"Did you collect the heather to celebrate my homecoming?" he asked, pushing Solas away gently, though he still held Grainne to keep her out of the pile of heather.
"Of course not." She smiled a little. "It is for your bed."
"Ah. The one you are sleeping in?" He lifted a brow.
Color filled her cheeks; he liked it well. "This will make a good bed in the smithy," she explained earnestly. "I must sort through it, but first I had best take time to cook a meal for us—if you will stay."
"Certainly," he said, glad she had asked. Grainne squirmed and tried to jump back into the heather, and he set her down, firmly guiding her away from it. "What will you do with all these flowers?" he asked, looking up.
"They will be useful. If you are going to sit there, Lachlann MacKerron, you can be useful too—"
"Sit here? I am keeping this silly beast from destroying your harvest," he muttered.
"—you could sort the bare stems from the flowering bits." She got to her feet. "The tougher stems can be dried and used to weave mats and baskets. I can use some of the bells in infusions, and brew the rest in ale. Heather makes a good tonic for coughs and sniffles, too. With the cold weather coming, we may have need of that. Mairi always makes heather syrups and infusions."
Lachlann nodded. "I remember. It has many uses indeed, and Muime knew them all. I have tasted and smelled heather all my life, as have you—and it seemed common to me once. But now it is wonderful to see it again, to smell its fragrance in the house." He inhaled appreciatively.
He began to sort the stems, although he had to push Grainne away repeatedly. She had a fascination for heather and no sense of the destruction she caused. Solas seemed uninterested in her antics, and lounged calmly by the fireside.
Eva went to the hearth and prodded the peat fire to greater heat, then swung the kettle over the fire on its long chain. She filled it with water from the bucket by the fireplace.
Lachlann watched her move between hearth, cupboard, and table, preparing the meal. Deftly she chopped carrots and onions and tossed them into the steaming kettle with barley. Sprinkling salt into the kettle, she turned to make oatcakes, crumbling oats with butter and salt. Her fingers were strong and nimble as she formed cakes and slid them onto a flat griddle.
"Muime taught you well," he commented. "I apologize for thinking you would be the spoiled wife of a wealthy laird, with servants to do the work for you. Though that will come soon enough," he added in a darker tone than he intended.
Eva frowned and did not reply. She slapped the rest of the cakes onto the sizzling griddle. The tension around her mouth revealed her irritation. "I saw Simon the other day," she finally said. "I told him that you want to see him."
"Where did you find him?"
"I cannot tell you that." She stirred the kettle, then stepped away to take bowls and cups from a shelf and put them on the table. "I am not certain of your mission."
"I intend to make a bid for peace."
"What good will that do? My brother does not want peace, he wants his clan's rights back and his brother free. Has your time in the king's army changed you so much that you cannot sympathize with us, or understand our cause?" She picked up a jug and poured ale into two cups.
He stood up and came toward her, leaning his hands on the table. "Whatever else you think of me, I am no traitor. I am no different from the man I was when I left here."
She faced him across the table, her gray-green eyes sparking like lightning through storm clouds. "You are changed," she said.
"I am no traitor," he repeated. "Your rebels can trust me."
"Can I believe that?"
"Believe what you will."
She frowned and turned, filling the bowls from the kettle and setting them on the table. With tongs, she picked up the hot oatcakes and slid them onto a wooden platter. Lachlann took that from her while she fetched a pot of butter from the cupboard.
"The food grows cold," she said abruptly. "Sit and eat."
He motioned for her to sit first. She did, and murmured a blessing over the food, which he completed. Then he slipped his wooden spoon into the hot broth, thick with vegetables, and began to eat in silence.
Solas and Grainne hovered nearby with expressions of unabashed hope. Lachlann broke off pieces of oatcake and tossed them to the floor. The dogs nuzzled them, and Lachlann glanced over to see Eva watching him. She looked away, cheeks flaming.
He reached out to spread butter onto a hot oatcake. On impulse, sensing that an offer of peace was needed, he prepared another for her and passed it across the table. She took it tentatively, then broke off a piece and tossed it to Grainne.
"You have no appetite," he observed. She shrugged. "I would think you would be famished. You spent the day walking the hills, pulling heather plants, and seeking rebels in their den... in the hills, was it?" He bit deeply into his own cake and dipped his spoon into the savory soup.
She scowled. "I will not tell you where the rebels are, if that is what you are fishing for. Simon will find you when he is ready to listen to the king's message. And I cannot eat when I am upset." She pushed her bowl away.
"Upset about what?" he asked, dipping a bit of oatcake into his nearly emptied bowl.
"Nothing." She stood, cleared both bowls away—brisking his out from under his spoon—and dumped their contents into a wooden dish on the floor. The dogs padded over to it eagerly.
"Ho, I am still eating," he protested.
"How can you eat in the middle of a dispute?" She wiped the bowls vigorously with sand and ash, scooped from the hearth.
"I lack a delicate stomach. And I did not know we were in dispute." He stood and rounded the table, and Eva sidled away. Grabbing another bowl from the shelf, he ladled more broth and vegetables from the kettle and ate quickly, standing by the hearth. Eva wiped the bowls with a damp cloth and set them back on the shelf in tense silence.
She had ever been a volatile and fascinating creature, he remembered, stubborn and high-spirited, with enough temper and moodiness to confound the male children around her. Yet he knew she had a warm heart, integrity, and courage. If she was angered, he trusted she had good reason to be. And she was clearly angry with him; puzzled by that, he wondered what he had done.
He watched her while he ate. She seemed tense as a bowstring. Perhaps she was actually frightened on behalf of her kinsmen, since she had raised the issue of his loyalty. Certainly he was faithful to his old friends, and he thought she should know that without question. But he had secret matters to protect as well.
When he finished, he set the bowl aside and looked at Eva, standing beside him by the hearth. "Tell me this," he said. "Are you upset with me because I bear a message for Simon from King James?" She did not answer, watching the blue peat flames. "The king would have conveyed his warning with troops. I offered to bring the word more peaceably, but I must know where Simon is."
"If I told you, then you might tell the king where the rebels hide, and he would send fire and sword after them. We know about his plans to quell the MacArthur rebellion."
"How did you learn that?" he asked sharply.
"Alpin said a messenger came to Innisfarna with news of the king's plans."
"I met John Robson the other day," he said. "Nothing was mentioned about that. If it was a royal messenger, I would have been told. Robson knows my business here."
She scowled deeply, slim dark brows dipping above troubled eyes. "The message came from Colin. He is back from France, and will be here soon... very soon, they say."
He felt his heart fall hard to his feet. "Ah," he said. "Does that bother you? I would think you would be eager for your betrothed to return." Bitterness shaded his voice, though he wanted to remain neutral.
She shrugged. "I made a promise to Colin and to my father. Despite what has happened to my kin, I must honor it."
"You are an honorable woman," he murmured, "and Colin Campbell is a fortunate man." But he frowned.
Eva looked up at him, an
d his gaze sank to her lush, rosy mouth. Had the mood been otherwise—had life been otherwise—he might have kissed her. Despite the barriers between them, the temptation rushed hot through him.
Her eyes snapped like steel. "Tell me one thing."
"Say it." He narrowed his eyes, waiting.
"Will you prove your loyalty to the MacArthurs?"
Suddenly he was the one who felt betrayed. Her mistrust cut like a knife, and the news about Colin's imminent arrival gave the blade a twist. He leaned down.
"Listen to me," he said, low and lethal. "I am a MacKerron smith. My kin have served the MacArthurs and the area of Loch Fhionn for generations. Not one of you should question my loyalty. Least of all you," he snapped. "You knew me well enough once to guess what sort of man I am now."
Her gaze faltered, flickered away. "We agreed to forget what happened between us on Beltane night."
"Did I mention that?" he growled.
The color deepened in her cheeks. Without answer, she walked to the wall cupboard to put the wrapped oatcakes inside.
He sighed, regretting his burst of rancor. Fire existed between them, searing hot; he knew the signs well enough. He understood fire of any sort, and he felt the burn now, saw its spark in her. Although their passion could not be allowed to erupt again, that sort of heat had a demanding nature. It expressed itself in continual flares in both of them, like stars sizzling at night.
That turbulence he regretted, for he cherished her friendship. Sighing, he stepped closer. She turned and bumped into him, and he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. She tensed, as if ready to spring away.
"Were we not friends once, Eva MacArthur?" he murmured.
"We were. But you have changed." Her gaze was solemn. "You are more... guarded. You have secrets. I feel it strongly."
He flexed his fingers on her shoulder, determined to keep those secrets from her. Yet the clarity in her eyes pierced him, heart and soul. Her intuitive, forthright nature could discern what he wanted to conceal.
"I am older and wiser," he said. "I have seen things and learned things... that I wish I did not know." He lowered his hands and stepped back. "That is what you feel from me. Only that has changed me."
She studied him. "What happened in France, Lachlann?"
Jaw tightening, he glanced away. "No more than happened to any man." Seeing her concerned frown, sensing that she wanted to question him further, he rushed on. "As for this dispute, here and now, I do not like my loyalty questioned."
"If you could prove your support of my kinsmen, would you?"
He cocked his head. "And yet you will not give this up."
"My kinsmen want you to make weapons for them," she said bluntly. "They want your loyalty tested and measured. Simon must be sure of you before he will meet with you."
He scowled, but appreciated her honesty. "I presume these weapons would be used for something other than hunting."
She stared at him without reply, an answer in itself.
Lachlann let out a harsh breath. "You are betrothed to a Campbell. Would you ask me to arm your kinsmen against Campbells, and against the king?"
Furrowing her smooth brow, she shook her head. "Colin's influence may gain them a pardon one day. But they must be able to defend themselves now. And their rebellion is a righteous one. Surely you see that."
"I do. It does not mean I will help them with rebellion."
"Why not?"
"Why should I agree to join this cause before I even speak with Simon? It is insurrection and treason to make weapons expressly for rebels to use against the crown. And there is the expense and the work itself to consider—not to mention the risk to their lives, for love of God," he added fiercely.
"We are not asking you to supply boys with sharp things," she snapped.
"Eva, I cannot do this." He could not tell her why.
"Then Simon will not meet with you."
Something cracked in him, prodded by her anger, by her hurtful mistrust of him, by the continual sizzling tension between them. He took her by the arms, more strongly than he meant to do. A myriad of intense feelings—fear, anger, passion, and an undeniable hurt—thundered through him. Eva gasped and gripped his muscular upper arms, even as he grasped her.
"If you doubt my loyalty, test it yourself," he growled. "There is one way to know."
Almost before he knew what he did, he was kissing her, fierce and hard. His lips moved over hers, and a hunger exploded in him. Eva responded with a faint half cry, sinking into his grip. She lifted her hands against his chest, and moaned softly.
The kiss became another, and yet another, like a bright, hot chain forged between them. She returned each one, and he felt her need meet his, flame to flame, real and hungry.
Lost, utterly lost, and he knew it. Blood and sinew, breath and soul, filled to bursting. Dreams, years of them, flooded him. In urging her to test him, he now tested himself against what he had denied his heart for so long.
Stop, he urged himself. Before it is too late. Breathless, he pulled back, hands still wrapped around her arms. Eva leaned her palms against his chest as if only that held her upright. Her breasts heaved, and her lips were blushed deep rose.
"Now," he said severely, "ask your woman's heart if I am a trustworthy man." He released her and went to the door. Yanking it open, he strode outside, grateful for the cool buffet of the wind in his face.
Chapter 12
"I ought to make his bed from twigs and bracken," Eva muttered as she flung bits of heather into two large mounds. Choosing sprigs for Lachlann's bed while she recalled his astonishing kisses, her cheeks burned. The sun sank low, and Lachlann had not returned to the house, and still she sat, tossing heather and muttering like a madwoman.
Another soul-melting thrill went through her as she remembered a ribbon of kisses, one weaving into another. She could not forget the strong band of his arms, the heat of his mouth, as much as she tried to resist each stirring memory. Frowning, she told herself to stomp down to the smithy and tell him that she would not tolerate such advances.
In truth, she desperately wanted to kiss him again. Yet no matter how his embrace had warmed and weakened her, or brought to life her most cherished dreams, any risk to her marriage was a risk to her kinsmen. She would be a fool to allow Lachlann to be anything more than a friend.
Yet she did want to allow him more, and fiercely so. She moaned and flung more sprigs into the pile, realizing that their once reliable friendship, now laced with passion, would never be the same. That prideful, stirring kiss was not the mark of brotherly emotion.
That, she decided, was what she must tell him: to befriend her or leave her be. Snatching up a plaid, she spread it on the floor, dumped the heather foliage in it, and tied the corners together. Then she hefted the bundle over her shoulder and opened the door. Solas and Grainne ran outside with her, and she slammed the oaken planking hard before heading over the meadow.
* * *
Lachlann shifted through the scrap iron pile, assessing what was there, but he could not keep his mind on his task. He tried to move the canted plough that took up most of the corner, but it would not budge. He kicked it, and it fell over with a clang. A further shove released a little of his anger and frustration.
What he most wanted in life were impossibilities now: to work steel, though he no longer could; to defend a girl destined to become an icon; and to love Eva with his heart and soul—but that was not to be, either.
Yet he had taken her into his arms and kissed her as if she was his alone. His body hardened at the vivid memory, and he longed to follow the natural course of his desire. All his will had been brought to bear when he had let go of her.
Coining back to Balnagovan was more than foolish, he told himself; it could prove ruinous, even disastrous, for both of them, and for others. He shoved his fingers through his hair in exasperation, then went to the door, yanking it open. The crisp air cleared the turmoil in his mind and lured him outside. He looked in the directi
on of the house, through the amber glow of the sinking sun.
Eva crossed the meadow, the plaid bundle over her shoulder. She strode toward the smithy, annoyance clear in every step, her expression dark and determined.
He was familiar with Eva's flash-fire temper, although womanhood had softened it. Well warned, he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms to wait.
She stomped through the yard, swung the plaid off her back, and shoved it at him with such force that he stepped backward through the door. Holding the bundle, she backed him up further.
"Here is your bed," she snapped, pushing past him. She carried the pack to an empty corner, where she dumped it with a flourish. The knots slid open and heather tumbled out. "Make it yourself, and may you never have a moment's peace in it! That is better than you deserve!" She whirled.
"Eva—" He reached for her arm, but she jerked away.
"Do not think you can grab me again!"
"Eva, I ask your pardon."
"For what? What you did just now, or earlier?"
"For the kiss. It was... unseemly of me."
"Ac/z," she said, sounding more anguished than angered. "You come back to Balnagovan and kiss me as if you had never left, and then you expect me to dismiss it. Perhaps you can do that, but I cannot. It meant something to me, then and now," she added intensely, "even if it meant nothing to you."
"What did it mean to you?" he murmured. "Then, and now?"
She glanced away. "I am a woman now, not a silly girl who does not know her own feelings. The last few years have been difficult, and I have been... lonely. And I try... so... hard"—she gasped, and he saw that she fought tears—"to do what I believe is right, even when I do not want to do it. And then you come back here, and—oh!" She tossed her hands high in frustration and sent him a little glare. "I am not saying what I want to say."
A brief smile twitched at his lips. He should not enjoy her flustered state, but he did. She was so passionate. So genuine. "What is it you want to say?"
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 11
