by Aileen Adams
She shrugged. “Do ye not think it pretty? Everything, I mean. The trees and clouds. The breeze is so sweet, the air is so fresh and new.”
“Pretty,” he muttered, turning away from her again.
She glared at the back of his head. “Aye. I believe it is. I believe there are many things to be glad about.”
“Would ye care to enlighten me?”
She scowled. “For one, I was glad for a moment to no longer be locked away by Angus Cameron, though I’m beginning to wonder if the company I’m in now is much better.”
He snorted. “I had guessed as much.”
“Guessed?”
“That ye did not enjoy being with me. ‘Tis all right, truly, as not many wish to be in my presence.”
“Because ye are so hideous?” she snapped as she brought the horse to a stop.
He did the same, bringing the animal around that they might stand face-to-face. “So, you’ve finally come out with it.”
“Why not? It is what ye believe I believe. It is what ye believe the world believes. I already told ye, I think nothing of your scar.” It was a lie. Even seeing the thing again after looking at the back of his head for an hour was startling, and she had been with him for days.
“Lying is not something ye do well,” he snarled.
“All right, then.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Aye, ‘tis a terrible thing that happened to ye, but I already told ye I do not think it is as bad as ye believe it is. Why is it so difficult for ye to believe?”
“I have seen the way people look at me—or do not look at me,” he added with a snort. “Do ye know that one of the lasses who worked in the Cameron household screamed and ran away when she saw me?”
Her heart dropped. Would that the silly thing were in front of her now. She would have liked to wring her neck, whoever she was. “I am sorry. That ought not to have happened. I would spare ye that pain.”
“I didna say it pained me, lass, and ‘tis not your place to spare me anything.”
No. It was not her place. She ought not to have said it. Even so… “Ye did a great deed, rescuing me. I would not wish to see ye insulted. But ye cannot blame me for the way the world treats ye. The world is full of foolish people. I am not one of them.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I would take care if I were ye,” she warned, a hint of a smile tugging one corner of her mouth.
“There are many things I would call ye, lass, but a fool is not one of them,” he assured her with a slight smile of his own, bringing the gelding about that they might continue on.
“I’m not finished with ye,” she shouted. “I wish to look upon ye when I say this, Donnan Ross.”
He stopped, turning about again. “Aye?” he murmured, one eyebrow raised.
Would that he might not look upon her that way. She knew he did not intend to make a flush color her cheeks, did not mean to make her palms go slick with sweat. The twittering of birds no longer rang in her ears, as the rush of blood drowned out nearly all other sound.
How could he think himself horrible when he made her stomach clench as he did?
She swallowed before speaking, then whispered, “I… cannot remember what I was going to say.”
She truly could not, for everything she’d been thinking disappeared as though a strong wind blew it from her mind the moment he looked at her.
It was not until that evening, when they’d made camp for what would be the last time before reaching the Anderson house, that Donnan made a confession.
He sat before the fire, his back to the saddle which he’d propped against a tree trunk, long legs stretched out before him. He was the very image of strength, solidity.
She could hardly take her eyes from him.
“Ye know the old woman I told ye about?” he murmured, looking at her through the wall of hair he tried so hard to keep in from of his face.
“Aye. Bronwen.”
He nodded. “She was not always alone in that cottage, ye see. She had a husband once. A daughter. The husband died many winters before I ever stepped foot in her garden, and her daughter had married a man who made his living chopping down trees, cutting them into logs and such. They lived perhaps a day’s ride from the old woman.”
He drew a deep breath which he let out slowly, while Fenella twisted a strand of hair between two fingers, waiting. Chewing her lip. Knowing something dreadful was to come, simply from the heaviness of his voice.
“I had not been there for more than a month when the daughter decided to pay a visit—along with her own daughter, who could not have been much more than five years of age. I canna blame the child for what happened. I wanted to at first. I wanted to blame them both. But a wee bairn knows nothing of life or of war. She didna know what to think when she saw me there, sitting in a chair by the fire while Bronwen made a new tunic for me in the other chair.”
“Och…” Fenella closed her eyes, imagining what must have happened.
“She screamed—shrieked, really,” he muttered. “Then began wailing, pressing her face to her mother’s skirts. And the mother did no better, gasping and turning away, sounding ill and demanding I leave the place, screaming that I ought to leave her mother alone. Bronwen did what she could to calm the woman, explained to her who I was. It did nothing to help.”
Fenella said nothing.
He shook his head while his mouth twisted up in disgust. “Finally, Bronwen had no choice but to ask her to leave. The wee lass was still wailing—she would not turn toward me or even look away from those skirts, clutching them to her face. The daughter was furious, screeching at me to leave, telling me I had no place there. That was when Bronwen told her she was the one who had no place if she could not understand why I was with her.”
“She did?” Fenella found herself liking this Bronwen more and more; a pity the woman was dead, for she would have liked to thank her.
She’d saved Donnan’s life, after all.
“Aye, she did,” he confirmed with a grimace. “I begged her not to. I didna wish to be the cause of the family breaking apart. Not when the woman had done so much for me. She would not hear of it.”
He looked at her with eyes full of pain. She could barely breathe at the sight of them.
“Bronwen never saw them again. She told me of the shame her daughter brought her that day—she had raised her better, to be kind to those in need of kindness. I was truly all she had in the world after that day, then. Do ye see why I could not leave her? Not when she threw her family out of her home because of me. I could not leave her alone, when she was alone because of me.”
The anguish in his voice brought her to her feet, taking her to him, where she knelt at his side. “Donnan, it was not your fault that woman behaved as she did. She was a terrible shrew, and I wish I could spit in her face for it.”
“Two years have passed since that day,” he snorted.
“Just the same. And ye need not explain to me why ye stayed with her in the cottage. Who would wish to leave a poor, ill woman on her own after she’d done so much for them? And when her daughter and granddaughter screamed and carried on in such a way, why would ye wish to go out into the world?”
Anything else she was prepared to say was lost forever when suddenly, Donnan took the back of her neck in one of his large, rough hands and pulled her to him, waiting for just the length of a heartbeat before pressing his mouth to hers.
She let out a squeal of surprise which turned into a sigh as her hands found his shoulders, fisting the coarse fabric of his tunic. This seemed to be all the permission he needed, as the kiss deepened, and she melted against him.
He was not gentle, his mouth moving against hers with an intensity which all at once frightened her and made her want more. All he wished to give.
His arms circled her waist, all but crushing her once he pulled her against his chest. His heart beat wildly against hers, a sure sign that he was as thrilled and surprised by this as she.
Perha
ps he wanted it as much as she did, too.
Only when he wrenched his lips away did she remember to breathe. The world spun around her, her head swam, her cheeks burned.
Her lips throbbed—a dull, low ache which pulsed with every beat of her heart.
“I ought not to have done it,” he muttered.
“Nay, do not feel that way,” she gasped, fighting to catch her breath that she might ease his mind.
“I have no right.”
“Am I not the one who gives the right?” she wondered, her chest rising and falling in sharp, short breaths. All she knew was she wished he’d never stopped.
And that she wanted more.
Hope gleamed in his eye, quickly to be replaced by doubt. “Even so, I ought to be stronger than I am. Ye dinna know what ye want, lost in memory of who we once were—”
This snapped her out of her fog the way a bucket of icy water would startle a person out of sleep. “What did you say?” she hissed.
He blinked rapidly. “I meant to say, ye see me for who I once was—”
“Stop.” She stood, picked up her saddle and moved it to the other side of the fire, furthest from him. “Do not speak another word to me tonight, Donnan Ross. I was certain I had heard the worst from ye, but I could never have imagined ye were that daft.”
“Ye were the one who kept speaking of the past!”
“That does not mean I cannot see you now! Stop telling me what I do and do not see, what I want, what I think. I know myself. I know what I’m about. Perhaps if ye knew those things of yourself, ye would not doubt me as ye do.” If she’d been holding anything small enough to throw at him, she would have just then.
How was it possible he’d taken her from the dizzying heights of breathless, wordless heat to hot-blooded rage so quickly?
He made a sound as though to argue with her. Or perhaps defend himself, but she wanted none of it.
He’d been right, after all. He should not have kissed her. For the ache in her chest was doubly painful as she wrapped herself in a blanket and settled in with her back to him, tears coursing down her flushed cheeks.
19
Two riders met Fenella and Donnan on the road leading to the Anderson house. It was not a great house, in the way Angus Cameron’s was, but it was still a far cry from his father’s home.
Which made Donnan wonder, was it still his father’s home? Or was it his own? How would anyone know where to find him if the man had died over the fortnight since Donnan had left?
He pushed this out of his mind—one problem at a time was more than enough—and introduced himself to the two men. Both of them eyed him warily when he lowered his hood, but he had expected that.
While it was never easy bearing the weight of a man’s stare, it was preferable to that of a woman. Women were not as keenly aware of what war could do to a face, a body. They were too delicate to stomach something as ugly as himself.
Except for the woman beside him. She was something else altogether and still left him uncertain.
Now more than ever, after the events of last night.
“We’ve come to speak with Padraig Anderson,” Donnan explained. “My name is Donnan Ross. This is Fenella Gordon. I come as a friend of your laird.”
“Donnan Ross?” One of the men—older, roughened by time and hard living—looked to his partner. “Died in the war.”
“Do I look as though I died to ye?” Donnan asked.
The old man grinned, revealing a mouth only half-full of teeth. “Do ye want an honest answer, lad?”
“We have very little time to waste,” Fenella spoke up, exasperation plain in her voice. “This is a matter of the highest importance.”
“I dinna recall askin’ ye, lassie,” the man snarled.
His partner held up a hand. “Now, now, ye know how himself feels about speakin’ to women that way.” The younger man offered Fenella an apologetic smile. “You’ll be forgivin’ him, I hope. He isn’t accustomed to speakin’ with women.”
“And ye are, Quinn Murray?” the old man asked.
“Aye. Ye could say that.” The young man dropped a wink in Donnan’s direction. Perhaps it was his jovial natural, his easygoing smile, but Donnan could not bring himself to dislike the rogue. Unlike Angus, who shared Quinn’s good looks, or Ewan who shared Quinn’s charm, this man Quinn was likable from the start.
“Come. We’ll take ye up to the house. Padraig will wish to know how this Donnan Ross returned from the dead.” Quinn brought his mount around, and the older man followed suit with a scowl which was likely his usual expression.
Donnan glanced at Fenella, whose eyes remained focused straight ahead. So she still had not forgiven him. Would she ever? Had he given her any reason to do so?
The lass was daft if she thought whatever had flared up between them in front of the fire was anything more than a moment’s folly. She had been kind to him, and no one had been that kind since the old woman in the cottage.
Though he’d never faced the wild, uncontrollable urge to kiss the old woman. He had never felt such desire to kiss any woman. Or to hold them, caress them, find solace in their warmth and softness. To lose himself. To forget.
She would have given him that chance. She would have given him all of her.
He would’ve been the worst sort of animal to take advantage. If that meant she would not speak to him, so be it. He was man enough to withstand her ire.
Their arrival provided a distraction, at the very least. Something to which to turn his attention. The nearer they drew to the house, the clearer he could see the men moving about all around. Men on horseback, men carrying lumber and stone, wheeling carts, training with swords and shields.
He asked himself how many of those men Padraig had at his disposal, for they might need every pair of hands they could use against the Camerons.
As they drew close to the house and its many outer buildings, heads began to turn. He bore the curiosity as best he could, keeping his head high, looking each man in the eye as though daring them to speak a word of ill. None of them did.
Padraig’s men would not. No one who’d pledged their loyalty to a laird such as him would. Unless time had changed Padraig…
Quinn dismounted and hurried into the house to announce their arrival. Fenella’s stony silence was louder than any of the talking, neighing, the shouted orders, the sound of the hammer hitting metal again and again at the blacksmith’s.
The door to the house opened, but instead of Padraig, out came an older woman whose white-streaked black hair hung in a braid to her waist. She was in the act of wiping her hands on her apron when her gaze fell upon Donnan.
He braced himself for what was sure to come. Memories of that fateful day in Bronwen’s cottage were clearer than ever thanks to having shared the tale with Fenella. His mouth went dry, his palms cold and damp.
She blinked once. Twice. Then, “I heard we had visitors outside, so I thought I would come out to ask after your needs. You’ll have the full hospitality of the house.”
Perhaps it was her no-nonsense attitude which stunned both he and Fenella. Neither of them answered.
“Well? I mean no ill intent, but there is quite a lot of work to be done for new arrivals,” the woman continued. “My name is Sorcha. I ought to have said it already, but I’m all asunder today. Forgive me.”
Fenella found her voice. “There is nothing to be forgiven. We are both weary from a long journey.”
“Aye, and in need of a good meal and a hot bath to wash away the dust of the road, I would wager. Have ye any belongings?”
“Nay, I was forced to leave them behind.” A look at her from the corner of his eye revealed the flush of Fenella’s cheeks.
If this struck Sorcha as odd, the woman did not show it. “No matter. We shall find ye something clean to wear, and ye shall sleep in a bed tonight.”
Donnan was about to thank her—she still seemed a bit flustered by his appearance, but he respected a woman who could get on with the busines
s of her work even while shaken—when from inside the house came a man he hardly recognized.
He’d remembered Padraig Anderson as a lad on the verge of becoming a man. It was a surprise to see a tall, broad-shouldered man striding toward him.
“I’d heard ye returned home!” he cried out, his arms outstretched. “I didna know ye would honor me with a visit!”
Donnan dismounted and clasped arms with his old friend. Padraig’s keen eyes swept over the ruins of what was once his friend’s face, then beamed. “It was a joyous day when I heard of your return. I asked Sorcha to have the kitchen prepare a feast in your honor, and I dinna see why we canna have another such feast tonight.”
He glanced at Sorcha, who nodded with a sigh. The woman seemed immensely put upon, but still glad to be of service.
That was all Donnan needed to see to know his friend ran a happy, prosperous household.
“Forgive me,” Padraig continued upon taking notice of Fenella. “I am Padraig Anderson, and ye both are welcome here as friends.”
“Fenella Gordon,” she replied with a nod of respect.
“The daughter of Aleck Gordon?” he asked, to which she nodded.
Donnan had always marveled at Padraig’s keen mind and long memory. It was no wonder the house seemed so bustling and pleasant with a smart leader at the helm.
“By all means, Sorcha will show ye upstairs to where a room will be prepared. Anything ye wish, do not hesitate to ask.”
He was a fool to expect a word from her before she turned and followed the woman into the house. She did not even favor him with a glance.
He’d hurt her badly.
“And ye, my friend,” Padraig said, returning his attention to Donnan. His smile had faded somewhat, and Donnan knew this was a result of the women having gone inside. “Fenella Gordon was rumored to be the intended of Angus Cameron. Why is she with ye?”
“Tis a long story, indeed.”
“Let it be told over ale.” Padraig took his arm, but Donnan hesitated.
“Ye may wish to bring your most trusted men in with us,” he warned.
