by Lily Baldwin
“Right,” he said, sliding to the ground. “Sorry, lass,” he whispered to his horse, stroking her thick mane. “Ye have to sit this one out. Ye must ken there are offers too sweet to refuse.”
He turned to look up at Alex. As usual, she met his gaze dead on, never resorting to the coy affectations so often used by the fairer sex. Already his pulse began to race, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. He reached up and grabbed the horn of the saddle, his fingers close to the apex of her thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes narrowed on him with an intensity that fueled his desire. He swung up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
“Hold on tightly,” she breathed.
He nosed her hair to the side, bringing his forehead down on her shoulder. “Happily,” he said softly, savoring the feel of her strong, sleek body, hot against his.
“’Tis not far,” she said, her voice strained. He knew the fierce attraction that pulsed from their bodies, penetrating the other, intruded upon her every thought as it did his.
They trotted along the rocky pass, waves lapping against the ridged wall that tamed the frigid water on one side. On the other, craggy, teeming cliffs renewed their stake on the land. His fingers splayed wide against her stomach. He could have held her for all eternity. Up ahead the coastline curved, revealing the dark mouth of a cave, and he knew that all too soon he would have to relinquish his prize.
“Welcome to my secret armory,” she said, reining in her horse at the foot of the cave.
Rory slid to the ground and reached up to clasp her waist. She pressed her hands against his chest while he slowly lowered her to the ground.
“Trust me,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a sideways smile. “Ye’re about to see something ye’ll want even more than a good ride.”
He cocked his brow at her. “I will be the judge of that.”
She turned and reached into one of her large saddlebags and withdrew a thick rope, a torch, and a chard of flint. “Follow me,” she said. “And bring my horse.”
The cave floor was smooth, the stone worn by rushing waves, but as they moved deeper into the stone hollow, jagged rocks emerged, untouched by salt or spray. Firelight from the torch Alex had lit danced on the ceiling, casting flickering shadows on the craggy walls. They continued forward, the tunnel worming to the right, and then the passage widened. Off to the side, Rory spied a long, narrow wagon, and beyond that the path abruptly ended.
“But where are the weapons?” he asked, turning around to scan the tunnel. He crossed to the wagon for a closer look, but it, too, was empty.
“Come closer,” Alex said, sliding the torch into a waiting sconce. He crossed to her side, his eyes following her downward gaze into a black pit, which preceded the tunnel’s end. Eyes wide, he looked at her, a slew of questions on his tongue. But then he noticed her hands busily tying one end of the rope around her waist.
“What are ye about?” Rory said, not liking the direction things were going.
“I’m going down there,” she said simply.
“Absolutely not,” he blurted, grasping her arm.
She jerked free from his hold. “Do ye honestly think I will heed yer refusal? I do what I wish, Rory MacVie. That is something ye should not soon forget.” She gave him the other end of the rope to hold. “Anyway, I lack the strength for what is to come. I need yer brawn up here.”
Before he could protest further, she knelt at the edge of the drop. “Ready yer stance,” she said.
He gripped the rope and anchored his foot behind him, preparing to bear her weight to the bottom of the pit. He slowly lowered her down, her feet and legs first disappearing into shadow. He stared hard into her eyes, while darkness overtook her waist and then her shoulders. The instant before the black pit swallowed her unflinching eyes, he froze, battling with himself to keep from pulling her back to the surface.
“Alba gu bràth,” she said softly.
He nodded, took a deep breath, and lowered her the rest of the way. A moment later, the tension eased from the rope.
“I can feel yer worry from down here,” she said, her voice laced with amusement. “Be at ease, Rory. This is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done for the cause.”
That he did not doubt.
The sound of clanging metal reached his ears the instant before she called up, “’Tis time to put yer strength to good use. Pull up the first crate.”
He yanked on the rope. Whatever was attached to the other end weighed significantly more than she. He spread his legs and braced himself. Then he heaved back, crossing one hand over the other and hauled her treasure to the surface. A large crate appeared, wrapped in hide, the sides of which were joined together by a thick metal ring tied to the rope.
“Go ahead and look at what’s inside,” she called up.
Rory untied the rope and sent it back down to her. Then he pulled back the hide flaps. Even in the dim torchlight, metal blades gleamed. A new hunger grew inside of him when he inspected one of the swords. “Alba gu bràth,” he whispered solemnly. Then he called down to Alex, “Wait until Abbot Matthew sees these.”
There were seven crates in all. Rory could not believe his eyes as he loaded each one into the wagon. “There must be nearly two-hundred swords here.”
“Two-hundred and seven to be exact,” she called up.
His gaze returned, taking in the sight of Scotland’s swords.
“Ahem…I require yer assistance?”
He crossed back to the pit and lowered the rope. An instant later, he started to pull her up to the surface. The moment their eyes locked, he said, “Ye ken the last time ye said those words to me I undressed ye.”
She reached out for him when she was close enough. He took hold of her, lifting her the rest of the way.
“Before I left my chambers today, I promised Rosie my clothes would stay on.”
He shook his head to show his disapproval. “That’s very disappointing.” Then he gestured to the wagon. “That being said, I wouldn’t advise sewing one of those into yer tunic.”
Her eyes flashed with the same excitement that was coursing through his veins. “They are magnificent, are they not?” She crossed to her horse’s side and freed a large, thin oilcloth from one of her bags and spread it out over the weapons.
“Ye’re magnificent,” he said softly, coming up behind her.
She turned and faced him, placing her hands on his strong chest. Firelight set his black hair aflame while shadow obscured his features, making his deep-set eyes even more intense, more sinful. She seized his tunic. “How do ye do this to me?” she rasped, closing her eyes against the sight of his full lips. She cleared her throat and stepped free.
“Thank ye for coming to me,” she said, her voice shaky with need as she began to hitch her horse to the wagon. “For three years, Scotland’s weapons have waited at the bottom of that pit, protected by wood and hide. I never could have retrieved them on my own.”
Rory stood, forcing his feet to remain planted where they were when all he wanted to do was pull her back into his arms and never let go again. Damn her title. Damn her duty to her people. His fists clenched against the hunger that held his senses captive. Never had he wanted a woman more, and yet he knew she could never be his.
He drew a deep breath before joining her near the shaft of the wagon. Wordlessly, they fitted the rein terret and adjusted the straps around her stallion, their movements hasty and rough. The beast snorted in protest.
“Whoa,” Alex said, stroking a soothing hand down his mane.
Rory watched her, thinking he was no better than a wound-up horse. By the Saints, he needed to regain control. Drawing another, deeper breath, he offered her his hand and helped her up into the wagon. Then he took hold of the reins and led them from the cave.
When they emerged, the sun had begun its descent, dipping close to the horizon. The fresh air served to clear his mind, and he resolved to lighten the air.
&nbs
p; “Now where to?” he said with forced brightness.
“To Leslie MacKenzie’s,” she said, meeting his gaze for the first time since their most recent near kiss. “Follow back the way we came, then head east.”
After they tethered Rory’s mare to the back of the wagon, they cleared the slope and started out across the moors, the myriad colors of sunset behind them. Rory asked, “And when do we make the run south to the abbot?”
She drew a thoughtful breath. “I must think of an excuse for my absence. It will be at least another week if not a fortnight before I am ready. Turn down there,” she said, pointing to a croft in the distance.
“We could just keep going,” he said, drawing her gaze. “Ye and I, right now. Let’s not stop.” His smile challenged her to accept, for he knew the sooner the mission was over the sooner they could part ways. And although he hated to leave her, he knew with every moment that passed his feelings for her grew.
She seemed to consider his plan. “Mary and Rosie would make up some excuse for me. They would likely claim that I’ve locked myself away in my chamber for some reason or another.” But then she shook her head. “Tomorrow is Lammas. I couldn’t possibly leave.”
“Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten. Am I to guess there is to be a celebration?”
“To be sure,” she answered.
“With music?”
“To be sure.”
“And dancing?”
“To be sure.”
“Will ye dance with me?” By all that’s holy, he couldn’t resist. Mayhap he was a knave?
She hesitated.
He nudged her gently with his elbow. “Ye’re supposed to answer ‘to be sure’.”
She laughed just as the wagon bumped, knocking her against him, causing her to laugh all the harder. “We’ll see,” she said, catching her breath. Then she pointed to a wood and thatch outbuilding some distance away from a cottage. “Bring the wagon right into that storehouse.”
“What sort of man is Leslie MacKenzie?” Rory asked. Hopping down, he unhitched and untethered the horses.
“Trust me,” she said. “He won’t mind if we leave our wagon here.”
Brows drawn, Rory cautioned her. “What if he runs off with the wagon? It holds a small fortune. ‘Tis enough to tempt any man.”
A slight smile curved Alex’s lips before she took his hand and pulled him outside toward the cottage just as an old man with a stooped back came limping outside.
“Stay silent. Don’t let him know ye’re here,” Alex whispered to Rory before she jogged over to meet the man. “Good eventide, Leslie.”
The old man turned up his weathered face, revealing large, milky white eyes. “Is that ye, my lady?”
Alex wrapped her arms around the man’s frail shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. “Aye, ‘tis me.”
“Bless me, but it’s been an age.”
“I was away for a month,” she explained. “And then my da died.”
“I wasn’t accusing ye, lass, just counting my blessings,” Leslie said, his unseeing eyes pointing heavenward. “Will ye come in for a spell? I’ve some hot pottage.”
“Forgive me, but I cannot,” she said. “I am needed at Luthmore, but I brought ye something.” She reached out and pressed a small, fist-sized bundle into his palm.
“Ah,” Leslie said, smiling. “Ye brought me some honeycomb.”
“Indeed, I did,” she said, surprised that he had guessed correctly.
He brought the parcel to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Ye’ve paid me a short but sweet visit to be sure.”
Alex pressed a kiss to the man’s cheek then turned him about. “Go back inside. Darkness is upon us.”
“Day or night, makes no difference to me,” the man said, chuckling. “Come back and visit me soon, won’t ye? And then ye can introduce me to the man ye’re trying to hide.”
Alex froze. She should have known Leslie would have sensed Rory’s presence, even though he hadn’t made a sound.
Leslie waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t go confessing the truth to me now. I’ll meet him at yer wedding.”
“But—” Alex started to deny that Rory would ever be her husband, but Leslie had turned and held up his hand to stop her.
“Lassie, I may be blind, but that just means I can see what others can’t. There’s a man standing over there,” he said, pointing to the exact spot where Rory stood. “And his heart pounds for ye, and yers pounds for him. Just like mine pounds for this honeycomb.”
Alex watched while he shuffled away chuckling. “Aye, lass,” he called back. “Love takes many forms.”
She turned to face Rory whose eyes were wide with surprise. “We really need to smother whatever this is between us,” she said.
Rory slowly nodded his head as he continued to watch Leslie’s departure. “Apparently so.”
She turned on her heel and hastened toward her horse. A moment later, Rory was beside her, his fingers laced to help her astride.
“Nay,” she said, pointing him away. “Ye just stay over there, Rory MacVie!”
She hiked up her tunic and hauled herself into place. Then without waiting for Rory, she kicked her horse hard in the flanks and raced off across the violet moors, hoping to outrun her own desire.
Chapter Twelve
Rory walked among the long trencher tables that were lined with platters of roasted meats and loaves of bread that had been blessed that very morning. The Lammas festival stretched across the field outside the outer wall of Luthmore Castle, allowing space for feasting, games, and pipers playing lively reels to which young and old danced in merry circles. Rory scanned the grounds, not in search of amusement, but for unbound, flaxen hair. He had not spoken to Alex since she had ridden away from him the night before as if the Devil himself had licked at her heels. As he scanned the revelers, his conscience pricked. Distancing himself from Alex was the honorable thing to do. His hands closed into tight fists as he resolved to do just that, but then he spotted her. She sat on a bench at one of the crowded tables beside Robert.
Rory narrowed his eyes on the golden-haired knight. Robert was a decent man, and according to Rosie, handsome enough to forgive his loquacious tongue and apparently horrid singing voice. Rory reached for a tankard of ale while he observed the pair. Robert’s tongue appeared as active as usual. Alex had not spoken a word to her dinner companion, no doubt because she had not been given the chance. What’s more, despite the din of chatter, laughter, and music, she did not lean toward Robert to better hear his words. In fact, she sat back, her body not truly engaged in their conversation, while her eyes wandered, scanning the crowds. Rory watched her, hoping she searched the festivities for him.
Once more, guilt nagged at him. He had no business spying on her or delighting in her disinterest in her suitors. If anything, he should be hoping for her sake and for the sake of her people that one of the men chosen by the abbot would be found worthy.
But that was just it, he wanted to scream. None of them were good enough for her.
Not that Rory was. But at the very least he fully understood the majesty that was Alex MacKenzie.
Robert was too feckless to appreciate the varied tapestry of her character. If she chose Adam, she would have to yield to convention or they would never see eye to eye and would be unhappy. Rory imagined her life with Sir Adam Lennox, trapped within the confines of wimple and lace, her spirit choked from her enshrouded body—beautiful and unfeeling as a statue meant only to be looked at and admired from a distance. He grew angry just thinking about it.
And then there was Timothy who was gentle and good. He would be kind to Alex and to her people, but could he ignite her soul?
Rory could—that much he knew for certain. There was something unnamable that existed between them, a connection that ran soul-deep. He had felt it shoot through him the very moment they first locked eyes that night in the woods.
He turned to look over at her, but she was gone. He scanned the crowd and found he
r sitting beside Timothy, surrounded by children. Clearly, Timothy was telling them all a story. As she listened, a smile stretched her lips so wide it made his heart ache. Rory stiffened. Mayhap he was mistaken and some small spark did flicker between Alex and Timothy. When Timothy looked at her he smiled with open admiration. But then he would appreciate her unpretentious ways, her plainly spoken truth, and the way she cared for her people. Likewise, she would be drawn to Timothy’s compassion.
“God’s blood, he may as well be a priest,” Rory grumbled to himself, reaching for a fresh tankard to cool his growing ire. He threw his head back, downing the amber liquid. Then he reached for another. If holy was what she wanted, Rory was holy. He attended Mass…at least on occasion. And he had gone to confession…once a year at the most. And he had been known to tell children stories, albeit scary ones.
“Damnation,” he cursed aloud, grabbing a full tankard from a passing serving maid’s tray. He swallowed it down, then reached for another and downed that one, too.
His vision blurred. He narrowed his eyes on an approaching female form, her hips swaying back and forth. He held his breath, hoping for Alex to emerge into clarity. Instead, it was one of the lassies he had spoken to during dinner when they had first arrived at Luthmore.
“Dance with me, Rory,” she purred.
He glanced at Alex who now sat in private with Timothy, her hand resting intimately on his arm.
Rory took the maid’s offered hand and kissed it. “My pleasure.”
*
Because Timothy had begged her confidence, Alex leaned closer to him to ensure their conversation was not overheard.
“There is a matter of delicacy that I wished to discuss with ye,” Timothy began. “Over these last days I’ve come to believe that ye and I are not so dissimilar. In fact, we complement each other rather well.”
Alex tensed while she listened. Was Timothy about to propose to her? She gripped her skirt tightly as she fought to stay calm. Was this not what she had hoped for—one of the three suitors setting himself apart from the others? Surely, a proposal achieved just that, making Timothy the obvious choice. But her heart ached as if it had sprouted lungs and a mouth of its very own and now sat within her chest screaming for dear life.
