked me down today.”

  “I was there. The horse didnae strike your jaw.”

  She glared stubbornly. “Aye, you’re right. It happened at home, when I tripped in the pantry, where I’d gone to fetch some onions.”

  “If that was the truth, then like as not ye’d have a broken neck as well.”

  She dropped her gaze, trading her view of Alexander’s amazing eyes for the sight of his muted hunting plaid. Doing so felt oddly like admitting defeat. She summoned the rest of her willpower and mentally urged herself to shut up. He knew she had lied, but that didn’t mean she had to tell him the truth.

  “I’ve been on the receivin’ end of quite a few blows myself,” he said, “and the dealin’ end as well. That bein’ said, it looks to me like someone struck ye.”

  Isla’s heart sped up as he paused. How did he know, and why did it feel again as if he was looking right through her with those piercing eyes?

  Damn him!

  “And if you’re not marrit,” he continued, “then it must hae been your father.”

  Isla’s hands trembled visibly in her lap and she buried them in her damp skirts in an effort to hide her unease. He had said it, but he couldn’t make her say it. Her cheeks flushed with heat, as if his words had set them aflame. At some point, her mouth had loosened, involuntarily abandoning the tight line she’d compressed it into in favour of parted lips. She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped them.

  “It’s true, then,” he said, his tone flat and final.

  Her anger from earlier that day rekindled, and she wondered wh
at had ever possessed her to let it fade. “And what concern is that of yours, even if it is true, Alexander Gordon?”

  For several moments, he was silent. Then, “No man could see such a bonny face spoilt by a blow without feelin’ his blood boil a little.”

  She crushed her skirts in her fists, squeezing them savagely as his words washed over her. His blood was boiling, was it? And hers was going straight to her face, betraying her by setting her cheeks so thoroughly aflame that her hair must have looked dull in comparison.

  “And I’m willin’ to bet it doesnae stop here,” Alexander said, touching her jaw lightly again. “I’d bet beneath that cloak and dress there’s a body that’s been abused the same way.” He reached beneath her cloak and barely touched her shoulder before letting his hand fall away.

  She wanted to stiffen, to shy away from his touch, but she couldn’t. Instead, she found herself wishing he hadn’t stopped. Nobody had ever touched her so softly before. Nobody had ever touched her simply for the sake of touching her. At least not since her mother had died so many years ago, when she herself had been little more than a baby. Was this what a lover’s touch felt like? Would she have felt this way when he’d kissed her, too, if she hadn’t been so numbed by anger? Her cheeks burnt even warmer at the thought, but she was unable to summon her rage again. In its place was a hollow feeling and a rebellious longing.

  “Ye ken,” Alexander said, “my father always told me that only a coward will hit a woman.”

  Isla frowned. Her father was many things, but a coward? No. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he never would have raised a hand against her. He was not a coward, but a man who had simply lost much and didn’t appreciate what—who—he had left.

  “He also said,” Alexander continued, “that a man who would hit a woman doesnae deserve to have a woman at all. Not a wife, or a daughter.”

  “And what would a Gordon know?” Isla snapped. Who cared how nobly the man spoke? It was easy to judge when your own life hadn’t been torn apart, and the scraps left of it turned upside down. The fact that the man’s own kin were responsible for the destruction of her family was too much.

  “If your father is anythin’ like the rest of your lot he…” She paused on the verge of swearing, fearing Alexander would silence her with another kiss she wouldn’t have the willpower to fight against—or be able to do anything but melt in his arms. “Well, I dinnae care what he says.”

  Alexander shook his head. “My father is Malcolm Gordon, and he’s as good a man as ever lived.”

  Isla stiffened. “Malcolm Gordon…Laird of Benstrath?”

  Alexander nodded. “Aye.”

  Her blood rushed and tingled just under her skin, flushing her face not with embarrassment, but with the rage that had escaped her only moments ago. It was back now, like a wayward demon with its Biblical seven companions. Her pulse pounded in her ears like a war drum, and the empty feeling in her stomach was suddenly replaced with a cold fury that put her earlier anger to shame. The pungent smell of bloody tartan and reddened earth filled her nostrils, as real as a phantom could be. She scented the truth, also, but felt a nagging need to be sure.

  “Then Alpin Gordon…he’s your brother?”

  Alexander nodded again. “Aye.”

  His admission was all the confirmation Isla needed, and her body responded to it, her pulse reaching her fingertips, making them ache with every heartbeat, itching to reach for her knife. It was tucked into her right boot—she could reach it. But could she withdraw it before he grabbed his dirk? There was only one way to find out. She moved her hand in a flash, slipping it beneath her petticoats and bringing it out holding the small blade she’d tucked there. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough to kill a man. If she could just drive it beneath his breastbone…

  Alexander’s blue eyes widened in surprise, and Isla’s stomach clenched, spilling bile into her throat as she forced her hand forward, wielding the blade, meeting his flesh just below his sternum. The tip had split the sopping fabric of his shirt, causing blood to bloom on the pale material as he offered no resistance, save for a face that made her want to kiss him rather than stab him and eyes that reflected—of all things—betrayal.

  Chapter Three

  Isla collapsed, dropping the knife with a sob. The icy fury had left her in rush, leaving her hot and trembling with mingling sensations of fear, failure…even regret. She’d pierced his skin, but she’d gone no further. He made no move to retrieve the knife or to reach for his own dirk as Isla’s hair fell forward, hiding her face behind a red curtain as she cried.

  “Isla…” he said, his voice thick with some emotion she couldn’t identify, absorbed as she was in the tangle of her own feelings. The sound of it only made her weep harder. When she met his eyes, they were wide with shock.

  “Damn you!” she cried through her tears, pounding the damp earth with her fist. “Damn you, Alexander Gordon, I cannae bring myself to kill ye!” Her knife lay nearby in the dirt, and she dashed it away with her hand, slicing the side of her palm on the blade. A few drops of her own blood flew after it as it skittered across the ground. “I cannae do it!” She was gasping now, her breath coming in short, laboured bursts.

  Alexander seized her wrist, holding her hand aloft, and his eyes widened at the sight of her blood, which had begun to stream down her wrist. He paid no attention to the wound Isla had inflicted on his chest. “Isla!” he implored. “Isla, be still!”

  She pulled against his grip, but his hold on her wrist was so strong she could never hope to break it.

  “Let me go!” she cried, prying at his fingers with her free hand.

  “I willnae let ye go!” he replied, holding her wrist as tightly as ever. “Not now, and not until ye tell me what ye meant by tryin’ to kill me.”

  She lost her balance and fell onto her foot, which seemed to explode with pain. The world suddenly went black just as her lips parted to make way for a scream that never sounded.

  Isla’s spell of unconsciousness didn’t last long. Mere moments after she’d fainted, she was blinking. Slowly, she focused her eyes on the face of Alexander Gordon. Amazingly, her blackout seemed to have cleared her head slightly. Only slightly. She remembered what she had done—what she had tried to do—and trembled. Alexander was kneeling over her, his face troubled. Her foot was alight with pain, and her hand stung fiercely. She wished she could slip back into the peaceful ignorance of sleep, but Alexander locked his eyes with hers and held them there.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why try to kill me? I’ve been nothing if not kind to ye.” His blue eyes gleamed with indignation and continued to beg the question even after he fell silent, waiting for an answer.

  Isla’s head swam with a multitude of possible replies—everything from outright lies to stony silence. What came out was the truth. “To be forgiven,” she said, feeling quite detached from herself as she spoke. The confession hung in the air, as if it had been spoken by a stranger, and surprised even her.

  He stared down at her, his brow knitted in apparent confusion, perhaps wondering if she’d hit her head too hard when she’d fallen. “Forgiven?” he repeated. “For what?”

  She tried to look away, but was unable. His gaze was magnetic. If she had to look him in the eye, she might as well tell him the truth.

  “For your brother’s sin.” This confession had a weight to it, and instead of hanging in the air like her last one, it seemed to settle onto the ground, as glaring and discomfiting as the layer of rainwater that had gathered on the ground, which she could feel soaking through her layers of clothing.

  Alexander appeared almost as shocked as when she’d stabbed him. “My brother?”

  Isla’s neck was uncomfortably stiff, but she forced herself to nod. “Alpin Gordon… He murdered my brother, Hamish Forbes, nearly a year ago.” Her admission rung in her ears, followed by a thick silence.

  Alexander frowned deeply.

  So he knows it’s true, a small voice declared solemnly
from somewhere in the back of Isla’s head.

  “And ye blame yourself?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly. “I dinnae blame myself. My father—he blames me.”

  “Why?”

  She took a deep breath, and the story tumbled out, flowing as quickly as the spring that bubbled beside her. “I was workin’ in the fields one summer afternoon when a strange man rode by—a Gordon. He—he harassed me, and I cried out. My brother Hamish heard and came to my rescue, slaying the Gordon with his dirk. I thought it was over, then, but his companion rode along and saw Hamish standing over the body. The second Gordon murdered him in front of me, calling it vengeance when my brother had only fought to save me from the hands of a rapist!” She narrowed her eyes at Alexander, fixing him with her most intense stare. “That man’s name was Alpin Gordon, and he took my brother’s life, and ruined mine besides.” She reached slowly to her sleeve and pulled it back, revealing a long, raised bar of deathly white flesh that ran along the top of her arm from wrist to elbow, marking where she’d sustained a deep cut. “I didnae stand idly by, as my father pretends. I tried to stop Alpin, but he only laughed, cut me and…and killed Hamish anyway.”

  Alexander eyed Isla’s scar, his expression changed, but unreadable. “And ye thought that if ye got your vengeance by killin’ me, your father might stop mistreatin’ ye for your brother’s death?”

  She nodded, working hard to suppress tears that were suddenly pressing against the back of her eyes. “Aye.”

  He appeared thoughtful. “D’ye truly think that if ye kill me, it will solve your problems?”

  Her anger flared again, as sudden and consuming as the pain that burnt in her foot. “Ye dinnae have any idea what it’s like!” she cried. “I’ve lived the past year in shame, being beaten by my father every time he takes a drink and feeling the eyes of our clansmen upon me, accusin’ me of things I havnae done, and that wouldnae be my fault if I had! D’ye ken that I shall never be merrit because of what your kin have done to me? There isnae a Forbes alive that doesnae believe my maidenhead was stolen from me by a Gordon, no matter how many times I tell them it hasnae been! I am but trash to every man I hae ever known, and their stares and my own father’s words willnae ever let me forget it! I shall always be the lass who was bedded by a Gordon mongrel, and grow old under my father’s roof, feelin’ his fists against my jaw until the day he dies—after which I will be left alone!” By the time she finished, her chest was heaving, and the tears she’d worked so hard to hold back had escaped and were streaming freely down her cheeks. Full with the flood of emotion that confession had released, she hardly cared.