Highland Flame (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  She didn’t argue or agree. Neither did she speak, and Roderic found himself wondering how quickly Nevin could impale him upon his sword should he reach out to shake her from her trance.

  “Lass?” he questioned gently. “Are ye well?”

  “Aye,” she said. “Ye are the one who is ill.”

  Roderic chuckled. “Nay, lass. I have never felt better. Na that that means I can escape yonder tower,” he hurried to add. “Indeed, ye have assured me I canna, which surely gives ye an excellent chance of winning a fine steed.”

  She remained mute, staring at him.

  “Come now, lass, I would offer ye more, but ye did na give me a chance to take much with me when I left Glen Creag.”

  Flame said nothing, and in that moment Roderic praised himself for baiting the hook well. Only after seeing Dun Ard did he realize the poverty of the MacGowans. And only now could he understand the value she would place on a stallion of Mor’s quality.

  “Come, Flanna,” he urged again. “The steed will be yers free and clear with me vow na ta attempt ta retrieve him.”

  He could almost see her internal struggle. He was a handsome, tempting man, and she probably felt she couldn’t trust herself in such a situation.

  “What say ye, lass?” he whispered. “I swear na ta do anything ta compromise yer innocence unless…” He smiled. “Unless ye canna control yerself.”

  She blinked. Bright color had finally returned to her cheeks, making her look young and angelic and awed.

  “Dunna be scairt, lass,” he crooned.

  “And ye would be … naked?” She leaned forward to whisper the words to him.

  Good God, she was a bonny thing. “Aye, lass, I would,” he breathed. “What say ye?”

  “What can I do but agree?” she murmured huskily. “For ye are such an…” She leaned closer still and placed a palm to his bare chest Heat radiated from her touch and he nearly closed his eyes to better appreciate the exhilarating sensations. But suddenly she shoved him backward with a mighty heave. Droplets splashed in every direction as his buttocks hit the water, and when he had swept his wet hair from his eyes, she was standing dry and regal upon the shore. “An arrogant bastard who has already forfeited his steed.” She pivoted away but turned back in a moment. “Oh,” she added, “ye can thank me later for helping ye bathe.”

  Chapter 5

  They would all pay. But she would suffer the most. The Flame of the MacGowans—the whore of the MacGowans! Aye, she would pay the dearest price. For she had cost him the most. But he must not let anyone suspect his intent. He must keep his bloodlust at bay, for he had planned too long and too carefully to be foolish now. He would watch and wait, and soon all would be his.

  When Roderic returned to the tower, he saw that someone had brought in a straw-filled pallet, a small, rough-hewn table, and a rickety chair. They were the only pieces of furniture that now graced his lofty prison.

  Lying on his back, he stared up at the lead sheeting of the ceiling and determined that Flanna MacGowan was not a normal woman. Normal women did not become leaders of unruly Highland tribes. They did not ride out in the middle of the night to kidnap a member of an allied clan. And they did not push him in the water. He shifted uncomfortably, but his sodden plaid was still firmly belted to his waist, reminding him of the humiliation of returning to his tower room dripping wet. Nevin had laughed out loud and related the entire episode to Bullock as they barred the door of the tower room. And though Flanna had controlled her humor, he could see the emerald spark of laughter in her eyes.

  No, she was not a normal woman. She was haughty and aloof—and so damned alluring he ached for… No!

  He was not attracted to her even though she had skin like fine satin and… God’s wrath, he had best leave before he made a complete fool of himself. Rising quickly, Roderic strode to the door. “Bullock?”

  There was a moment’s delay, then, “What be ye wanting, Forbes?” The guard’s tone was tight. These people didn’t like him much, it seemed. A pity, Roderic thought, but something that couldn’t be helped since they wouldn’t be meeting again after tonight.

  ” ‘Tis cold I am, and tired. Might ye fetch me a blanket that I could sleep?”

  “Why should I get ye anything, Forbes?”

  “Well now…” Roderic stared thoughtfully at the heavy timbers that kept them apart. Being wrapped in wet wool had a tendency to make him irritable and the guard’s attitude failed to improve his mood. “Because I am yer prisoner, held for ransom and dependent on yer good graces,” he said, remembering his manners.

  “I have na good graces toward bastards.”

  Roderic scowled at the door. He was determined to be polite, but the other was insulting his father, and his mother, too, for that matter. Therefore, there seemed little reason not to bait this insolent MacGowan. ” ‘Twas wondering, Bullock, how is it ye came by yer name. ‘Tis because of yer build or is it yer intelligence they refer to?”

  Roderic thought he heard the man growl, but the portal remained closed. “I am tempted ta kill ye. But a thieving Forbes is na worth me effort.”

  Roderic deepened his scowl. The man had not only insulted his heritage but had accused him of thievery. Still, Roderic made certain his tone was patient, for there was no need to be rude when starting a brawl. “So ye, too, think that we Forbeses have stolen yer horses?”

  “Aye,” came the growled response. “I saw ye with me own eyes. The mighty Forbeses take great pride in their colors and dunna hide their plaids, do they now?”

  “So ye saw the Forbeses’ tartans?” Roderic asked. “How many warriors? What night was this?”

  The door swung open with surprising speed and Bullock strode in. His face was red with rage and his fist wrapped about a spear.

  “I tire of yer feigned innocence, Forbes. Are ye such a coward that ye canna even admit yer deeds?”

  Roderic remained very still, forgetting his quest to learn the truth. Rage was a fool’s defense. He took a deep, calming breath and watched Bullock’s eyes. “Do ye call me a coward, man?”

  “Aye,” came the gritted response, “that I—”

  Good sense told Roderic to remain as he was and let the anger flow over him. Hot blood told him to strike.

  Feigning a left-handed blow to Bullock’s chin, Roderic struck his right fist in the other man’s belly. The man was built like a castle wall. Still, he bent slightly and in that instant, Roderic swept an upper cut to his jaw. Before Bullock fell, Roderic caught him about the neck and pulled his back up against his own chest. In an instant the other’s spear was in his hand.

  There was a clatter of footsteps as another guard raced up the stairs and skidded to a halt before them, sword unsheathed, eyes wide.

  Roderic nodded once. “William, isn’t it?” he asked.

  William’s face was pale when he returned the nod.

  “Listen, lads,” Roderic began. “I have been wanting ta say ‘tis sorry I am about yer friend’s death. Shaw seemed a likable sort.”

  William’s lips moved, yet no words came. Roderic supposed it did seem a strange time for him to voice condolences, considering he held another MacGowan in a death grip even as he spoke.

  “Well now …” he said, clearing his throat and feeling a bit foolish. ” ‘Tis like this, I want a blanket and a chance to sleep. And,” he added as an afterthought, “I would like me evening meal early. Do ye think ye could do that… or will I have ta kill the two of ye?”

  William was a middle-aged man, average in both height and weight, but what he lacked in size he made up for in sheer Scottish bravado, it seemed. “Let him go, Forbes,” he said. “Ye’ll na get by me.”

  Roderic tilted his head in concession to the man’s bold words. ‘Twas not an easy thing to hold one’s nerve when looking death in the eye. “I appreciate yer courage, man, but ye surely misunderstand me. I dunna mean ta get by ye. I only mean ta have me meal and a blanket. Bullock here took exception to those requests.”

  “Y
e filthy bastard!” croaked Bullock. His thick neck was bent sharply backward. “Kill me then and have done with it. Just as ye did with Simon.”

  Roderic remained very still, considering every word. “Simon?” he asked softly.

  “Gawd!” Bullock growled, breathing noisily and pressing the hard crown of his head against Roderic’s chest. “I should have skewered ye ta the wall.”

  “Who is Simon?”

  “Dunna play me for the fool,” gasped Bullock, enraged. “Ye are a filthy—”

  But before he could finish his insult, Roderic’s patience had fled. Tightening his neck-hold with a snarl, he lifted his gaze to the other warrior’s. “Gawd’s wrath! Who is this Simon?”

  William glanced at Bullock’s reddened face before hurrying his gaze to Roderic’s. “He was the herald Lady Flame sent to ask for an audience with yer brother.”

  Roderic searched William’s face for some sign that he lied. There was none. “And?”

  “And his horse came back with naught but Simon’s head and a note from yer brother, the laird.”

  Roderic ground his teeth. Beneath his arm, Bullock struggled one last time and went lax. “Gawd’s wrath!” he swore and let the body slip to the floor. “Take him out of here!” he yelled, nodding to the limp man and dropping the spear beside him. “And bring me that damned blanket!”

  Roderic’s evening meal arrived with his freshly laundered shirt and the blanket he had requested. Flame came shortly after that. Her expression was somber and her stance stiff. “‘Twas kind of ye to point out the fact that I should keep two guards at your door at all times,” she said.

  Her words fell into the silence like a flat joke. Nevertheless, Roderic grinned. “Glad I am ye appreciated me efforts.”

  “And I’m pleased that ye were not foolish enough to try to escape entirely. I would, after all, hate to inform your brother of your death.”

  Roderic snorted. “Dunna be ridiculous. Bullock had fallen like a great stone. If I had wanted ta escape all I would have had to do was…” He stopped suddenly and drew a deep breath. “I willna let ye bait me anger, lass.” Rising from his chair, he paced the room once, then stopped not far from her. “Why did ye na tell me of Simon?”

  “Why should I tell ye what ye already know, Forbes?”

  Why could she not be normal, he wondered. Normal women did not make him angry, and he didn’t like to get angry. He had learned as a child that when anger took control, people died. His father had been a rash man—and long dead.

  “Let us assume for just a wee bit that I ken nothing of yer losses,” he said.

  Flame opened her mouth to refuse his request, but he raised a hand, palm outward to stop her.

  “If I had cut off Bullock’s breath just a wee bit longer he would be dead. It could be said, lass, that ye owe me for sparing yer men’s lives.” He held her with his eyes, reading her emotions and watching her expressions. “When did ye send yer messenger ta me brother?”

  She was silent for a few moments but finally answered. “‘Twas five days since. ‘Twas Nevin’s idea. And for once, he and Troy agreed. Most of the men wished to make a raid instead of a peace parley.” She smiled grimly. “But I thought surely it was for the best to make an attempt at peace while I could. Simon set out in the bright light of day, carrying no weapons.”

  Her back was as straight and stiff as Bullock’s spear. “His horse came home with a missive from your brother. Oh, and strapped to the steed’s saddle was Simon’s—”

  “I have heard the rest of the tale,” Roderic interrupted, turning abruptly away.

  “Ye have heard it?” she asked grimly. “Or ye have caused it?”

  He pivoted about. “Ye ken little of men if ye think that of me, lady.”

  “Then I know little of men,” she vowed and strode from the room.

  Roderic lay atop his lumpy pallet and contemplated the water stains on the lead ceiling above him. Water stains meant there was a good chance he would get wet when it rained. And they had served mutton for supper. He hated mutton. Thus he had two excellent reasons to leave. Besides, he had only promised to stay until sunset and it was well past that time.

  Scowling at the cloud-shaped stain, he thought about the meat he had stored in his sporran. He would be a fool not to leave, of course. The MacGowans were a hot-blooded clan and dangerous. They hated the Forbeses, and they hated him.

  He sat up and swung his feet over the side of his humble pallet. He had removed his footgear some hours earlier and sat now deep in silent debate.

  If he stayed he might untangle the mystery that haunted him. Who had killed Simon and sent the note signed with Leith’s name? He knew his brother far too well to ever suspect him of such a heinous act But someone had done it, and Roderic needed to know the truth. On the other hand, if he stayed, someone might soon be wondering who had killed him.

  Reaching to the far side of his ugly straw tick, Roderic retrieved his leather sporran and rose. The wise thing to do would be to leave now. The safe thing would be to leave now. There was no reason to think he couldn’t solve this puzzle from outside Dun Ard as well as from within its walls.

  With that decision made, Roderic glanced about the room. The tower boasted one window. It was shuttered and narrow and more than thirty feet above the nearest wall.

  But the drop to the stone parapet didn’t concern him. Leith had often said Roderic had been born to be an acrobat or perhaps a jester. Approaching the window, Roderic reached into his sporran and extracted the cold hunk of greasy mutton. He rubbed the meat onto the rusty hinges and hook, then silently swung the shutters open. He was halfway home.

  Removing his plaid, he slipped a corner of it around a hinge and pinned it in place with his brooch. It was lucky indeed that Flanna had returned his shirt to him, he thought, or he would be roaming about Dun Ard just as his mother had birthed him. Only larger, and stronger, and infinitely more handsome. He smiled as he tied his sporran about his waist. Then, he retrieved the borrowed blanket from his pallet, knotted the thing to the end of his plaid, and tossed the bound woolens through the window. ‘Twas a fine night for a prowl, but the MacGowans would owe him dearly—a brooch, a plaid, and his favorite pair of boots.

  The sandstone blocks of the tower wall felt cool against his feet as he descended. Something gave slightly, but whether it was the brooch or the hinge or the wool itself, Roderic couldn’t be sure. Still he skimmed downward, unperturbed by the instability of his rope. His first true concern was when the blanket ended nearly ten feet above the walkway he intended to reach.

  Roderic scowled into the dark depths. The parapet was perhaps twice the width of his body and sloped downward in both directions. To the left of that and perhaps six feet below was the stone walkway which completed the enormous width of the wall. To the right was a long, dark, and painful drop into death.

  Above him, something groaned against his weight.

  Probably the blanket, he thought. ‘Twould be like the MacGowans to make inferior wool just to spite him.

  Taking a deep breath and sending one quick prayer to his maker, Roderic eased to the end of the blanket, swung to the left, and dropped. His feet hit the parapet, numbing them with the force of the impact and throwing him onto the very edge of the walkway, where he clung like a cat on a limb.

  A dark abyss stared him in the face. Somewhere far below was the bailey. His toes curled, his fingers clutched at the stone. He teetered forward, and then with a Herculean effort hauled himself back against the cold wall behind him. He lay there for a spell, gasping for breath and listening for any untoward noises from above or below.

  No unusual sounds caught his attention, so he leaned his head gratefully back, taking in deep breaths and gathering his strength.

  The cool air finally convinced him to get moving. He glanced at his legs. They were mostly bare, only partly hidden by the length of his freshly laundered shirt. ‘Twas a shameful way for a Forbes to return to his homeland. Roderic had half a mind to march
into Flanna MacGowan’s bedchamber and demand the use of a tartan to cover his nakedness. Or perhaps he should simply leave her something to remember him by, to prove he could not only escape but could breach her very chambers and watch her as she slept.

  The night was very quiet. From somewhere far away, an owl called. Roderic smiled. Damned if he wasn’t tempted to see her just once more. Not because he was attracted to her, but merely to gloat. Easing his back away from the wall, he glanced about. Where would she sleep?

  Dun Ard was not nearly so large or so well fortified as Glen Creag. The tower and forward part of the wall were crafted from stone, but most of the remainder of the fortress was made from crude, native timbers, the far side being perched on the edge of an almost unscalable precipice. He had noticed that the kitchen was set on the far side of the bailey and was also made of timber, a fact which spoke of Dun Ard’s lack of stone or manpower or both. The broad sweeps of a windmill were not far away. The stable stood opposite where he now rested, which left the keep, the heart of the castle, as the only place where the MacGowans’ Lady Flame would sleep.

  Roderic rapped his index finger silently against the stone, thinking. ‘Twas tempting indeed to wish her farewell, though Leith would have his hide if he knew the unnecessary risks he took. Still, Roderic reasoned, rising to a crouched position, ‘twas his hide and none other’s. Excitement pumped through his veins. Darkness was an old companion, one he loved for its mystery and challenge.

  Less than twenty feet from where he had landed, stairs began. Roderic descended them carefully, hugging the wall in the darkness. There seemed to be no upper floor entrance to the keep from the tower, which meant he would have to cross the hall in search of Flanna’s chambers.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Roderic halted. Through the arched, stone doorway, he could see the interior of the hall. The last efforts of a fire still burned in the great hearth to his right. Gathered about the dying embers was a plethora of scrambled bodies. Someone shifted, muttering in his sleep. Roderic eased back against the wall, debating. Everyone seemed to be unconscious and therefore would cause no problems. But it would take only a single waking man to make trouble.