Beauty and the Barbarian

by Amy Jarecki

  She gasped again. “Ye’re awake, are ye not?”

  Ian was neither asleep nor awake, but he was definitely very aware. The cloth ran down his legs with rapid strokes, water squirted through his toes. Her touch became much more brisk and soon she sopped up the droplets with a drying cloth. Ian again opened his eyes as the woman draped a plaid over him.

  She tucked the blanket around his sides. “There ye are.”

  Shaped like a supple hour glass, the woman was exquisite. She smelled of fresh bread and sunshine.

  “Are ye an angel?”

  She stared at him, mouth agape.

  Ian tried to talk again, but all he could manage was, “Are ye?”

  “Nay.” The woman’s hand went to her neck and pressed against her plaid scarf. “Do ye remember I told ye me name is Merrin, the healer’s daughter?”

  Ian remembered very little, not even how he came to be in the tiny cottage. “Merrin? ’Tis a lovely name. I’ll no’ forget it now.” Ian’s tongue rasped like sandpaper attached to the roof of his mouth. “Where am I?”

  “Eilean Fladda.”

  His vision clouded—she must be mistaken. “Not Raasay?”

  “The islet is attached to Raasay by the caol, where I found ye.”

  Ian closed his eyes and searched his memory. He recalled seeing Fladda when he was a lad. It was forbidden to explore the islet, though he couldn’t remember why. Mayhap it was another of the rules set down by his overly protective mother.

  “What is your name?” Merrin asked, lifting a tankard and spoon.

  “Ian.”

  She carefully emptied the contents of the spoon into his mouth. Sweet honey mead slid across his tongue—nearly as sweet as the soft lilt of her voice. “Ian is a nice name. Do ye have a clan?”

  Should he tell her? Why not? “MacLeod.”

  She offered him another spoon, which Ian lapped up greedily. He watched her eyes—large, caring, amazingly blue and radiating with innocence. They registered no hint of recognition. Of course, everyone was aligned with the MacLeod around these parts.

  She looked directly at him, making his heart race, as if she could see into his soul. “Raasay? Dunvegan? Lewis?”

  The lass was persistent. “Raasay.” That was the truth. Merrin’s lips pursed and her eyes darted away. Ian sensed his answer displeased her.

  “Are ye in pain?” she asked with an unmistakable edge.

  “Aye, me back feels skewered.”

  “Mayhap because it was.” Her features softened when she smiled. If she had wings, Ian would swear on his life she was an angel. “I have a tincture to ease your discomfort.”

  Before he could say a word, Merrin shoved a spoon of bitter-tasting potion in his mouth. Ian sputtered while the foul liquid slid down his gullet. “Are ye trying to poison me?”

  “’Twill help ye sleep.” She put her hand on his forehead. “Ye’re still fevered, though no’ as bad as last eve.”

  Ian closed his eyes, the tincture taking effect quickly on his empty stomach. He tried to open them again. If only he could gaze upon her face for a bit longer. He managed to force his lids to a squint and watched her bustle about. When she collected his clothes from the floor, Ian remembered he was naked. She’d cleansed his privates and had not a word uttered. The lass didn’t even appear to be embarrassed. Was she married? But she said she was the healer’s daughter—such a statement would indicate she was not yet spoken for.

  There were so many questions he wanted to ask Merrin. How could such a beauty be hidden from the world on a piece of rock too small to be an island?

  Chapter Four

  Merrin took Ian’s clothes outside to the washbasin. She needed the fresh air to clear her head. After tossing in some lard soap, she hiked up her skirts and set to stomping Ian’s shirt and kilt clean. A hundred warring thoughts swarmed through her mind. Her hands still trembled. Ian—if that was his real name—took her breath away.

  When she removed his clothing, she’d expected him to be different, but not so amazingly so. Merrin’s body reacted in ways she’d never before experienced. He took possession of her mind—as if he was an actual witch sent by the fairy folk to trick her. Merrin glanced at the cross above the door where her father had nailed it. If Ian were sent to trick her, his charms should not work within the cottage. But she was rattled, tramping on his clothes like she’d gone mad.

  Merrin stomped harder. She could not shake the image of his manhood from her mind. Were all men thus endowed? He was like a stallion—far bigger than a ram or a dog, not to mention his exquisite beauty. Deep inside, her body inflamed at the sight of him. Blasted bogle’s breath, was she to be tormented by the memory of his sex for the rest of her days?

  Merrin clutched her arms across her ribs and scrubbed the clothing with her toes. He’d lied to her. That had her twisted up inside as much as anything. More. He said he was aligned with the MacLeods of Raasay, yet Friar Pat gazed upon his face and professed he was indeed not. What was Ian hiding? If he was a MacLeod, he most likely hailed from Lewis—was on the run from Ruairi, the tyrant chieftain. But why would a man like Ian lie to the likes of her? She posed no threat. What else was he hiding?

  Her mind’s eye conjured him naked again. Merrin pressed her hands to her face and shook her head. Merciful Father, why could she not pull her mind away from his magnificence?

  Dear Lord, please, please help Ian heal quickly. I cannot bear to have him in the cottage, looking at me with those penetrating eyes. He makes me tremble…I…I must have caught the fever from him.

  After hanging the washing to dry, Merrin busied herself feeding the livestock, checking the store of peat, anything so that she wouldn’t have to go back into the cottage. While she worked, she continually glanced toward the door, expecting Ian to hobble through it at any moment—hoping he would be on his way, blast him.

  But the Highlander would need tending soon, and she grew hungry for the noon meal. Merrin bore up her courage and marched through the door. Half convinced Ian would be holding court with the King of the Fairies, she hesitated and peered through the dim room. Ian hadn’t moved from his pallet—the plaid still draped over his sleeping form, just as she’d left him.

  Ian tilted his chin. “Ye were the only one who ever showed me kindness.”

  Merrin tiptoed up to him. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple. She knelt down and put her hand to his forehead. The fever had returned. She doused a cloth and wiped the sweat.

  Ian pushed her hand away. “Mother, please do no’ make me go to Lewis. I want to stay here with you and Alexander.”

  Merrin sat on her haunches. Another piece of the mystery unfolds. Mayhap if I play along… “Ye must go.”

  Ian grimaced like a wee lad tasting a bitter brew. “Me uncle hates me.”

  Uncle? Was Ian reliving a scene from his childhood? Merrin acted on her guess. “Is it Ruairi Ye’re afraid of?”

  Ian bared his teeth, his face suddenly scary, hateful. “Ruairi will kill her!”

  Merrin pressed her hands to her face. His ravings were incomprehensible. With a sigh, she applied the cool cloth to his forehead. “Is Janet in danger?”

  He grabbed Merrin’s arm and his fingers bored into her flesh. Ian’s eyes flashed open, wild with terror, but vacant as if not seeing her. “Ye cannot survive here. He will kill you.”

  Moaning, Ian released his hold and thrashed about. Merrin pressed down on his shoulders. “Calm yourself. No harm will come to ye today. Lie back, Ian, and let me tend ye.”

  Merrin prayed no ill would befall them. Merrin knew little of the world outside Fladda, but of one thing she had no doubt, if Ian had crossed the great Lewis Chieftain Ruairi, there would be retribution. Soon.

  Gradually, Ian’s breathing resumed the slow cadence of sleep. Gar lumbered over from his mat in front of the hearth and curled up beside Ian’s leg. Merrin stared at the deerhound. The dog was fiercely protective of her, and yet he lay beside Ian to give comfort. “So ’tis ye who’s playing t
he traitor now? We’ll see who ye prefer come meal time.”

  Merrin turned her attention to the day’s work and brought in Ian’s damp clothes to hang on the pegs over the mantel. She mixed oatcakes and tended mending, along with other chores. That Ian was in trouble she had no doubt. Whether he was a scoundrel or not was an entirely different matter. But Merrin intended to uncover his secrets—hopefully before her father returned.

  ***

  Something creaked against the floorboards with a steady rocking sound, reminding Ian of the groaning of a ship’s hull when at sea, except softer. The pain in his back throbbed, burned like someone held a flame to his skin. With effort, he rolled to his side and realized a dog rested against his leg. The wiry deerhound whined, complaining his sleep had been interrupted. With a shake of his head, the dog turned in two circles and plopped down again, his back pushing against Ian’s legs. “Do no’ mind me, just make yourself comfortable.”

  The rocking stopped. Ian blinked. Across the room, Merrin put her sewing aside and stood, the firelight glowed against her fair skin. From his pallet, she appeared tall, sturdy and incredibly shapely. She had the hips of a goddess, and her cleavage blossomed over her kirtle’s neckline as if sending him a wrapped invitation. If only he could rise from his damnable pallet and open the present. He groaned. Merrin’s porcelain skin had to be softer than satin. His fingers itched to touch it. Though simply dressed, no woman could ever look more beautiful.

  “Are ye hungry?” she asked, her voice soothing.

  His stomach growled. “I could cut the heart out of a stag and eat it raw.”

  She chuckled. “Fortunately, we do no’ have to go to such extremes.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  Merrin picked up a bowl and knelt beside him. “I found ye morning last.”

  Ian closed his eyes—it all started to come back—fleeing from the Isle of Lewis to save Janet from further abuse by his uncle. How much time did he have before they found him—or did they think him already dead?

  When Merrin leaned closer, his senses filled with the intoxicating fragrance of primrose. He shuddered when she grasped his shoulder and piled pillows behind him. Their eyes met. Their gaze locked. Fathomless, unspoken meaning passed between them—mutual respect, raw attraction, fervent attachment, none of which Ian understood. She’s a common lass, for Christ’s sake.

  She brushed a strand of hair from his brow, easing the intensity of their connection. Merrin’s hand trembled when she held the spoon to his lips. “See if ye can take some broth.” Her soft voice warbled.

  Ian opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him. His gaze fixed on her face, smooth, unblemished skin, eyes as clear as the deep blue of dusk. His stomach complained with pangs of emptiness. “Have ye anything more substantial?” When she frowned, he feared he’d hurt her feelings. He blinked. The last thing he wanted was to be discourteous. “The broth is fine, indeed. ’Tis only me stomach is as hollow as a woodpecker’s nest.”

  Merrin frowned and ran her fingers over the woolen plaid tied around her neck. Why is she wearing a scarf? ’Tis not cold in the least.

  “If ye can hold this down, we’ll see about giving ye a morsel of haggis. I made a fresh batch today—it should go easy enough on your stomach.”

  Ian cringed—haggis was a garnish. He craved a slice of beef or a hearty lamb pottage. “If I eat your haggis, will ye give me a morsel of meat?”

  Merrin frowned and shoved another spoon of miserable broth into his mouth, which Ian swallowed with pleasure upon meeting her gaze again. “Aye, but no’ so fast. One thing at a time.”

  Honestly, Ian didn’t mind being fed by an incredibly beautiful woman. He imagined he could take to a life of a royal rather easily, his every need attended by servants. But Merrin could be no servant. If anything, Ian should attend her. A woman blessed with such beauty should be pampered, loved and held in the highest esteem, regardless of a common birth.

  When he’d eaten all the broth, Ian grasped Merrin’s wrist. She froze. Wariness darkened her eyes and she yanked her hand away as if she feared him.

  Ian clenched his fist, his fingers still searing from brushing the silkiness of her skin. “Apologies. I just wanted to ask…” So many things. What is a beautiful woman doing isolated on a tiny island? Why would her father leave her alone with a stranger, albeit unconscious, with nothing but a dog to protect her?

  Her lovely blue eyes widened. “Ye wanted to ask?”

  He ran his fingers across the soft woolen plaid that hid his nakedness. “Why do ye wear that scarf? ’Tis quite warm with the fire blazing in the hearth.”

  Her eyes drifted down the length of his body. He liked it when a beautiful woman drank him in. She’d bathed him, caressed every inch of his flesh—knew him intimately, yet remained bashful. Merrin pulled the scarf tighter. “I always wear it.”

  She was hiding something. Had she been badly burned? Ian dropped his gaze to her chest. Milky white breasts swelled over her kirtle’s scooped neckline. There was no sign of mottled flesh. Had she a scar? ’Twas a mystery he would like to solve. His gaze slipped back to her cleavage. God, he’d never seen breasts more lovely.

  Ian ran a hand over his bare chest. “Where are me clothes?” His gut clenched—had he lost his dirk?

  “I washed them.” She dipped her chin with an adorable blush and pointed to the hearth. “They’re drying.”

  Ian pushed up on his elbows and peered at the big fireplace. Sure enough, his clothes were hanging from the mantel with his belt, dirk and sporran neatly placed beneath. He became lightheaded from his effort. Oh how he wished he’d been fully conscious when she’d removed them. The maid must have flushed scarlet for certain.

  She crossed the room, leaned over a pot and stirred. Ian watched her, fascinated. Her every movement was graceful. She wore her inordinately long chestnut locks unbound. Reaching below her waist, they shimmered in the candlelight with the slightest movement. Stirring intently, she focused on her task as if it were gravely important. Had something irritated her?

  “Are ye upset?”

  Merrin stopped and looked out the window, rather than at him. “Why would ye ask that?”

  “Ye’ve beat whatever Ye’re stirring pretty well. I wouldn’t want to be in that pot being thrashed about by a spoon as forceful as yours.”

  She sighed and stared into the bowl. “Who are ye, and why are ye on the run from Ruairi, Chieftain of Lewis?”

  Ian’s gut clenched. How in God’s name did she know? Clutching the plaid against his waist, he tried to stand. If only he could make it to his clothes, he might find a boat. His very presence put her in danger.

  Merrin dashed across the floor and pressed against his shoulders. “What are ye doing? Ye’re too weak to rise.”

  Stabbing pain brought stars across his vision. Ian dropped back like a sack of grain. His strength sapped, bested by a wisp of a lass. “As long as I remain in your cottage, your life is in peril.”

  She stood straight, tapping her foot against the floorboards impatiently. “Aye? Ye think I dunna ken ’tis a risk having ye here?”

  “Well, I…”

  “I found ye on the caol with a musket ball in your back. Ye’ve been fevered and moaning ’bout some lassie named Janet and how ye need to steal away from Ruairi—ye didn’t want to go there as a wee lad, but your ma said ye must.” Merrin folded her arms. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Ian closed his eyes. His head pounded as he tried to make sense of it all. “Nay, ye are not.”

  “And why didn’t Friar Pat recognize ye?” She pointed a long, slender finger, her accusing eyes pinning him to the pallet. “Who are ye, and do no’ dare lie to me.”

  Hot air whistled through Ian’s lips. He owed her the truth—at least as much as he could reveal. “I am Ian MacLeod of Raasay.”

  “How could—”

  Ian held up his hand. “If ye want to hear the truth, ye’ll allow me to finish.”

  Chin raised, she offered a
sharp nod.

  “I’m the second son of Laird Calum MacLeod. I was only a lad when he died, and ten year’ ago at four and ten, me ma considered it best to be fostered by me uncle.”

  “Ruairi?”

  “Aye. The man’s near twenty years older than me father, but still he lives—and as the years pass, the worse he grows.”

  “A tyrant, aye?”

  “Of the worst sort. He prays on the weak—children and women.” Ian rubbed his hip. “I’ve felt the sting of his lash more than once.”

  Merrin tapped her foot. “So what happened with Janet?”

  “When his third wife passed, Ruairi cast his sights on Janet MacKenzie—three and sixty years his younger, mind ye. He kept her locked in the tower, very jealous of any man who looked her way.”

  “She was beautiful?”

  “Aye.”

  Slender fingers touched her mouth. “Did ye love her?” she asked softly.

  Of course he did. Ian never could resist strong feelings for a fine-looking woman in need of rescue, but for some reason, he couldn’t admit it. “Thought I did.”

  Merrin stepped back, one eyebrow arched. “And how did ye end up with a musket ball in your back?”

  The fire smoldering in the pit of Ian’s stomach inflamed. The frantic race to deliver Janet to the MacKenzie stronghold flashed through his mind. He’d done the right thing, no matter what anyone else thought, and now he’d pay for it the rest of his life. “’Tis complicated.”

  Again she crossed her arms, accenting the cleavage above her neckline. It was enough to unman any poor blighter. Merrin inclined her head, oblivious to the stirring effect she had on him. “I’m no’ daft, and I’ve no other place to go.”

  A low chuckle growled from Ian’s throat—she may not be aware of her allure, but she sure knew how to make a man squirm. “Ye’re a clever one, ’tis for certain.” If he revealed more, she could betray him and send word to Lewis—but then she already knew enough to damn him to hell.