Highland Flame (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  The old woman swished the contents of her mug and stared lovingly into the depths of the golden liquid. “’Tis na that I dunna enjoy a good jest, lad, but after the way ye have toiled here this day, I think it only fair that I tell ye … the steed is worthless.”

  “Worthless? He’s of good size and quality.”

  Flame listened with only half an ear. She felt sleepy and strangely content. From outside the hut came the soft bleating of a goat to her kids.

  “Aye. He be a braw one. But he willna be rode.” Widow Lamont shrugged. “‘Tis lek the MacGowans ta send me such a beast.” With a sigh, she finished her drink. “He is worthless, unless ye wish ta eat him. I have threatened ta do just that, but wee Wini here carries on so.” She scowled. “’Tis perhaps me own good heart that keeps us paupers.”

  Flame nearly smiled. Though the old mistress loudly professed her beggarly state, it seemed she and her daughters brewed a unique and potent beer somewhere in the woods nearby. Little Wini had even confessed that Laird Lamont himself had developed a taste for their special recipe.

  Flame settled herself more comfortably on the bench she shared with the three daughters. Sometime during the day their names had been revealed as Ellie, Kate, and Winifred. “My utmost thanks for the stew and the wondrous hospitality,” she said and had never spoken a truer word, for athough the old woman was coarse and the daughters jittery, there was an earthy honesty about them that comforted Flame.

  They had loaned her a gown. It was constructed of the same worn, mousy-colored fabric as their own and was stretched a bit tight across Flame’s torso. Still, it was a far cry better than bumbling about in a tartan that had been resurrected from the crumbled remains of a forgotten fireplace. A strip of cloth had been torn from a rag and Flame had plaited it into her hair and bound the heavy braid loosely atop her head.

  She drew an easy breath and leaned against the wall now. She was comfortable. She was momentarily safe, and her belly was full. Rarely had she realized the sheer pleasure those simple luxuries could give.

  “Ellie here be a foine cook,” said the crone in response to Flame’s thanks. She nodded to the tallest of her daughters, whose hair hung limply beside her face. After a day spent in the girl’s presence, Flame had begun to wonder if there might not be a golden hue to the girl’s oily tresses. “And twould make a foine wife fer some strapping lad.”

  Flame turned toward Roderic. Their eyes met with an unexpected clash before he pulled his gaze away. “‘Tis the truth ye be saying, mistress, but I’m sure ye’ll agree the likes of me is na meant fer any decent lass.”

  “Aye.” The old crone leaned closer to him and whispered, “It’ll be a maid with a bit of fire under her skirts fer the leks of ye. Someone who’ll burn ye raw and leave ye begging fer more.”

  Roderic raised his brows. “Ye think so?”

  “Aye,” said the crone, flitting her gaze to the mass of Flame’s crinkly, auburn tresses. “Mayhap a wench with hair like fire and a temper ta match.”

  Flame snapped her back into a straight line. Did the old crone suspect who she was? Did she know they weren’t brother and sister, she wondered. But the mistress just chuckled and tore a bit of crust from her bread to toss it to Bonny, who rested on the floor near her master’s feet.

  The silence seemed as stiff as ice to Flame, but Ellie spoke up now, apparently not noticing the strain. “Yer hair be as bonny as the springtime, Cara,” she said softly. “As bright as a pimpernel on a sunny day.”

  Flame touched her hair selfconsciously. She had never liked her unruly mass of tresses, for it seemed to have an unwieldy spirit of its own. As a child, she had thought it a symbol of the evil that lurked within her.

  “My thanks, Ellie,” she said, sincerely touched. “‘Tis a bit wild, I fear.”

  “Ahh,” said the crone, slurping a draft of homebrewed beer from her just-filled mug. “But some lads take a liking ta the wild ones, aye, Gillie?”

  “Aye,” said Roderic, eyeing Flame intently, “some do indeed.”

  The crone chuckled again as if thinking herself quite clever, but now the second daughter piped up. “Na, ‘tis na too wild atall. ‘Tis lovely ta behold. I only wish …” She touched her own limp hair and grimaced.

  “Well,” said Flame slowly, “it is not very late, and it would only take a short time to plait yours.”

  “Nay,” said Ellie, but Wini, the youngest and barely past the age of thirteen, chimed in.

  “Could ye? ‘Twould be a lovely thing ta look lek ye,” she said and blushed a bright hue.

  To her dismay, Flame found that she, too, was blushing. “It would be my honor,” she said.

  “But ye must be tired,” argued Ellie weakly.

  “No,” Flame objected, “ye were kind enough to help … me brother with the chores he performed, leaving me to while the day away.” It was true. The three girls had clambered around him like excited hens, fetching whatever he needed, bringing him drinks, wiping his brow, for God’s sake. Still, it was difficult to resent them.

  In a moment the rough-hewn table was cleared and the wooden bowls washed and set aside. The three girls lined up before Flame, looking nervous.

  Eyeing the trio, Flame scowled mentally. This might be more difficult than she had suspected, for their hair seemed so … limp.

  “Ye ken, Cara,” Roderic began, “the lasses have worked verra hard this day. If they would wish ta bathe, I would carry water from the burn.”

  Flame turned to look at him. Who was this man, raised to command warriors and yet willing to carry water for women? Sitting, relaxed and quiet as he was, he looked for all the world like a great warlord come to rest at the end of the day, and yet, sometimes, it was difficult to imagine him as anyone’s enemy, for his very presence made people smile.

  “Cara,” he repeated, breaking into Flame’s thoughts.

  “Water!” she said, guiltily tearing her gaze from him. Of course, the girls’ hair needed a bit of scrubbing. “My thanks… Gillie. Ye fetch the water and we will set some above the fire.”

  “A … bath?” murmured Winifred dubiously. “But will we na catch the ague and die?”

  “Nay,” assured Flame, who unlike many of her own royal kinsmen, cherished a bath on fairly frequent basis. “’Tis a warm night. It will not hurt ye in the least. In fact, I bathe every—”

  Beneath the table, Roderic rapped her shin with the toe of his borrowed boot.

  “Month,” Flame said, remembering that she was no longer the lady of the MacGowans and therefore not granted the privileges allowed that title. “I bathe every month and it has not hurt me yet.”

  The old crone chuckled to herself. “Fetch the water, lad. ‘Twill do me heart good ta see yer back flex. ‘Tis just a pity Kate had ta find that blasted tartan, or I might watch more than that.”

  Roderic rose with a grin but leaned close to the old woman’s ear. “‘Tis still some fire under yer skirt, is there na, mistress?”

  “Aye, lad,” she said with a wink. “And if I were but ten years younger I’d be setting yer tail alight.”

  Chuckling, Roderic headed for the door.

  An old half barrel was dragged before the simple hearth. Roderic brought water from the burn and Ellie filled the kettle suspended above the fire. A blanket was strung up between the barrel and the remainder of the tiny hut for privacy, and soon little Wini had been coaxed from her clothes and urged into the impromptu tub.

  Her body was as slim as a willow just beginning to bud. She stood in the barrel, arms crossed selfconsciously before her.

  “You must get entirely wet,” said Flame.

  “Ye mean me whole person?”

  Flame allowed a smidgen of a grin. “Aye. And your hair, too.”

  Finally Wini was immersed. Flame scrubbed her hair with the contents of a small bottle said to have been given to them by the Lamont himself in exchange for their brew. By the third shampooing, a sweet-smelling lather bubbled from Winifred’s small head. Thrilled with the
sensation and the scent, Winifred touched her frothy halo and smiled.

  So she had been wrong again, Flame realized. This girl was not plain at all, only poor. Strange how the two could be confused.

  The other girls followed. Finally the three were dried and dressed in their best gowns. Flame pulled down the blanket and set the girls in a row before the fire to begin tugging the tangles from their hair with a comb.

  The evening was filled with selfconscious giggles, silly banter, and more than a few oohs of astonished delight as the little ducklings shed their down for glossy feathers.

  Through it all, Roderic sat in silence. But each time Flame raised her eyes to him, she found that his gaze was upon them and his chiseled features unreadable.

  His attention made her head feel strangely light and her fingers suspiciously heavy. But despite her fumbling, each girl’s hair was finally combed and plaited and coiled atop her head.

  They stood one by one to parade through the tiny hut like newly found princesses. Roderic rose to his feet and bowed with each one’s debut.

  But to Flame’s dismay, there was a scowl on the old woman’s face.

  Wini, young and painfully sensitive to her mother’s emotions, stopped the procession to bite her lip and blink into the old crone’s face.

  “Dunna ye think we look grand, Mama?” she whispered, near tears.

  The old crone cleared her throat. “A lot of foolishness this be,” she scoffed. “Will these grand airs help ye tend the brew or fetch the firewood?”

  Flame drew her back straighter. It seemed as if a million years had passed since she had been as young and tender as Winifred, and yet she could feel the sting of criticism as if it were yesterday. Her throat felt tight with the memory of her father’s scalding rejections. “Mayhap it will not see the work done,” she began tightly, “but…”

  “But it will surely draw those strapping lads ye spoke of,” Roderic broke in, stepping close and draping his arm across the crone’s shoulders.

  Flame’s gaze darted to his eyes, expecting to see ridicule there. Instead, there was the glint of admiration and something more. Something unreadable, as if he knew her feelings and longed to share her pain. Suddenly it was difficult to draw an even breath as their gazes fused together.

  “Strapping lads be well and good on a cold winter’s night,” rasped the mother irritably. “But good fer little else, methinks.”

  Roderic pulled his gaze from Flame’s. “Have ye na wish for grandchildren then, mistress?”

  “I have na wish ta say goodbye ta me lasses fer all time,” she said. “And if any man saw ye such …” Her voice broke. “Me beautiful bairns, I couldna bear ta lose ye,” she sniffled and suddenly her arms were filled with the three girls she had mothered alone all these years.

  “Na, Mama. We will never leave ye.”

  “Humph. If some strutting lad would but parade past, ye mark me words well, he would hie ye from here as quick as spit. And then where would yer auld Mama be?”

  “Sitting pretty amidst a passel of chubby faced grandchildren, methinks,” said Roderic. “Ye have a fine piece of land here, mistress, and if me guess is correct, a good hearty business for yer brew. A lad could do far worse than make his home surrounded by four such bonny women.”

  Little Wini hugged her mother’s stout waist, and Ellie, seeming suddenly taller and grander, turned to nod her thanks for Roderic’s words.

  Roderic nodded back. “‘Tis surely time ta find our sleep,” he said. “Would ye be wanting me ta bring yer goats into the hut for safekeeping?”

  Mistress Lamont sniffled again and shook her head. “Even the accursed MacGowans wouldna dare take our stock with a braw lad lek ye nearby. Go on now. Get yerself some sleep.”

  Lifting a candle from the table, Roderic set the curled and blackened wick to a nearby flame. It hissed to light. “God’s rest to ye all,” he said and touching a hand to Flame’s back, ushered her outside.

  The walk to the barn was a quiet one. Along the way, Roderic retrieved his sporran and plaid. Bonny ambled along beside them, and her master swung the door of the slanted stable open.

  Finding a lantern on a peg set into the wall, Roderic put the flame to its wick and blew out the candle. Ever so slowly, he turned to Flanna. The mellow light from the lantern shadowed and illumined her features. Her eyes were as green as living emerald. Her face seemed sculpted from purest marble. “‘Twas a kind thing ye did there,” she said.

  Her gaze didn’t shift from his, and though she spoke, he failed to hear her words, for her lips were rosebud pink and very near. He watched them form words, fascinated by their plumpness, their color, their soft allure.

  “Roderic?”

  “Aye,” he said, pulling himself from his trance with a start.

  “I said, ye certainly seemed appreciative of the changes.”

  Her throat was marvelously slim. It seemed, almost, that he would be able to span its lovely circumference with one hand, so delicate it was. And yet, she was not a feeble lass. Indeed, she had matched him stride for stride and uttered not a single complaint as they had traveled through the rain. And now the lady of the MacGowans stood in this rotting barn, prepared to spend the night without mention of her fine bed and curtains though there were barely four walls about, for some of the timbers had rotted, leaving a hole large enough for Bonny to squirm through. ‘Twas hardly a place for a fine lady to spend the dark hours, and yet she looked far more lovely and regal than all the maids he had seen at court.

  “Roderic,” she repeated.

  “Aye,” he said, again drawing himself from his reverie.

  “I said …” She licked her lips in a nervous gesture. He watched her shell pink tongue stripe her top lip with moisture before darting back under cover. “Ye certainly seemed enraptured with the procedures.”

  “Oh?” He could not help but cup his hand about her neck, for it looked so irresistibly smooth, so cool and slim and delicate. His fingers skimmed beneath the fluffy, softness of her escaping tendrils. “What procedures were those?”

  “The girls,” she breathed rapidly.

  Her ears were very small with no lobe to speak of… or to suckle. He smiled at the thought, and without plan, leaned forward to kiss her just below one delicate ear.

  “Roderic!” she gasped, pulling away, but his hand still cupped her neck, allowing her a short tether.

  “Me pardon,” he said, grinning slightly. “What were ye saying?”

  “I said ye were staring at…” Her eyes were as bright as the starlight and focused sharply on his. Her teeth were straight and milky white, her tongue seductive as it swept over them. “The girls,” she finished on an exhalation.

  “Oh. Aye,” he said and leaning forward, he kissed the pulse that raced in the tender hollow of her throat. “I couldna help but watch.” Straightening slightly, he looked directly into the fathomless lochans of her eyes. Beneath his hand, he felt her throat convulse as she swallowed. “For surely ‘tis the loveliest sight I have ever seen.”

  “I believe they were enamored with ye as well. The lasses, that is.”

  “Truly? All the lasses?” Ever so gently, he skimmed his thumb down her throat. “‘Tis glad I am ta hear that.”

  She nodded once. The motion was stiff. “But… they are young and impressionable.”

  “Aye.” Humoring a nagging whim, Roderic kissed the corner of her mobile mouth. “Easily wounded, though ye wouldna know it right off,” he said.

  He felt the rush of her breath against his mouth, but she did not pull away.

  “Nay, they hide their sensitivities well.”

  “Aye, they do, lass.”

  “Sometimes…” She swallowed again. “Sometimes they seem almost hardened and…”

  “Haughty,” he murmured, staring into her eyes.

  “Aye,” she whispered, “but perhaps they have been…”

  “Wounded,” he finished softly. “Perhaps their sire was a fool and didna care for them as a father
should. And yet, if they were but cherished they would blossom like white heather upon the hillocks.”

  Her lips trembled. “Roderic,” she rasped.

  “Aye, lass.”

  “I will lie with you,” she whispered.

  Chapter 21

  The world slowed to a grinding halt. Roderic blinked once, careful not to move lest he shatter the dream he had fallen into. She licked her lips again. He watched the nervous movement.

  “Me pardon,” he said finally. “But I almost thought ye said—”

  “I will lie with ye,” she repeated in another breathy whisper.

  Heaven’s gate! This is what he had dreamed of. What he had striven for. The answer to his tormenting fantasies. The haughty Lady MacGowan asking for his favors.

  Breathlessly, Roderic bent to kiss her, to pull her into his arms, to grant her request But errant images nagged at his mind. Images of Lady MacGowan talking with young Haydan, of the fiery Flame astride Lochan with roses in her cheeks and wind in her hair as she shouted orders to her men. Images of a girl called Cara who coaxed wispy hair atop a plain lass’s knobby pate. They were all different faces of a woman named Flanna MacGowan. And he wanted them all. Not just the passionate vixen who moaned beneath his hands, not just the kind lass who could see beauty where others could not. But Flanna, the woman.

  He straightened slightly. “What do ye mean?”

  Her laugh was nervous, her hand slightly shaky as she placed it on his chest. “I think my meaning is clear, Forbes.”

  His aching groin told him not to question this gift. He should take her in his arms now, woo her with his kisses, unwrap her with his hands, love her with his body. But she was not talking about love. She was talking about copulation.

  “Ye make it sound verra simple.”

  She laughed again, very softly. Her fingers were light and gentle against his chest. “Ye assured me it would be. That I could stroke ye and pet ye without repercussions.”

  “Well…” He caught her hand in a tight grip. It was decidedly distracting and he needed to think. “That was afore…”