by Amy Jarecki
What she wouldn’t do to kiss him again, to feel the need burning in her body so intensely. If only. Merrin toyed with the eggs in her basket. Must she constantly remind herself that Ian loved another? He hadn’t denied it. The turmoil between elation and anger had battled in her mind until the cock crowed at first light. If only she could face Ian and ask him if there might be any way a man could love a marked lass, she would at least know if there was any chance for her to find love. Mayhap there would be another, unattached man out there who would not fear her.
She needed to talk to Ian. Possibly he would see her differently than Da. Niall had been so adamant she not be seen by anyone, she’d always believed the world would shun her. Honestly, the only people she knew were three men. Two old, and one so bonny he made her heart squeeze with longing. If only she could go to Brochel and watch behind a tapestry. How did other women act when a man looked at her as if he’d been starved for a month? What would it be like to see children running about, laughing and playing? Yes, Niall had shared a great many stories with her—Friar Pat, too. But Merrin wanted to see these things for herself.
Her heart ached to belong.
Merrin was so wound up in her thoughts, she barely caught herself before she pulled down the latch on the cottage door. Gar crashed into the back of her legs and the eggs nearly went flying. Merrin gave the dog a sideways look. “’Tis easy for you to curl up beside the man and sleep. Next thing I know, ye’ll be following him about instead of me.”
Gar whined and brushed up against her.
“Nay.” She gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Ye’d never leave me, would ye, boy?”
Gar’s tail thumped her backside. Merrin grasped the latch. “I dunna ken what I’d do without ye.” She opened the door a crack and arched a brow at the dog. “’Tis still dark within. Keep quiet. Do no’ barrel over to Ian and lick him awake. He needs his sleep.”
Snorting, Gar pushed the door wide, bounded across the floor and promptly stuck his nose in the poor man’s face.
“Get back, ye mongrel,” Ian groused, swiping a hand over his face.
Blast Him. “Gar, come behind.” The dog circled twice and plopped beside Ian. Irritated with the dog’s disobedience, Merrin set the basket on the table and took to lighting the candles. “I told him to leave ye alone.”
She couldn’t look Ian in the eye. Not after thinking about his kiss all night. If she got a glimpse of those lips, she might throw herself upon him and demand another. “If ye go back to sleep, he’ll no’ bother ye again.”
The straw rustled. “Nay. I need to rebuild me strength.”
Merrin forgot to avert her eyes. The plaid slipped from Ian’s chest as he sat up. Why the man had decided to remove his shirt to sleep was yet another matter. Merrin stared. “How are ye feeling this morn?”
“Hungry. Ye got anything to eat in that basket?” Ian flashed a grin that made her knees buckle.
“How about some eggs and sausages? It will no’ take but a moment to whip some up.”
Ian reached for his shirt. “Thank ye kindly, ta.” He pulled it over his head with a pained grunt.
An egg dropped from Merrin’s hand. She darted across the floor with a startled hitch to her step. “Are ye all right?” She slapped her palm against his forehead. “Has the fever returned?”
Ian grasped her hand and grinned. “I let out wee grunt and Ye’re thinking I’m on death’s door?” He softly kissed her fingers. “I’m just a bit stiff, lass, but improved from yesterday.”
Merrin stared at the thick, callused fingers surrounding hers. She could barely breathe. His lips caressing her fingers was such a simple gesture, but the heat spreading through her body disagreed. She gasped, lifting her gaze to his mouth. Throwing herself atop him and kissing him raw was a definite possibility.
Before she could act on her wayward thoughts, Ian cleared his throat and released her hand. “Forgive me, Merrin. I mustn’t take liberties.”
“Ye mustn’t,” Merrin croaked, though her hand yenned to feel those rough pads protectively encircle hers again. She dared look up. Ian’s eyes were dark. His brows knit as if in pain. “I do no’ believe Ye’re as fit as ye might think. I can see it in your eyes.”
“’Tis nothing. Only…”
Merrin’s heart skipped a beat. Could she hope? “Aye?”
Ian shook his head. “I’m just hungry is all.”
No. Of course he mustn’t grasp her hands or kiss them. He must heal quickly so he can go back to his life, back to her.
***
Ian bit the inside of his cheek. He needed to act with more restraint. Why on earth could he not keep his errant hands off the lass? Christ, the way she’d stared at his bare chest lit a fire in his groin so painful he needed to walk outside and throw himself in the sound. Ian could sniff a woman’s interest across a crowded hall. Merrin might be innocent, but she was ripe as a butterfly orchid in full bloom. Her eyes could no sooner hide her desires as a child could hide his excitement before plunging into a plum pudding. Her innocence made the allure all the more arousing. What Ian would give for a chance to escort a woman such as Merrin through the wilderness of passion. His mind boggled.
Ian balled his fists. Why did he have to be rescued by a bana-bhuidseach—Merrin was a witch all right. A stealer of men’s hearts, hidden from the world so men would have ease from their lust.
“Bana.” That was a good pet name for her.
“What?”
Ian looked up. “Did I say something?”
“Aye.” Merrin held up the wooden spoon. “Ye said Bana.”
“’Tis because ye are enchanting. I’ll call ye Bana.”
Merrin turned the crackling sausages, keeping her lovely backside toward him. “I do no’ take kindly to your teasing.”
“But ye are a temptress.”
“How can ye say that? I’ve done nothing.”
“You do no’ need to do anything. Ye just are.” Ian pushed aside the bedclothes. He should have kept his sorry mouth shut. Merrin obviously rued the stigma of being marked. He had no business teasing her about it. And he couldn’t lead her on any more than he’d already done. No. The journey down the path of passion would have to wait for another time, and another, less innocent temptress who, no doubt, would cross his path.
He stretched his arms over his head. Stars crossed his vision. A pained grunt bellowed from the depths of his gut. Mother Mary, would the hole in his back never cease to claim his wits? Ian had been injured before, but this had him laid up like none other.
Merrin whirled around. Ian held up his hand. “Do no’ worry yourself. I’m coming good.”
“Mayhap ye should have some poppy juice to take the edge off your pain.”
Ian frowned. “That rubbish knocks me out cold. ’Tis the last thing I need to gain me strength.”
“Ye do no’ need to be up and around to heal.”
“I do.” Ian clenched his teeth and used the chair to pull himself up. “I cannot stay here much longer. Sooner or later they’ll come looking for me.”
Merrin eyed him. “Ye’d better sit in that chair if ye must use it for a prop.”
“I’ll be right once I have some food in me belly.”
“Ye’ll be right once ye give your wound time to heal.”
Niall’s bedroom door opened as Ian gingerly slid into the chair. The older man scratched his belly and gave Ian an appraising once-over. “Sitting at the table’s a good sign. Ye’ll be able to join your kin soon.”
Merrin plopped a trencher of sausages and scrambled eggs in front of Ian. “He’s pushing himself too hard if ye ask me. Turned white as egg shells when he stood.”
Ian reached for an eating knife. “I want to offer my brother me sword. Prove me worth.”
Across the table, Niall pulled out a chair. “Are ye afraid of retribution?”
“Aye, and Alexander will no’ take me actions lightly. I need all me wits when I face him.”
Merrin served up Niall’s fa
re and sat beside Ian. “Ye see? He needs his strength afore he traipses back to Brochel. Ruairi may even have spies there already.” She stabbed a sausage with her knife and bit it in half.
Ian’s gut clenched. He’d need to be on his guard when he went to Brochel. The two MacLeod clans were blood kin. When Ian showed his face, word would slip back to Ruairi in a day.
Niall used his fingers to sprinkle a pinch of salt over his eggs. “Merrin, ye have a point. But I do no’ want word slipping out that Ian’s here. Ruairi’s henchman would burn us out for certain.”
Merrin nodded rapidly. “All the more reason for Ian to stay indoors and turn his mind to healing.”
“Nay. I need me strength, and I will no’ hide from me enemies. If ye have a sword, I’d be grateful for the use of it. Practice is the only way to rebuild me dwindling muscles.” Ian pushed away the pain and sat up straight. “Me brother will be more forgiving if I can prove meself worthy to sit at the high table. Any chieftain cannot abide a weakling.”
Niall scratched his beard and narrowed his eyes. “I’ve an old sword and a post. Ye are welcome to it, but keep yourself hidden. I want no ships spotting a warrior practicing in me paddock.”
“Thank ye.”
“I wove a woolen kilt of natural and woad-blue plaid for Da.” Merrin eyed her father. “It would attract far less attention than Ian’s red.”
Niall chuckled. “Mayhap ye should grow your beard. Any spyglass would pick up the sheen of your bonny face a mile away.”
Ian ran his hand across the morning’s stubble. Niall was right, of course. Ian hated facial hair, and everyone on the Isle of Lewis knew it.
Chapter Eight
Rewan MacLeod stood on the deck of the galley and watched the grey stone walls of Stornoway Castle grow from a small speck on the Isle of Lewis into the great fortress he admired, presiding over all the Hebrides, and home to his clan, the feared MacLeods of Lewis. Rewan prayed his aging chieftain would be satisfied with his efforts.
He’d killed Ian—“Raasay” the traitor. He’d always called him Raasay to remind the smug bastard he wasn’t one of the MacLeods of Lewis. He might be a MacLeod, but didn’t hail from Rewan’s mighty island. He was only the nephew of the chieftain, though now a disowned one. Days of scanning the shores along the sound turned up no body, but Rewan’s new musket hadn’t missed its mark. One day, he’d see Raasay, the second son of Calum, in hell.
Rewan’s uneasiness crept up his spine. His orders had been to kill them both, but the MacKenzie fortress was impenetrable to his small band. If old Ruairi wanted Janet, he’d need to send an army—which he might decide to do.
With Alick, his man-at-arms, by his side, Rewan marched through the heavy wooden doors of Stornoway’s great hall, lined with rich tapestries woven in Venice. A log fire crackled in the chamber’s immense hearth. Ruairi sat upon the dais in his leather upholstered chair, taking his nooning. The old chieftain beckoned Rewan forward. “Me henchman returns. I was beginning to wonder if ye’d failed me.”
Rewan motioned for Alick to stay a few paces behind, then knelt before the dais. “’Tis good to be home, m’laird.”
“’Tis a good sign ye’ve seen fit to again set foot on Lewis.” Ruairi motioned for him to stand. “Tell me, are they both dead?”
“We buried a lead ball in Ian’s back when he fled in a skiff—sank it, we did. But he led us away from Lady Janet—”
Food spewed from the chieftain’s mouth, hitting Rewan’s boots. “Do not utter her name.” Ruairi chopped a gnarled hand through the air. “Ever.”
“Apologies, m’laird. The woman reached the MacKenzie keep afore we could catch her.”
Ruairi shrugged and picked his teeth with his little fingernail. “I’ve divorced her—she’s ruined and dead to me.”
Rewan’s eyes bulged. Why had he spent the past few sennights chasing after the wench with orders not to return until she was caught or dead?
Ruairi leaned forward, a sneer etching his wrinkled face. “But I want me bloody backstabbing nephew’s head. I took the bastard in and fostered him for near ten year’, and this is how he repays me kindness?”
“He drowned, m’laird.”
“What proof have ye?” The old chieftain wasn’t going to let up.
“Me own musket ball hit him in the back. The skiff sank. We went after him through driving rain and wind—searched the shores for days. We had no chance to recover the corpse.”
“Then how do ye ken he’s dead?”
Rewan spread his palms to his sides. Yes, it was dark and pissing down rain and he couldn’t see a thing, but that only made Raasay’s likelihood of survival all the more unlikely. “He couldna survived.”
“Aye.” Alick stepped beside Rewan and bowed. “Ian MacLeod’s dead, as sure as I breathe.”
“Did I grant ye leave to speak?” Ruairi pounded his fist on the table. “I cannot believe ye returned with no proof. I want the bastard’s head, his bones, his dirk. No one steals away with me wife.” He pointed toward the heavy oak doors. “Go and do not return until ye can show me proof Ian MacLeod is dead.”
Rewan bowed at the waist. “Aye, m’laird. I’ll see it done.”
He couldn’t storm out of the hall fast enough. For the love of God, Rewan had spent the past few sleepless nights tormented about his failure to bring back Janet’s head. Christ, he’d spent days trying to break into the MacKenzie fortress. With a stroke of a pen, Ruairi had cast aside his bloodlust for his wayward young bride? Rewan lost over half his men—and now he’d be chasing after a ghost? Ian MacLeod’s body would have been fodder for sharks by now.
Alick followed him to the courtyard, his stocky legs skipping to keep up. “How the hell are we going to find him?”
Rewan ground his back molars. “With a bit of luck, he washed up on the shore of Raasay. We’ll start at Brochel.”
Alick pulled his helm from his balding head. “I was looking forward to being home.”
“Me as well.” Rewan rubbed his crotch. “I need a good rut afore we sail. Tell the men we leave at dawn on the morrow.”
***
Dressed in the unpretentious kilt woven by Merrin’s deft fingers, Ian managed to stagger outside with Niall’s two-handed sword. Blunt and showing a fair bit of rust, the weapon couldn’t have been used in a quarter-century or more. Not that Niall looked remotely like he’d been a warrior at any time in his life.
Ian found a lone fencepost where he could spar. Per Niall’s request, it was hidden from the water’s view, near the cottage. Holding the claymore over his head, he addressed the post and slowly lowered the blade until it touched the sturdy wood. His arms trembled. He clenched his forearms until the trembling stopped. Closing his eyes, he blocked the throbbing pain in his back. He would massacre this post if it killed him.
Bellowing his war cry, he spun in place and slammed the blade into the column with every thread of force his sinews could deliver. Pain shot through his shoulders. The sturdy post gave not an inch. The force of the hit reverberated through his arms, across his shoulders, up his neck and shook his head until his brain rattled.
Ian looked over his shoulder. Thank God no one had seen that. What an idiot. The blasted blade was duller than a stone. He should have warmed up with a sparring pattern before he tried the smash the hell out of the solid oak pole most likely driven six feet into the ground. For all Ian knew, the bloody thing was petrified to rock.
Sucking in a few deep breaths, Ian cleared his head and again challenged the post. With both hands, he struck the column from side to side. Initially his muscles burned, but Ian worked through it. He would not allow a piece of wood to best him. As he worked, his legs trembled. Bloody hell, he was as weak as an old man.
Merrin appeared in the next paddock wheeling a barrow of hay. She upended the cart and whistled. An old sorrel nag sauntered up from the wood and dipped its head to the mound of fodder. Merrin stepped in and ran her hand along the old fella’s neck. Her voice carried on the wind. �
��That’s a good lad, Tam. If ye eat all your hay, I might bring out some grain for ye later.”
Ian’s heart skipped a beat when Merrin looked at him. He quickly addressed the post. She waved. He gave her a nod and lunged, displaying his most deadly “kill” maneuver. Nearly blinded by pain, he tightened his abdominals to keep his hands from shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her wheel the barrow back toward the workshop while he swung his sword in his warm-up routine—the one he should have started with in the first place.
After catching sight of Merrin, he put everything he had into it—reaching high, thrusting his blade down while dropping to one knee. Merrin stopped before she reached the shed. Ian leveled the sword at the pole. The damned petrified piece of oak didn’t stand a chance. Ian started slowly to avoid a repeat of his first attempt to kill it. With Merrin’s eyes on him, he would show her exactly what a well-trained warrior could do with a sword in his hand, even if he was injured.
He swallowed down the bile as his back tortured him for ignoring it. But Merrin was watching. He’d not be bested by a mere post. Ian swung from side to side. He darted and lunged, wielding the claymore with expert finesse. He grew stronger and more self-assured. He planted his foot. Holding the sword low, he spun with an upward slice. The tip of the post sailed through the air.
He stopped and chuckled. I knew I’d win. Ian wiped his sweat with his sleeve and looked to where he’d last seen Merrin. She was gone. The hole in his back needled him like a corkscrew. He brushed his hand over the bandage. Blood soaked through it. Suddenly his arms were so heavy, he couldn’t take another swing.
Sucking in deep breaths of air, Ian leaned on the sword. He thanked God Rewan MacLeod wasn’t after him now. He’d never be able to stand up to that bear of a man in his current state. Merrin had been right. Ian needed to allow his body some time to heal.
First he’d sharpen the blade. It didn’t take a man of iron to hone a sword, and this one needed a good sharpening for certain.
