Highland Jewel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  ” ‘Twas my mother,” she said quietly.

  “Yer mother?” he asked in surprise, then nodded and sighed. “Ah, I ken. The good woman always wished for ye to become a nun—in atonement for her own sins.”

  “No.” Rose shook her head. His chest felt firm and lovely against her cheek. “She never mentioned such a course until…”

  “Until,” he prompted.

  “Until her illness,” Rose finished brokenly. “She took the fever, shortly after Father died. She said …” Rose scowled at his chest, trying to stem the tears as she smoothed a wrinkle from the bandage where it crossed near his nipple.

  The shock of her fingers brushing his flesh sent excitement rippling through Leith’s body, but he hardened his jaw and remained still. “Go on, lass.”

  “She said that it was Father’s wish too.” Rose raised her eyes to his.

  Leith didn’t breathe. Her eyes were as deep and mysterious as the loch near Inverness. A man could become lost in those eyes—never to return. Never to wish to.

  “But why?” she asked softly.

  Why? Leith had completely lost her line of thought and he exhaled, longing with every inch of his being to lay her down and stoke her desire. But common sense held him still. Let the lass speak, he thought, for her soul ached.

  “Why would they wish for me to become a nun?” she questioned. “They were not the religious sort. Oh …” she hurried to explain, her wide eyes on his face, “they were good people. So good, so kind.” She smiled. “But they were…” She shrugged. “They were not afraid to laugh.”

  He stroked her hair and kept himself from touching her lips where they curved up at the memory of her parents.

  “Ye miss the laughter, wee lass?” he whispered gently.

  “Yes. I mean, no!” Her body became immediately stiff as she tried to pull from his arms. “I am to be a nun. And a nun is what I shall be,” she assured him quickly.

  He loosened his grip only slightly. “Whether God wills it or na?”

  She nodded, then scowled and shook her head violently, realizing her mistake. “Let me up.”

  “We were discussing yer parents,” Leith reminded her, trying to soothe her with his tone. “They gave na reason for their request?”

  She settled back against his chest with a sigh, realizing somewhere in the hidden recesses of her mind that there was nowhere she’d rather be. “Mother said—just before she passed on, that I was too… odd to trust…” Rose sucked in her lip and wondered for the hundredth time at her mother’s words.

  “To trust with what?” Leith scowled and Rose’s eyes fell shut.

  “To trust to this world,” she finished hollowly.

  Leith urged her head gently against his chest.

  “Me sweet, gentle babe,” he murmured. “And ye thought her words a rebuke?”

  Rose could hear the strong beat of his heart and above that thrum was the endearment her father had used. “Gentle babe,” he had said, but the words sounded different from Leith’s lips, like a forbidden fruit, sweet and dangerous.

  “What else but a rebuke?” she asked, raising her gaze.

  He shook his head. “Ye dunna see yer gifts, wee lass, for it seems ye have long denied them. And ye are too young to know the punishment for being special.”

  She scowled at him.

  “The English still hang witches, lass,” he said quietly, seeing her confusion.

  “Do you call me a witch?” she breathed. Did he believe the very thing she feared herself? Did he believe her to be evil? The devil’s tool? Could it be so? Or was there some other explanation for the shadowy images that appeared with more and more frequency in her mind?

  “There is a great difference betwixt what ye be and what people deem ye to be, wee Rose,” Leith murmured gently.

  A hundred thoughts scrambled through Rose’s mind, but she lifted a hand to cover her eyes and shook her head. “I do not know what I am, but this I know—I have promised myself to the abbey. And I shall keep my word.”

  “Rose—”

  “No.” She uncovered her eyes, placing both hands against his hard form. “I cannot deny that you move me,” she whispered hoarsely. “But I must do what I must do.”

  Their gazes held, and neither one breathed.

  But Leith spoke finally, his voice so low Rose had to lean slightly closer to hear him. “Did ye know I had a sister once, lass?” he asked.

  Rose frowned, wanting to ignore his words, to be alone with her thoughts, but the image of a feminine version of Leith suddenly seared across her mind.

  “She was beautiful,” Rose said softly, suddenly knowing that it was true.

  Her words hung like a cloud in the air, quiet and eerie.

  Leith pulled himself from the pools of her eyes, only vaguely understanding the impact of her words as he nodded.

  “Aye. That she was. Lovely as a spring flower.”

  Suddenly Rose could see her. She was a dark-haired girl with a ready smile and a small dimple in her chin that deepened when she laughed. A bonny, friendly imp of a girl who could wrench one’s heart with her laughter—who could—

  Dear God! Rose panicked, feverishly swiping the image from her mind. Where had such a vivid mental portrait come from? Perhaps she was a witch. Perhaps Leith’s words were true, she reasoned, but he was now deep in thought, not realizing her terror.

  “She was dark like our mother,” he murmured. “With black hair and dimples when she smiled. Sweet as an angel. Gentle as a wee lamb.”

  “Yes, well…” Rose began, groping for some way to banish the eerie feelings that crowded in on her, smothering her senses. “Heritage is a strange thing.”

  Leith scowled questioningly at her words.

  “Gentleness,” she answered quickly, her face tense. “It is strange how Eleanor inherited gentleness, while you …” She nodded toward his broad, bandaged chest.

  “Ye imply I am not gentle?” Leith grinned, leaning close to prove otherwise, but suddenly his expression changed to stark intensity. “How do ye know her name, lass?”

  Raw terror tore through Rose as she stared, horror-struck, at his face.

  “Eleanor,” he whispered hoarsely. “How did ye know?”

  “I don’t know,” she breathed, her face ashen.

  Leith reached for her, but she’d already sprung to her feet and was fleeing toward the horses. He followed more slowly, wanting to allow her time to think, yet worried for her safety.

  When he reached her, she was struggling to tighten the girth about Maise’s glossy barrel.

  “Rose.” He stood some feet behind her.

  “No!” She refused to face him, but hurried all the more at her task, though her fingers felt stiff and uncertain. “Do not speak. I must return home. I must.” Her voice was weak.

  “Eleanor died on MacAulay land,” Leith said quietly.

  “No.” Rose closed her eyes, saying the word like a prayer. “I don’t wish to hear.”

  “Because ye already know,” he guessed.

  “No!” She turned quickly, her hands curled to fists, her words panicked and quick. “I don’t know. How could I? I was not there. How—”

  “Shh.” He reached her in a moment, enfolding her in his arms, and she clung to him.

  “How could I know?” she whimpered fearfully.

  Leith remained silent, closing his eyes above her head and stroking her hair.

  Midnight noises surrounded them. Her arms were tight about his hard waist.

  “Ye have the gift, lass.,” he said in a ghostly soft tone. ” Tis naught to fear.”

  “No.” She breathed the denial against his bared chest. “I am a simple postulate. I am to become a nun.” She pulled quickly from his arms. “I must return home.”

  A thousand reasons for her to stay crowded Leith’s mind, but his gaze fell to the white stallion that stood not far away. Dried blood made a dark stain on his massive shoulder. “Ye must do what ye must,” he said quietly. “But first I ask that
ye would see to Beinn Fionn. He has need of yer gentle healing.”

  “Beinn?” Rose drew a shaky breath. Her eyes shifted to the stallion and she nodded. “Yes.” She sounded relieved to put her hands to something she understood. “I will need hot water—and your assistance,” she said softly, and Leith nodded.

  “I am here for ye, lass,” he assured her quietly. “I am here.”

  Her hands were like magic, Leith thought, watching her quick, careful movements.

  Beinn Fionn did not move so much as one heavy forelimb as Rose cleaned the blood and debris from his wound.

  Leith watched in silence. Many of his warriors had refused to touch the stallion. In fact, it was a joke amongst his clan that should any man shirk his duties, that same man would be put in charge of the white destrier’s care. ‘Twas a threat capable of striking fear into the most stout of hearts. And yet here was this lass cleansing the beast’s wound as if he was no more fearsome than an orphaned fawn.

  Leith shifted slightly so as to watch Rose’s fluid movements. She’d pulled a long black hair from Maise’s tail and now threaded the coarse, pliant strand through a needle.

  “Ye will stitch his wound closed?” Leith asked.

  Rose pressed the flat of her palm to Beinn’s heavy neck and spoke softly. “He is such a handsome beast. The stitches will hide the wound. It would be a shame to have his fine coat marred.”

  Leith raised his brows as he eyed the many battle scars that marked the stallion’s gigantic body. “As ye say, wee lass.”

  Beinn’s hide twitched once as the needle pierced it, but he did not move. Leith tightened his grip on the rope nevertheless and set his mind to his mission.

  “Eleanor rode a white steed,” he said softly. “Beinn’s dam, in fact. She came home with an empty saddle one autumn day.”

  Leith could see Rose’s face but could discern none of the girl’s emotions.

  “We followed her hoof prints and found me sister’s body at the bottom of a gorge on MacAulay land.”

  Silence echoed around them, broken finally by a soft question wrenched from Rose’s heart. “How did she die?”

  Leith shook his head, thinking perhaps it would make more sense to ask her that question. “I once believed Owen MacAulay, the laird’s son, had strangled her before throwing her body to the bottom of the gorge.”

  “And now?” Rose placed the last stitch and raised her eyes to Leith’s, not wanting to hear his response, but unable to avoid asking.

  He was silent for a moment, watching her.

  “Now,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “I ken that Owen was na the murderer.”

  “Then who?”

  He shook his head. “I dunna ken, but this I know—enough blood has been spilled.” He clenched his fists, and on his right cheek the jagged line of a scar showed clearly against his dark skin. “Young Myles lost the use of an arm during a raid on MacAulay’s cattle. And bonny Rachel…” He leaned his head back slightly, blaming himself for the pain endured in the few years since the feud caused by Eleanor’s death. “Rachel died bearing a child forced upon her by a MacAulay. The bairn lived for two days before following his mother into eternal sleep. How many more need die?”

  She said nothing.

  “I would have me people see peace.”

  “But they cannot forget Eleanor’s death,” Rose murmured.

  “There is much for us to forget,” Leith said. “And much for the MacAulays also, for they surely mourn young Owen’s death just as we do Eleanor’s.

  “Owen is dead?” Rose whispered, seeing a handsome man’s face mirrored in her mind.

  “Aye. He is dead. Killed and thrown into the same gorge where Eleanor was found.”

  Rose remained still as a thousand thoughts pressed forth for consideration.

  “There is much to forget,” Leith repeated, shaking his head. “Much that will na be forgotten if the MacAulay dies. For though he is a wily bastard and a thieving hound, he does na want bloodshed.”

  “And what if I go with you? What if I do all I can, but the Lord takes the MacAulay to his final resting place—despite my efforts?” Rose asked softly. “What then?”

  “Then Dugald will be chieftain,” Leith said. “Dugald, whose wife was Owen’s sister. Dugald, who has sworn to avenge the death of his brother by law.” He nodded slowly, his expression solemn. “There will be blood.”

  Chapter 11

  Rose had given Devona another soothing draught and wrapped her ankle in strips of cloth to protect it from jarring. Though her leg must have hurt a great deal, she seemed in good spirits—considerably better than her own, Rose thought.

  “You will be safe,” said the widow suddenly.

  Rose scowled up into the woman’s brown eyes.

  “The Forbes is a great warrior,” explained Devona. “He will keep you from harm.”

  “And who will keep me safe from the Forbes?” Rose asked, surprising even herself with her honesty.

  Devona laughed. “And why would you want to be safe from him, Rose Gunther?” she asked. “I myself would have set my sights on the elder brother if I did not have a weakness for fair-haired charmers. But no.” She lifted her gaze momentarily to watch the two men not far away. “I am an excellent judge of people. And this is as it should be.”

  Rose’s scowl deepened with her perplexity, but before she could question Devona’s words, the widow turned the gray’s head toward the south with no explanation.

  “I will miss yer claymore at my right side,” Leith said, resting one hand on the bridle of his brother’s horse as he looked up at Colin. “But ‘tis our duty to see the widow safely back to her people, for she canna now travel at the pace we will set for the Highlands.”

  “I will make certain no evil befalls her,” Colin assured him. “And see ye soon in the hall of our father.”

  Leith nodded. “Take care, brother.”

  “That I will. And ye care for yerself. There are many who would be glad to take the life of the laird of the Forbes.”

  “That willna happen,” Leith said, releasing the bridle to stroke the bay stallion’s slick neck. “Remember, I have the wrath of the wee nun to protect me.”

  “Farewell then, me liege,” Colin said with a grin. “Farewell, Rose Gunther. God be with ye,” he called, then set his heels to the stallion’s sides to hurry after Devona’s retreating form.

  The days passed, mile by rugged mile.

  Leith spoke little, but seemed ever alert, rarely sleeping, always watchful, now and then pointing out a distant view as the land rose more and more steeply about them.

  There was an inexplicable allure to this craggy country. A wild, almost eerie beauty that left Rose stunned and silent.

  At times she would see a flash of Silken’s golden form as he paralleled their course, but even that sight could not keep her long from thoughts of her future.

  How had life changed so for her? Even her clothes. She glanced down, noticing the fine embroidered skirt and mantle she now wore. There seemed to be nothing left of Rose Gunther, postulate of Saint Mary’s. And yet, it was difficult to mourn the English girl’s passing, for here in the Highlands a new person grew, a free-spirited lass whose hair blew behind her, grazing the black hide of the beautiful mare she rode.

  Thunder rumbled through the sky as Rose crested a rocky knoll. The country spread out below in shades of green, broken by jagged ridges of rock and sparse copses of trees. A maverick gust of wind brushed her face with unusual force and she lifted her chin, filling her nostrils with the sweet scents of heather and rain.

  Leith felt his heart swell as he watched her. No matter her heritage or place of birth, in her soul she was a Scot. He could see it in her face, in the way her hands held the black mare’s reins, in the way her violet eyes swept the land—as if it were hers, handed down to her through countless generations.

  He had no reason to feel guilty. What did it matter that she thought he had brought her along to heal the MacAulay? In her he
art she had no wish to return to England. She would be happy as his wife. And he…

  Leith felt his manhood harden as he thought of her in his bed. Aye. She was meant to be his, meant to be the instrument that brought peace to his clan. And in years to come she would thank him.

  “It will rain soon, lass,” he said softly from some paces to her left. “We need to find cover.”

  It took Rose a moment to pull her eyes from the surrounding country. It was a magical place, windswept and crisp, with a chattering stream rolling beside them. A wondrous place—sacred maybe— making her heart ache with its rugged beauty. What it was about this country that touched her, she did not know, and yet she felt its effects like a strong tonic. “I do not mind a little rain, Scotsman,” she said finally, her tone almost reverent.

  It was the answer Leith had wanted. She was the very embodiment of Scotland, and would make old MacAulay a better daughter than the child he had lost.

  Leith watched Rose’s face as she reined her mount down the hill. He had been patient, giving her time to think, to accept the changes. But he could wait no longer. Her nearness made him ache. Of course that was not why he would teach her the meaning of desire tonight. Hardly that. Tonight he would stoke her passion to prove the rightness of their union.

  Aye. Leith smiled as Beinn followed the girl’s mare. Tonight she would agree that she belonged to him forever.

  The rain drove hard into their faces, and though it was warm, Rose shivered violently, her heavy, saturated clothes no barrier against the sharp wind.

  “Here,” Leith called from somewhere ahead and Rose squinted through the dense sheet of rain, pressing Maise carefully down a water-slick decline.

  Beinn appeared only a few feet ahead of her, Leith a dark shape atop his back. “Come, lass,” he called, gesturing toward her. “I have found us a wee bit of comfort.”

  A copse of trees stood blown and dark before them. Rose dismounted stiffly, finding her legs cramped and her fingers aching, nearly unable to hold the water-softened leather reins.

  “This way,” he called, and she stepped into the woods, slipping in a puddle and feeling the mud splash cold and gritty against her face. In the trees, the rain was not so dense but fell in hard, fat drops that coursed down her neck to chill her to her bones.