by Paula Quinn
That and watching him slowly warming up to TamLin.
“Stay in yer bed or I will ask William to tie you down, Mr. Grant,” she warned one afternoon while he swung his leg over the side of the bed.
“If ye want yer future husband to have any teeth in his mouth, ye willna make such a request.” He sounded indifferent, but when he looked up at her his eyes flashed like lightning within rings of sooty lashes.
Temperance held her position. She didn’t know why she cared how tired and wounded he was. He’d made it clear that he wanted to leave first chance he got. He didn’t like her, had no interest in her at all. And why should he? He didn’t even know her. And that was the hook that pierced so sharply. He didn’t want to get to know her. He’d barely spoken to her since the day Gram had told him she was betrothed.
“Hell.” He squinted, then held his hand up over his eyes. “Does the sun always fill every corner of this damned room?”
“This is my room,” she informed him a bit woodenly while she moved toward Gram’s jars. “Tell me,” she said after a moment without an apology from him, “how you will fight him when you cannot even stand up?”
He swung the other leg off the bed and set his feet on the floor. He stood upright for a moment, giving her time to take in the sight of him, barefoot and bare-chested, the height and breadth of him balancing on unsteady legs.
Temperance watched him go down on his knees and walked right past him. “Your wounds are barely healed,” she pointed out mildly while she reached for a jar she needed. “William is strong. He has forged many things in his smith, including swords. Don’t assume that because he comes from a small village he cannot fight.” She paused on her way to him to look him in the eye. “I give you my word, he can.”
“I dinna know ye, lass.” He ground his teeth at her and pulled himself back to the bed. He moved his feet away when TamLin licked his toes. “So unfortunately yer word means verra little to me.”
She almost smiled at his arrogance, but she could tell he was in pain and hurried back to him, dipping her fingers into one of Gram’s oils as she went. When she stood before him, he looked away.
“Where does it hurt?”
It might have been his pride that made him pause before answering. But finally he gave in and confessed in a throaty whisper, “Everywhere.”
“Your body is sore from the heat.” She rubbed the oil into her palms and handed him the jar. “This will soothe you.” She massaged his shoulders and worked her fingers down each arm. Goodness, but he was tightly wound. She liked the feel of him, the strength of him. She had to keep her wits about her. Her future depended on it.
“As for words,” she said, trying to keep her head clear, “I don’t trust yours either.”
He straightened his spine. She looked at him to find his face close and his eyes scouring her while he sat on the bed—her bed, with her cat. Sensuality that was slightly menacing and entirely vulnerable oozed from every pore.
“I’ll make certain not to make ye any promises then.” His words cut the air between them and sparked a small ember in her belly, at her core. This man had fire despite the frost encasing him. She liked fire. William didn’t posses any, at least not for her.
She dropped her hands to her sides and kept her voice even and low when she spoke. “Then let me thank you now for saving us the trouble of being cordial until you leave, which shouldn’t be long now according to you. You have my gratitude for that, Mr. Grant.”
He sat there while TamLin purred in his lap, staring at her without saying a word. His eyes were shadowed by his heavy brow and strands of his hair. Despite the haunted radiance of his gaze, he looked like something more wild than docile. “Miss Menzie, ye misunderstand me.”
She needed to remain steady against the power of his regard. He wasn’t about to apologize, as his tender tone suggested.
“I see.” She raised a skeptical brow and the edges of her lips rose with it. “So, then, you’re not brooding because I didn’t help you to yer feet?”
He immediately stopped and traded his frown for a cool upward curl of his mouth that was so slight she almost missed it. “Dinna be a fool, lass. I got up just fine withoot yer help.”
“Aye, well, you did manage not to faint.”
“Faint?” Laughter danced across the cool gray surfaces of his eyes, sending a tingle of fire down her back. “Dinna be ridiculous, lass. Grants dinna faint.”
She smiled indulgently. Stubborn arse. “Of course they don’t. Now lie down on your belly so that I can apply this to your back.” She waited while he did as she asked and barely moved when he set his icy gaze on her before his head touched the pillow and he closed his eyes.
She spilled oil down the length of his spine to the low edge of his breeches. His flesh was warm and his muscles twitched while she spread the oil over the hills and valleys of his back.
“Hell, that feels good.”
She was warm, a little light-headed from the feel of him, the deep, raspy sound of him. She wiped her brow with her oily hand and muttered a slight oath.
“What if next time you fall and crack open that pigheaded skull of yours?” she asked, pushing her fingers deep into his muscles. “Do you know how long it takes to clean up blood?”
She was certain she just saw him smile. Half of him, at least. The other was half-buried in feathers.
“Is that all m’ death would mean to ye, cleanin’ up m’ blood?”
She didn’t want him to die. That’s why she’d saved his life. The handsome ogre hadn’t even thanked her. “There’s more,” she admitted, doing her best not to sigh over all his rock-hard angles. “Who wants a bed someone died in?” She felt her mouth tilt into a deeper smile when he feigned surprise at her pretended insult. “Of course I don’t want you to perish.”
“That’s kind—”
“Your death would lead to folks looking for you. Once your kin discovered you were in Menzie care and died, they’d kill us all.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, then gritted his teeth at the pain in his back and sat up again, almost knocking into her. “Ye’re likely correct.”
She wished he wouldn’t look at her… or that he’d never stop. He didn’t look angry. Even the indifferent veneer across his eyes had fallen away like a curtain. But, oh, what was his detachment compared to his scantest smile?
Goodness, but he was distracting. She had plans to make, things to see to for her future. She had men to kill and a path to choose. She would choose it herself, or try to. The only way to accomplish her goal was to kill the threat that would force her to marry Will. She had no doubts she could do it, as long as she didn’t let go of her hatred. Cailean was making it difficult, though. Sparring with him made it difficult to think of anything but his sharp tongue and how it might feel along her skin. Touching him… She should ask Gram to finish looking after him. Or Anne Gilbert… or anyone else.
“When are ye goin’ to marry Deware?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts, or mayhap he could read her miserable expression.
“After Hogmanay,” she told him, moving to sit in the chair by the bed. “What were you doing in my cabbage patch when you were attacked?” she asked, hoping to sway the topic off her upcoming nuptials. Her glance found him covertly admiring her form.
“I was hoping to see ye again. To make certain ye were no’ injured by m’ horse after ye ran into him. After that, I’d intended to return to Lyon’s Ridge fer m’ cousin and then head home.”
His concern made her blush and think about his face instead of the face of her enemy. He was a stranger with no place in her life. So what if he’d been concerned about her? Or if his gaze made her feel a bit light-headed and warm? Arrangements would soon be under way for her wedding with William, and if Cailean Grant kept distracting her from her plans, she’d be attending.
“You said you intended on returning to the castle for your cousin.”
“Aye, Patrick. That’s correct.”
Patrick�
��the name he’d called out in his slumber.
“Why did you plan to go to Kenmore without him?”
“Pardon me?”
“When we first met,” she clarified, “you told me you were on yer way to Kenmore. Do you remember?”
He nodded but said nothing.
“Why did you leave him at Lyon’s Ridge?”
He looked as if he wanted to say something… something different from what came out of his mouth. “He was… hungover from one of his wild nights and had nae interest in purchasin’ fresh vegetables.”
“And you do?” she asked, working hard to conceal her slight smile. Her father used to love to cook with Gram.
“Aye, I’m a master in the kitchen.”
“Are you?” He certainly lacked no vanity, she thought. “Pity you’re in a rush to leave. I’d like to sample yer plates and see if you’re just full of air.”
He chuckled—a short, throaty blend of humor and arrogance. “I’d enjoy takin’ ye up, but I must get back to the castle.”
“For Patrick?” Temperance supplied. When he nodded, she forged ahead. “Why? Is he in danger from Murdoch?”
“He could be. He’s a MacGregor, and MacGregor heads are held at high value.”
Aye, the proscription against the MacGregors. She’d heard of the Highland persecution, but didn’t know too much about it.
“He traveled with me, though against m’ wishes,” the Highlander continued. “And now, as circumstances would have it, and as I feared, he is alone in the castle of a greedy murderer.”
Temperance nodded. Aye, he had Duncan Murdoch right. He was a greedy murderer. But how did Mr. Grant know? He said he was the lord’s guest. Did that mean…?
“Did he tell you about it?” she asked him, her voice becoming more somber. “You were his guest. Did Duncan Murdoch tell you that he had my father killed?”
He could have sensed her dread and said anything, but his gaze told her the truth. She wanted to look away from it, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She wanted to know.
“Were you there?”
He looked away first. “Nae, Murdoch boasted of it.”
He’d boasted. Temperance wrung her hands together. How could life—her father’s life—mean so little? “He’s a monster.”
“Aye.”
“I aim to kill him, and also the one who nodded just before that murdering whoreson”—she paused to swipe a tear or two away from her cheek—“killed my father.”
He met her gaze again, briefly. Was her pain so tangible that he felt it? He did look a bit heartsick, as if he understood. Mayhap he didn’t know how to comfort her, and that was why he always dropped his eyes to the floor.
She sighed inwardly, expecting him to, like William, try to talk her out of revenge. Well, he’d be wasting his time. Murdoch had boasted. Now more than ever Temperance knew what she had to do. No one was going to stop her.
When he lifted his gaze to her once again, she tried to keep from falling into the endless fathoms of his eyes.
“How?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I could shoot them full of arrows. My aim is good. Ask William.”
She thought she saw his gaze darken, or was it just the shadows his hair cast over his eyes?
“Have ye ever shot a man before? ’Tisn’t as easy as ye think.”
“’Twas easy for the man holding his blade to my father’s throat,” she countered, trying to keep the burning at the backs of her eyes from spilling forward. Why was she so tempted to cry on his shoulder? He didn’t offer it, but something in his eyes invited her in. He had suffered a loss as she had. He would understand her need to weep properly for her father. “Nay, I’ve never shot a man, but I would if I had to.”
He nodded and the shadows passed. “I believe ye.”
She smiled slightly. Just like that? He believed her? Wasn’t he curious about who would help her? What if she told him she didn’t need any help to kill the men who’d killed her father? Would he laugh in her face? Was he trying not to do it right now?
“He has guardians,” he pointed out.
“I know,” she told him. “His Black Riders.”
He nodded again. “I’ve met some of them. They willna go doun easily.”
He’d met them. This could be useful. “What are they like? Tell me everything about them as payment for saving yer life.”
“Nothin’ I tell ye is goin’ to bring ye a victory against them.”
He didn’t know what she was capable of doing. She was no fool, believing she could fight sword to sword against a beefy mercenary. He’d slice her up like a cut of mutton. But there were other ways to kill a man. Gram had taught her which herbs could do the task for her.
“Your veiled insult of me being incompetent are words I shall particularly enjoy watching you eat.”
One side of his mouth curled upward. “There willna be time enough fer ye to enjoy a fourth, possibly a third breath before they cut ye doun.”
She wanted to toss back her head and laugh. Arguing with him felt a bit exhilarating. Even the urge to slap him for his continued insults thrilled her.
She rose from her chair and moved closer to him, until they almost shared breath. She looked him straight in the eyes and trembled at the force behind them. “Then help me, Mr. Grant.”
He closed his eyes, giving her a reprieve. Was he considering it? Oh, with his aid…
“Ye’ll bring war here, Miss Menzie,” he told her in a quiet voice. “I willna help ye do that.”
Of course. She should have guessed it. She sounded mad, or at the least foolish. But she didn’t care. “They killed my father, Mr. Grant. He’d done nothing to deserve death—and in front of all the people who loved him.”
“I know,” he said, his voice going soft and heavy, as if he’d been there with her to watch.
“What would you do?” she asked him, catching her breath with poignant sorrow. “What would you do if someone you loved were taken from you? If they died in your arms? Would you let their killer go unpunished?”
He didn’t answer her right away. He simply stared into her eyes and then shook his head.
“Nae,” he whispered, grinding his teeth. “I wouldna let them go.”
Chapter Eight
Cailean sat up. He needed to get out of this damn bed.
He needed to save his cousin and somehow get him back to Camlochlin, and he had to get away from Temperance Menzie and all her talk about killing the men responsible for her father’s death.
He was one of those men. She’d seen him nod. She’d seen him in the cold darkness of his despair and she still smiled at him, fought with him, and tempted him to fight back, but not too hard.
When he’d first opened his eyes, he’d wanted her to know the truth: that he was indeed a Black Rider but Patrick wasn’t, and someone from her village had almost killed him. But with each moment that passed between them, it became more difficult to confess.
He didn’t want to care if she hated him. He never should have come here. He should have just tried to forget. But he was the cause of all her pain, the kind he understood too well. He wasn’t certain he could live with that. Damn Murdoch for stabbing him and setting him here, helpless but to watch what became of the family he’d destroyed. It was his penance for his bloodlust.
Hell. He doubled over at the thought of Patrick’s death. Cailean knew it had been his own choice to take residence at the castle as a hired strong-armer, despite Patrick’s urging that they return to the Highlands, that had put Patrick in his sickbed. Cailean had to save him.
He had to leave Linavar and Seth Menzie’s house and get the hell away from his victim’s daughter before he ended up helping her do the impossible—and likely getting them both killed.
It wasn’t that she affected him to the point that he would let her talk him into helping her kill Duncan Murdoch. He’d wanted to do it himself a day after he’d arrived at Lyon’s Ridge. And long before that, after Alison died, he’d promised hi
mself never to lay down the shield he held up around his heart and accept anyone inside. Life was filled with the unexpected. Nothing was certain. No one was assured happiness. He preferred to remain detached, untouched, and pragmatic.
But he wasn’t dead.
Temperance Menzie possessed fire that attracted him. He liked the confidence she exuded when she went head-to-head with him. She was braw and bonny, and broken. The last was his doing and because of the circumstances, he wanted to mend her. She made him stare, and she made him care when she spoke about her father. But what frightened him the most were the words he wanted to pen about her, and the fact that he wanted to write anything at all. It had been so long since anything or anyone had moved him enough for him to take up quill and ink. He had begun to fall in love with Alison, but even then he hadn’t been tempted to write of her. It had been too soon after losing Sage.
But since coming here, waking in this spirited lass’s care, a dozen times already he’d had to clench his jaw against asking her for a quill and parchment. He wasn’t ready to let a woman fire up his passions. There were days when it felt as if his nerves were raw and even the weight of someone’s breath on him was unbearable. He didn’t know how to release everything that haunted him. He didn’t know if he wanted to. He was safe here in his solitude.
He wouldn’t let Seth Menzie’s daughter spark anything in him. And hell, she was betrothed. Was it his pitiful imagination that told him she didn’t seem happy about marrying Deware? He didn’t care. He wouldn’t allow himself to. He wouldn’t write, or cook, or love. He was determined to guard himself against caring again, afraid to lose it all. He needed to keep people out in order to remain callous. That’s why mercenaries were the best company. No one really gave a rat’s arse about anyone else. In their company was a perfect place for him to hide.
But his demons had found him the night Seth Menzie died in his daughter’s arms. He was sorry he’d brought that pain upon her. He didn’t know how to tell her. He didn’t want to.
He swung his legs over the bed and set his feet on the floor.
