“Sleep, wee nun,” he whispered. “Soon we will reach our home.”
From the ridge above, Colin watched with a grin. So he’d been right all along. Not only was Leith interested in the lass, but he was interested enough to show patience and tenderness, two characteristics not generally associated with the great laird. Turning, Colin hurried back into the darkness.
Not far from his watch-place, the widow slept. He stepped closer, gazing down at her. She was not his type, of course. Too sharp-tongued and aloof. He liked women who swooned over him. Still, she was a bonny lass. Stepping a pace closer, he squatted, noting how her lips were slightly parted, her eyelids heavy with thick lashes. She was indeed a comely thing. He reached forward and ever so gently caressed her cheek.
She moaned and turned her face so that his fingers pressed more firmly against her flesh.
“Devona.” He said her name softly, feeling her allure whip a hard response from his deprived masculinity. “Bonny Devona.”
She twisted slightly, so that her blanket was pulled lower, exposing a half-bare shoulder.
“Mayhap, ye are na so aloof as ye seem,” he whispered.
Her left leg bent and straightened, pulling the blanket lower still, revealing further charms.
“Mayhap,” Colin breathed, “ye dream of me just as I dream of ye.”
She moaned again and in that moment it seemed to Colin she revealed the truth of her need. She was not detached and cool, but lonely and vulnerable, keeping herself from him only by the harshest discipline. Poor lass, he thought, and, realizing he could no longer delay the kiss, he leaned eagerly forward.
“Leith,” she whispered in her sleep.
Colin’s head snapped back. Leith! He was on his feet in a moment, glaring down at the first woman who had refused to be moved by his presence. Leith!
“Dream on then, widow,” he declared, striding away to his post.
And in the darkness, Devona smiled.
Chapter 7
“Awake, lass.”
Rose heard Leith’s voice through the fog of her slumber, but her dreams were too rich and warm for her to be drawn immediately from sleep. He was there again. The tall, sable-haired man with the compelling eyes. He was there in her dreams, kissing her, his chest bare and …
“Mayhap I shall need to kiss ye again,” Leith suggested.
Rose’s eyes popped open.
God’s teeth! He was there—in the flesh and…
“Where—where are your clothes?” she gasped, taking in his changed appearance with openmouthed shock.
Leith placed his fists on his plaid-covered hips and laughed aloud. “I am a Scotsman, wee Rose,” he reminded her. “Na one of yer coddled English lords.”
“But…” She’d known he was a barbarian, but never had she seen his barbarism displayed with such breathtaking boldness.
His hair was dark, long, and loose but for the narrow braids—one nestled beside each ear. His shirt was made of brown wool, soft as hide and open at the neck to show his broad, dark throat. A length of plaid wool crossed his left shoulder, pinned by a pewter brooch, and wrapped around his chest and abdomen to meet the same tartan fabric that was held to his waist with a broad leather belt. In the center, but just below the belt, was a leather bag, perhaps the width of both her fists side by side. It was covered with a flap of the same fine hide and kept closed with a narrow thong. Against his right hip his sword was strapped and across his thighs lay the pleated wool of his plaid.
But below that… God’s ears! His lower thighs and knees were bare—broad and corded with muscle above the tall horsehide boots that covered his flesh from toe to upper calf.
“You … cannot mean to tell me you go about wearing tiny gowns?” she murmured in awe.
“Gowns!” began Leith with a scowl, but Colin’s laughter cut him short.
“Leith wears a wee gown.” He chuckled, striding forward to stand beside his brother, arms akimbo in the same manner. “But we true Scotsmen wear plaids.”
Rose’s eyes widened even further, for Colin too wore the indecent garment. “But your…” Her voice failed her for a moment. “Your knees are … naked!” she squeaked.
Leith’s scowl deepened. “Need I remind ye, wee nun, that I’ve seen ye … “
Her eyes were huge gems of terrified amethyst as she stared at him in mute appeal, begging for his silence.
Leith’s dark eyebrows lowered even further, but in a moment his expression softened. “That I’ve seen ye… sleep too long,” he finished roughly. “Get yerself up, lass,” he said. “Today ye see Scotland.”
The countryside had changed little since they’d crossed the border, Rose thought. But everything else had. No longer did they travel at a moderate rate. And no longer did she ride in the rear.
Leith kept her at his side now, seeming ever-watchful and causing her to wonder whether he half-expected her to drop from the saddle again like an overripe plum.
The day turned gray and the wind rose, but they hurried on, keeping their mounts at a rapid trot.
Rose bounced along beside Leith’s noble stallion. A trot, she knew, greatly increased their pace while saving their mounts’ strength. But still… Her head snapped up and down, and her bottom burned like fire, making her regret her refusal to ride the smooth-gaited black.
It seemed her pride was causing her bottom to take a terrible beating. Rose winced at the thought, for the black moved like a feather on the wind, while her own mousy gray bumped along like a lumpy boulder down a mountainside.
She winced again. Of course it was all Forbes’ fault. If he hadn’t been trespassing by the lake she wouldn’t have lost her cross. And if she hadn’t lost her cross, he wouldn’t have been able to blackmail her into coming along. And if she hadn’t come along she wouldn’t have hit him, or cursed him, or kissed him. And if she hadn’t done any of those awful things, she wouldn’t have to pay penance by refusing to ride Maise.
In short, Leith Forbes owed her bottom a grave apology, Rose reasoned, and was kept busy for quite some time with the image that thought conjured up.
“What think ye now, me haughty widow?” asked Colin, leaning toward Devona with a grin. Her presence beside Leith had tormented him over the past days, though he was unsure why. She was only a woman, after all, though a bonny one. And yet his dreams were filled with her, his thoughts torturous, for he could well imagine holding her in his arms. “It seems another has taken yer place beside the laird,” he teased, but Devona only raised her nose in the air.
“Does my refusal of you still sting so that you must prick me with your tongue?” she asked smoothly. “Or is it the refusal of all the women in your past that bothers you?”
“All the women!” Colin snorted. ” Tis true ye are the first to—”
“And the wisest, it would seem,” Devona interrupted. Setting her heels to Maise’s glossy sides, she kicked the mare into a gallop before he could respond.
Colin watched her flee, feeling anger and jealousy wrench his gut. ‘Twould serve the haughty wench right to spend the rest of her days alone, he mused, but just then her black mare jostled Rose’s mount from behind.
There was a squeal from the gray, who lashed out with her hind feet. Maise reared, forefeet flailing and eyes wild as she jolted Devona off balance.
To Colin it seemed to happen in slow motion— like a half-remembered dream, played back in the minutes before dawn. One second the black was slicing the air with her trim, round hooves and the next she was falling, thrashing over sideways with a pale-faced Devona clinging to her mane like a rag doll in the wind.
“Dear Jesu,” Colin breathed, for Devona’s leg was pinned beneath the black’s great weight.
The mare thrashed again, trying to rise, but her rider’s weight combined with her own ungainly position held her down.
“No, Maise!” Rose rasped, and throwing herself from her mount, she raced through the prickly gorse to the downed pair.
Colin was on his feet now, fear
constricting his throat as he ran to Devona, but already Rose squatted beside the panicked black, one palm placed gently on the mare’s delicate face. “No, love. No,” she breathed. Gradually the mare’s flailing legs slowed. “Quiet now, my beauty. Be still.”
Leith was there suddenly, freeing Devona’s left foot from the stirrup as Colin cradled her unconscious form in his arms.
“Now, lass,” commanded Leith quietly. “Let her up—gently.”
Rose did just that, crooning the whole while, urging the mare slowly to her feet, her hooves well away from Devona’s still body.
“There now. There,” Rose soothed, her hands still on the black’s velvet muzzle. “It is not your fault.”
The wild eyes calmed. The head lowered.
“So that be yer gift?” Leith murmured close at hand. “Ye speak with the beasts!”
“I do no such thing. Well—leastways, they do not often answer back.”
Leith snorted, shaking his head. “Am I to be grateful for that then?”
“I do not care—”
“Please,” Colin interrupted, holding Devona carefully to his chest and seeming to feel her pain in his own being. “Let us care for the widow.”
Rose examined her quickly. “Her leg is not broken, I think.”
They’d covered Devona with several blankets. Her face was pale, her brow wrinkled with pain, but she awoke finally with a soft moan.
“This place is na safe.” Leith glanced toward the north with a frown. “We must ride on.”
“She cannot,” stated Rose flatly. “There is a bruise to her head. If she is moved this day, it may cause her death.”
“And if we are found by brigands, worse may befall her,” countered Leith, his voice taut. “This border country is unsafe even for a full troop of well-armed warriors. How much more so for a frail, wee nun and a wounded widow!” He glanced at Devona’s pale countenance. But when he looked back at Rose, her arms were akimbo and her expression angry.
“I am not frail,” she stated coolly.
“And I am na a Scotsman,” Leith retorted in his heavy burr, his own hands now on his hips.
“Then discard that silly skirt and don decent clothing,” ordered Rose, eyeing his bare knees with disdain.
“Hear this, English,” growled Leith, stepping closer, “I wear me plaid with pride and na woman will—”
“Canna ye two kill each other at a later time?” questioned Colin in a low, irritated tone. “The widow is in pain.”
Rose crossed herself, speedily said a prayer for forgiveness for her neglect, and hurried to the packhorse that carried her medicine jars.
In a moment she had collected her cures and was pouring two cups of water from a flask. After adding a smidgen of gray powder to one, Rose tasted the product and scowled thoughtfully. She added a bit more powder and stirred before she retrieved the other cup and carried both to the injured woman.
“Here.” She squatted beside Devona’s prone form. “Drink. It will dull the pain and help you sleep, but you must drink it all at once.”
Devona did as she was told, gulping the liquid in one speedy quaff before screwing her face into an expression of horror and shivering from the awful bitterness. “Water,” she croaked, and found the second cup thrust into her hands.
She drank deeply and came up breathing hard, shivering again. “What is that horrid brew?”
“It’s…” Rose began but shook her head, thinking better of it. “You don’t care to know,” she assured her kindly, “but Uncle Peter called it… barn dew.”
From a short distance away, the men saw Devona smile, saw the pain slip gradually from her features.
“Yer wee nun,” began Colin in quiet wonder, “is more than ye bargained for?”
Leith was lost in thought. Who was this lady who wrapped herself in the homely robes of Christ, yet spoke in bawdy terms to lighten another’s anguish? Her burnt-crimson hair was hidden beneath the awful wimple again, her body shielded by heavy layers of wool, yet it was as if he still viewed her full beauty as revealed to him near the enchanted lochan.
Her hands looked pale and delicate as they moved over Devona’s forehead to check for heat. She seemed so frail in the soft light of gloaming. But beneath her lovely flesh Leith had found a core of tempered steel. He could not forget how her eyes flashed when she challenged him—how she’d raised her wee nose to glare up into his scowl. No lass had dared defy him—not since his fourteenth summer when he had stood on the sacred stone and become laird of the Forbes.
Who was this woman who dared provoke his anger? Who spoke to beasts and healed with mystical draughts? His gaze bore into her and from across the fire she stiffened and turned, as if called by his thoughts.
Their eyes caught and held, their expressions somber and tense. There was a strangeness between them at times—an eerie sensation they both felt, drawing their minds and their gazes as the camp was held in silence.
“Ye are scairt,” Colin said simply.
“What?” Leith asked, forced from his reverie and lowering his brows over dark, deep-set eyes.
“I said—” Colin smiled disarmingly—“ye are skilled … at being laird.”
Leith watched his brother in silence. The lad was deriving far too much enjoyment from his difficulty with the fiery lass. “I am laird,” he agreed darkly. “As well ye might recall.”
Colin chuckled. “Did I na just say so? Ye are laird, and must decide whether we continue on or stay.” His face sobered as he glanced toward Devona. “As for me, I will care for the widow, no matter what the circumstances.”
Leith watched Colin, reading the concern in his brother’s eyes, and thinking Devona had set her cap for a good man. “She would suffer much from the journey to Glen Creag,” he said darkly.
“She would.”
“The journey ahead will be harsher than the journey behind,” Leith added. “And I have na time to tarry. I need to reach the MacAulay with the wee nun at me side, ere he breathes his last.”
“So she is to pose as Fiona then. The auld bastard’s daughter,” Colin observed quietly.
Leith lifted his gaze to Rose, who squatted beside Devona.
“She has the fire of a Highlander.”
“But will she agree to yer game?”
“She was na meant to be a nun. That I ken. And I will treat her well,” Leith vowed.
Colin shook his head. “I wish ye luck, for I think mayhap ye have met yer match.”
“And ye?” Leith asked, shifting his gaze back to his brother.
Colin only shrugged. “I will see the widow safely back to her kinsmen, for ye will surely reach Glen Creag before she is fit to travel there.”
For a moment they were silent, knowing the import of his words.
“There will be danger.” Leith spoke for them both, and though he referred to Colin’s return to England, they knew his own travels north might prove far worse.
“I am a Highlander,” said Colin soberly.
There was silence again, broken only by the soft, eerie whistle of wind through the new leaves on the branches overhead.
“Aye,” Leith said finally, and, with a nod, clapped a firm hand to his brother’s arm, feeling the rugged strength there. “Aye,” he said again, his tone as grave as his expression. “Ye are indeed a Highlander. Let the brigands be warned.”
Chapter 8
They made their camp less than half a mile from where Devona had fallen, at the top of a pleasant hillock where gnarled pines grew in a dense clutter, diffusing the smoke of their fire.
Rose turned restively beneath the warmth of the soft plaid, feeling the strange disquiet that sometimes plagued her. Devona slept soundly and although Colin watched for enemies, she could not rest. Close at hand, Leith lay with his back toward her. She wondered if he too remained awake, watching the darkness.
Time slid by and no evil came. An owl cried his eloquent night song and Rose relaxed a bit, listening to the noises of the darkness—a time she had long
cherished, when the world was filled with mystery, and she could dream of things that might be.
Half in sleep the noise came to her—a scraping of sound, a footstep. Or was it a noise at all?
Evil! The sensation spilled around her like curdled milk, filling her senses, and suddenly she was on her feet.
“Leith!” She screamed his name in unison with a wildcat’s shriek. “Leith!” She was frozen to her spot, but the Forbes was already standing, sword in hand, his broad legs spread as two assailants flew through the darkness toward him.
“Dear God!” she whispered, scrambling backward, terror gripping her.
Colin was not far away, his back to her, his sword clashing with another’s.
Behind her, Devona screamed. Colin’s war cry wailed and his rival fell. Rose saw him run, sprinting past the sputtering fire to the widow’s side.
But now there was no more time for thought. Three men surrounded Rose, their expressions hard and leering as they tore at her clothes. She shrieked in roiling anguish, but the sound was lost in her thrashing. Fabric tore. She screamed again, forgetting to pray—forgetting everything but the consuming terror.
A man shrieked in pain.
“No time!” hissed an assailant, his breath fetid against her face. “Take her along.”
Rose shrieked again, but the sound was cut short as an arm encircled her throat, muffling her wail. “No!” Her cry was no more than a sob. The arm yanked at her and she was spun about, dragged into the darkness.
Dear Lord! There were more men! Panic held her in its icy clasp, stiffening her knees, and she fell. Shadowy forms circled her, one clutching her to him.
He smelled of sour sweat and horrid, indistinguishable things.
“Pretty wench,” he crooned, grasping at her.
Sweet Jesus, save me! She managed a silent prayer and jerked spasmodically away, leaving her woolen wimple behind in his hand and trying to lunge for safety. But there was no escape. Other hands pawed at her, groping.
“Leave be!” roared a voice. “We have no time now. Did you get their horses?”
“All but the white beast,” snarled another, cradling a wounded arm. “I will cut the devil’s throat.”
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