When she opened them again a man she’d never seen before stood over her, legs wide, hands on hips. The dying sunlight haloed his gray hair, made shadows on his strong jaw.
“Well, Rab,” he said in a deep voice, stroking the dog, “what have you brought me this time?”
“Don’t touch me,” Elizabeth whispered as the man bent toward her.
“If you’re worried I’ll harm you in any way, young woman, you needn’t be. I’m the MacGregor and you’re on my land. Why is Bronwyn’s dog with you?” He eyed her English clothes.
Elizabeth was tired, weak, hungry, but she wasn’t dead. The way this man said Bronwyn told her they were friends. Tears began falling down her cheeks. Now she’d never get home. No friend of the MacArrans would return her to England, and Roger’s capture by a Montgomery could start a private war.
“Don’t greet so, lass,” the MacGregor said. “Soon you’ll be in a nice safe place. Someone will tend to your cuts and we’ll feed you and—What the hell!”
Elizabeth, as the man leaned closer, had pulled his dirk from its sheath and aimed for his stomach. Sheer weakness had made her miss.
Lachlan MacGregor sidestepped, took the dirk from her and flung her over his shoulder in one quick movement. “Give me no more trouble, lass,” he commanded when she started to struggle. “In Scotland we don’t repay kindness by stabbing someone.”
He tossed Elizabeth on his horse, whistled for Rab to follow and the three of them set off at a furious pace.
Chapter 9
ELIZABETH SAT ALONE IN A BIG ROOM IN THE MACGREGOR castle, the oak door barred. The room was mostly bare except for an enormous bed, a chest and three chairs. A fireplace was along one wall, filled with logs, but no fire warmed the cold stones.
Elizabeth huddled in one of the chairs, the plaid from Bronwyn wrapped about her, her sore knees drawn in to her chest. It had been several hours since the MacGregor had tossed her in the room without so much as a backward glance. No food had been sent to her, no water for washing, and the dog, Rab, had bounded away at the first sight of the MacGregor fortress. Elizabeth was too tired to sleep, her mind in too much of a turmoil to allow her much rest.
When she first heard the familiar voice, muffled through the heavy door, her first reaction was one of relief. But she quickly recovered from that. Miles Montgomery was as much her enemy as anyone else.
When Miles opened the door and walked in boldly, she was ready for him. She sent a copper and silver goblet from the mantelpiece flying at his head.
Miles caught the object in his left hand and kept walking toward her.
She threw a small shield from the wall at him and he caught that in his right hand.
With a little smile of triumph, Elizabeth grabbed a battered helmet from the mantel and drew back her arm to throw it. He had no more hands with which to catch this object.
But before she could throw the helmet, Miles was before her, his arms drawing her close to him.
“I was very worried about you,” he whispered, his face buried against her cheek. “Why did you run away like that? Scotland isn’t like England. It’s treacherous country.”
He didn’t hold her very tightly, at least not enough to cause her to want to struggle, but instead she almost wished he’d pull her closer. As it was, she had to stand very still or else his arms might drop away altogether. At his idiot words, though, she did move away. “I am attacked by wolves, nearly fall into the sea and some man throws me about like a sack of grain and you tell me this is treacherous country!”
Miles touched her temple and she did not move away from him. There was an unusual light in his eyes. “Elizabeth, you make your own problems.”
“I did not ask to be delivered into my enemy’s hands nor to be brought as a prisoner into this hostile country and as for that man—”
Miles interrupted her. “The MacGregor was quite angry at your taking a knife to him. A few months ago he nearly died from Bronwyn’s using a knife on him.”
“But they seemed to be friends.”
Before she could speak another word, the chamber door opened and in walked two brawny Scotsmen carrying an oak tub. Behind them came a dozen women bearing buckets of hot water. The last woman held a tray with three decanters and two goblets.
“Knowing your propensity for not bathing, I have taken the liberty of ordering a bath.” Miles smiled at her.
Elizabeth didn’t answer him but put her nose into the air and turned toward the cold fireplace.
When the room was empty of people except for the two of them, Miles put his hand on her shoulder. “Come and bathe while the water is hot, Elizabeth.”
She whirled on him. “Why should you think that I’d do for you what I haven’t done for other men? I ran away from you at Larenston and now you seem to think I’ll leap into your arms because you’ve shown up here. What difference does it make whether I’m held prisoner by the MacGregor or a Montgomery? If the truth be known, I prefer the MacGregor.”
Miles’s jaw hardened and his eyes darkened. “I think it’s time some things were made clear between us. I have been more than patient with you. I have stood by silently while you hurt Sir Guy. I have shared my son with you. I have watched as you put the entire Clan MacArran in turmoil and now you’ve come close to injuring the MacGregor. The peace between the MacGregors and MacArrans is too new and fragile. You could have destroyed what it’s taken Stephen a year to build. And look at you, Elizabeth! Have you seen yourself? There is dried blood all over you, you’re obviously exhausted and you’ve lost much weight. I think it’s time I stopped letting you have your own way.”
“My…!” she sputtered. “I do not want to be held prisoner! Do you understand me? Can I get anything through your thick head? I want to go home to my brothers and I will do whatever I can to get there.”
“Home!” Miles said through clenched teeth. “Do you have any idea what the word means? Where did you learn how to break men’s toes? How to use a knife so efficiently? What made you decide all men were evil creatures? Why can’t you abide any man’s touch?”
Elizabeth just looked at him sullenly. “Edmund is dead,” she said after a while.
“Will you always live under a cloud, Elizabeth?” he whispered, his eyes soft. “Will you always see only what you want to see?” After a long sigh, he held out his hand to her. “Come and bathe before the water cools.”
“No,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to bathe.”
She should have been used to Miles’s extraordinary quickness, but as usual she was unprepared for it.
“I’ve had enough of this, Elizabeth,” he said before tossing the damp plaid from her. “I’ve been patient and kind but from now on you’re going to learn a little obedience—and trust. I am not going to harm you; I have never harmed any woman but I cannot stand by and allow you to hurt yourself.”
With that, he tore the front of her dress away, exposing her breasts.
Elizabeth gasped, crossed her arms in front of her and jumped back.
Easily, Miles caught her, and in two swift tears he had her nude. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to her body as he picked her up and carried her to the tub where he gently set her into the water.
Without a word, he picked up a cloth, soaped it and began to gently wash her face. “Struggle and the soap will be in your eyes,” he said, making her hold still.
She refused to speak to him while he washed the upper half of her body, glad for the soap that hid her red face as his hands glided lingeringly over her high, firm breasts.
“How did you hurt yourself?” he asked conversationally as he soaped her left leg, careful of the ugly cuts and scrapes on her knee.
The water was relaxing her and there was no reason not to tell him. She lay back in the tub, closed her eyes and told him of the night she’d spent along the cliff road. Halfway through the story, a glass of wine touched her hand and she drank of it thirstily. The intoxicant immediately went to her head and, dreamily, she kept ta
lking.
“Rab stayed with me,” she concluded, drinking more wine. “The dog understood that I didn’t want to go to Bronwyn, but instead he led me to Bronwyn’s friend.” The wine was making her so relaxed she didn’t even feel angry at the dog or the MacGregor or anyone else.
“Miles,” she said conversationally, unaware of the pleasure she gave him in using his Christian name. “Why don’t you strike women? I don’t believe I’ve met a man who doesn’t use force to get his way.”
He was gently washing her toes. “Perhaps I use a different kind of force.”
That was all he was going to say and for a while they were silent. Elizabeth didn’t realize that he kept her glass full of wine and by now she had drunk nearly an entire decanterful.
“Why didn’t you speak up to your brother this morning? Or was it yesterday morning?”
Miles’s momentary pause in washing her was his only sign that he understood her question. She’d never really asked something so personal before, as if she were interested in him.
“My three elder brothers are very pig-headed men. Gavin’s never heard anyone’s opinion except his own and Raine likes to imagine himself as a martyr for all lost causes.”
“And Stephen?” she asked, drinking more wine, watching him through lowered lashes. His hands on her felt so very, very good.
“Stephen fools people into believing he’s a willing compromiser, but when it comes to the point, he insists upon his own way. Only for Bronwyn was he willing to look at someone else’s view, and she had to fight him—and still fights—for everything. He makes jests about what to her is life and death.”
Elizabeth considered this for a moment. “And you are their little brother. No doubt they will always consider you someone to be instructed, someone who must be taken care of.”
“And is that the way you are treated also?” he half whispered.
The drink, the hot water, made her loosen her tongue. “Roger thinks I have only a quarter of a brain. Half is missing because I am a woman, half of that gone because he remembers me in swaddling clothes. When I told him some of what Edmund was doing to me, he wasn’t sure whether to believe me or not. Or perhaps be didn’t want to see the things his own brother did or allowed to happen.
“Damn!” she said, half rising from the tub. With a violent jerk she threw the goblet across the room, slamming it into the stone wall. “I am half a woman. Do you know what it feels like to watch Bronwyn and your brother, to see them laugh and love? The two of them sneak little touches when they think no one is looking. Whenever a man touches me, I—”
She broke off, her eyes wide, her head reeling from the drink. “Make love to me, Miles Montgomery,” she whispered huskily. “Make me not afraid.”
“I had planned to,” he said throatily as he pulled her into his arms.
She still stood in the tub, and as Miles’s mouth came down on hers, she kissed him back—kissed him with all the passion, all the anger she felt at having been cheated of a normal attitude toward love. While other women were learning how to flirt, Elizabeth’s brother had been gambling, promising his little sister’s virginity to the winner, and Elizabeth had learned to use a knife. She had preserved her precious virginity and for what? The convent? For a life where she grew harder and angrier every year until she turned to stone—an unloved, useless old woman?
Miles pulled back from her slightly, controlling the kiss, keeping her from hurting herself as she tried to grind her lips against his teeth. His hands were playing up and down her wet back, his fingertips caressing the indentation of her spine.
His lips moved to the corner of her mouth, his tongue touching the tip of hers before he trailed to her cheek, kissing her while his hands toyed with her skin.
Elizabeth tilted her head back and to one side as Miles’s teeth ran along her neck and to her shoulder. Perhaps this was the true reason why she’d never allowed a man to touch her. Maybe she’d always known that unless she fought like a demon she’d succumb like this—wantonly, unashamedly.
“Miles,” she whispered. “Miles.”
“Always,” he murmured, nibbling her ear.
With one swift motion he lifted her from the tub and carried her to the bed. Her body was wet, her hair cold and clinging to her, but Miles wrapped a towel about her and began rubbing. The briskness of his rubbing sent new warmth through her and everywhere, every time he touched her she wanted more. She had a whole lifetime of touching to make up for.
Suddenly Miles was beside her, nude, his glorious skin warm, dark, inviting.
“I am yours, Elizabeth, as you are mine,” he whispered as he placed her hand on his chest.
“So much hair.” She giggled. “So very much hair.” She buried her fingers in the short black curling stuff and pulled. Obediently, Miles rolled closer to her, snuggled her golden body to the length of him.
“What does it feel like?” she asked anxiously.
“You’ll not know for a long while.” He smiled. “When we become one, there’ll be no fear in your eyes.”
“Become one,” she whispered as Miles again began to kiss her neck. He kissed her neck for a very long time before he moved to her arm, his tongue making little swirling motions inside her elbow. It was odd how little vibrations seemed to be traveling from her fingertips, across her breasts to her other fingertips.
She lay still, eyes closed, arms open, legs open as Miles touched her. Those big hands that could wield a sword, could protect a child from harm, could control to unruly horse, were tenderly, slowly setting her body on fire.
When his hand moved from her throat to her cheek, she turned her head and kissed the palm, put both her hands on his and began to make love to that hard delicate hand, scraping it against her teeth, tasting his skin, running her tongue around and around the hairs on the back of his hand.
She was rewarded by a primitive sound from Miles that set her heart racing.
“Elizabeth,” he groaned. “Elizabeth. How I have waited.”
Elizabeth decided she wasn’t really in the mood for more waiting. Instinctively she tried to wiggle further under Miles, but he refused to allow that. Instead, he brought his mouth to her breast and Elizabeth nearly came off the bed.
Miles chuckled at her reaction and she felt his laughter all along the length of her. Love and laughter, she thought. That’s what Miles had added to her life.
Miles’s lips on her breasts soon made her stop thinking. He straddled her hips, on his knees, his hands about her waist, squeezing, caressing, and gradually he began using his fingers to guide her hips into a slow, undulating rhythm.
She caught the rhythm easily. Her breathing deepened and her hands on Miles’s arms tightened, her fingers digging into his muscles. His body surrounding her, warm, hard, sculptured, was all she was aware of as her whole body began to move sensuously.
“Miles,” she whispered, her hands moving to his hair. She was not gentle as she pulled his face to hers, sought his lips in a kiss such as she’d never dreamed of before. There was sweat on both of them, salty, hot sweat.
Elizabeth drew her knees up, clutched Miles’s hips and when she did, he entered her.
There was no pain as she was more than ready for him, but for a moment she trembled with the force of her reaction. Miles held still, also slightly trembling, until Elizabeth started the slow rhythm he’d taught her with his hands.
Slowly, together, they made love. After only moments, Elizabeth lost herself in a sea of passion she’d never known existed before. As Miles increased his speed, she locked her legs about him and gave herself up to her senses. With one blinding flash, Elizabeth’s body convulsed and her legs began to shake violently.
“Hush,” Miles soothed as he lifted onto one elbow and stroked her temple. “Hush, my angel. You’re safe now.”
He withdrew from her, pulled her into his arms. “My promised angel,” he whispered. “My angel of rain and lightning.”
Elizabeth didn’t understand his words completel
y but she did, perhaps for the first time in her life, feel safe. She fell asleep instantly, her body so close to Miles’s that she could scarcely breathe.
When Elizabeth awoke, she stretched luxuriously, feeling each and every muscle of her body, wincing when she pulled the torn skin of her knees. Her eyes opened and the first thing she saw was a long table covered with steaming food. She was sure she’d never been so hungry in her life. Grabbing Bronwyn’s plaid from the floor, she tossed it about her body haphazardly and went to the table.
Her mouth was full of a bit of poached salmon when the door opened and Miles walked in. Elizabeth froze, her hand halfway to her mouth as she began to remember the previous night. There was such a disgustingly knowing look in Miles’s dark eyes that Elizabeth began to grow angry. Before she could even sort her feelings, Miles casually began to discard the Scots clothes he wore.
What right did he—! Elizabeth thought, choking on the salmon as she tried to speak. But he did have a right. After the way she’d acted last night, he had every right to believe the very worst of her. But still she’d like to wipe that expression off his face.
Elizabeth didn’t really consider what she did, but beside her were two heaping platters of warm, soft tarts, baked to a golden turn, heavy with summer fruit. With a smile, her eyes locked with Miles’s, she slipped her hand under a tart and, still smiling, sent it flying toward him.
He wasn’t expecting missiles sent at him and the pie hit his collar bone, splashing his cheek, running down his chest in a warm ooze of cherries and juice.
Elizabeth knew that whatever happened now it was worth it for the look on Miles’s face. He was totally, completely, shocked. With her hand over her mouth to cover a giggle, Elizabeth sent two more pies flying at him, hitting his bare hip with the first one, the chair behind him with the other one.
Miles looked at Elizabeth with an odd expression, discarded the rest of his clothes and kept walking toward her.
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