by Lois Greiman
“Lass?” came the voice again. She jerked her gaze to the right, and he was there. Rogan McBain. Not thirty feet separated them.
“You should not ride out alone, lass,” he said.
She straightened her back carefully. “Why ever not?” she asked, and hoped to God he wouldn’t notice that her cheeks were wet, her hands atremble.
“’Tis not safe,” he said, and studied her face, as if she might disappear at any moment.
“Well…” Her nose was runny, and she wished that for once she had remembered a handkerchief. Wished she could act her age, or her supposed station, or at least her species. A fox had died. An animal! “As you can see, I am perfectly fine,” she said.
He shuffled his feet in the underbrush. They were clad in black leather boots that rose nearly to his powerful, tightly clad thighs. “All is well then?”
Touching the back of her knuckles to her nose, she hoped to God he would not realize her shuddering sorrow. “Of course. Why would it not be?”
Silence again, deep and pulsing, and when he finally spoke, he canted his head the slightest degree as if to judge her reaction. “You were correct, ’twas naught but vermin,” he said.
And yet there seemed almost to be a strange regret in his solemn tone, as if he, too, had felt the animal’s fear as his own. Could that be the case? But the sight of him towering above her dashed such foolish notions, for he was strength itself. Dressed in a charcoal, knee-length coat, his shoulders looked as wide as the horizon, as strong as the oaks that towered above him. A man such as he would have no concept of fear. Therefore, this strange tone of his must be some kind of ploy. A game she had not yet deciphered. They oft liked to play games. She stifled a shiver.
“Surely you do not think me upset by the plight of the fox,” she said, and steeling herself, raised her eyes to his.
Their gazes met, and for one sterling moment she almost won the battle, almost played the part, but try as she might, she had never been good at this sport. One tear, hot and fat, swelled in the corner of her eye and slipped traitorously down her cheek.
He watched her in silence, his face like granite, his expression etched in solemnity. But there was something indefinable in his stormy eyes. “If not for the fox, then what?” he asked. His voice was level, but strangely soft.
“I simply…” Sobs shivered at her throat, but she held them back, held them in. “I twisted my ankle,” she said.
“Your ankle?” He sounded dubious, but she hardly noticed, for her head had already begun to tick with that insistent ache she knew so well.
She put her hand to her brow.
“Did ye injure your head as well?”
“Perhaps when I…” she began, but she could not challenge another fabrication. “No. ’Tis but a headache. I am certain it will be relieved once I reach home.” Home. She wanted nothing more than to be in the safe confines of Lavender House. To hide forever in its darkened recesses.
“I shall help you to your steed then,” he said, and stepped toward her, but she jerked involuntarily, ready to scramble away, and he froze. She almost closed her eyes to her own lunacy. How the hell had she ever thought she would fool anyone into believing she was refined? On the best of days she could barely manage sane.
And he was scowling at her. “You’re right,” he said finally. “You should not rise,” There was something odd in his voice. Probably something that suggested she was madder than a caged monkey. “Not until we’ve assessed the damage.”
“I’m fine,” she said, but he was close now. Too close to rise to her feet without touching him. So she remained where she was, staring up at him, fear crowding the misery.
“Very well,” he said, and, bending at the waist, handed her a handkerchief. She took it with some misgivings. It was white and unadorned but for an embroidered image of the brooch he wore even now on his coat. She scrunched it in her gloved fist, and he stepped away, allowing her to breathe again as he lowered himself to sit with his back against a broad horse chestnut. “But ’twill do no harm to wait a few minutes. The horses should have a few minutes rest, regardless.”
Kindness? Compassion? Or was this yet another game? One to keep her here alone? To wait until the others took their bloody trophies and left their prey’s tattered corpse behind.
Tears burned her eyes again. She lowered them and wished to God she had been born male. That she was strong and confident and heartless.
“All things die,” he said softly.
“But not in terror. Not in—” She stopped herself. He was playing with her mind, trying to draw out the real her. The weak her. But she pushed the raw images from her head, remembering her assumed persona. “Might you think I am unaware of that fact?”
The woods went silent. “My apologies,” he said. “I had forgotten your loss.”
Her loss? she wondered.
“Were you wed long?”
Of course. Her supposed marriage. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a way not to lie. “No.”
“I am sorry.”
She nodded.
“And there were no children to soften the blow?”
“No.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Did he want young ones? Your husband?”
Was he intentionally digging into her past? Did he suspect she was not what she was said to be? Lifting her gaze, she caught him with her eyes, but his face was still impassive.
“Most do,” she said.
He watched her a moment, then nodded, but said nothing.
She knew better than to be intrigued, but the question came just the same. “And what of you? Do you hope for children?”
“I fear I am not the fatherly type,” he said, and though his tone was level, there was something in his eyes, some hint of emotion that went unvoiced.
“Why do you say so?” she asked.
His gaze was flat and steady. “Look at me,” he said.
And she did. He sat before her, heavy legs spread with his arms resting atop his knees. His hands were wide and open, his shoulders endless, his jaw hard and dark with stubble. But it was his eyes that always snagged her. His eyes, low-browed and silver gilded with a thousand memories hidden behind them.
“Do I look to be the image of the tender sire?” he asked.
No. He looked like an ancient warrior come to life. Powerful and ruthless. Except for that something in his quicksilver eyes, he looked to be the perfect killer. Or the perfect lover. The thought struck her suddenly, shocking her with its unwarranted arrival.
“Not everyone is what he appears to be,” she said, and tore her gaze away.
“Not all,” he agreed solemnly. “Though I am.”
The perfect lover? She wondered and chided herself, for her face was already hot, flushed with the odd twist of emotions that warred inside her. Dread and hope. The stab of fear, the spark of desire. “Are you certain?” she asked, and flitted her gaze up through her lashes at him.
“Do you see me as a troll?”
“No!” She started at his words, for although he had seemed to be the Devil incarnate just days before, new images were beginning to creep into her subconscious. Shadowy, uncertain images of him abed, sheets tangled, eyes at half-mast.
“What then?” he asked.
“I just…I…” The obscure images were burning holes in her mind, but she yanked her thoughts back on track. “Perhaps your standards of fatherhood are too lofty.” Or maybe her own were too low. Anyone who didn’t sell his kin to the highest bidder seemed all but saintly.
He watched her in silence, then shook his head. Dark hair waved against his collar. “Fathers should…” He paused. His lips were pursed in a stern line, the antithesis of the droll Regency buck. But there was something about the honesty of his expression that touched her. There was no artifice here that she could discern. No pretenses, and somehow that made his rugged features strangely alluring.
“What?” she asked, and the single word sounded breathless, for if the truth be tol
d, she had no idea what a father should do or be. “Fathers should what?”
He scowled. His dark coat was gathered slightly at the shoulders, making them look broad beyond reason. Yet they appeared to have the weight of the world upon them, and for one irrational moment, she wanted nothing more than to touch his face, to feel the coarse stubble that darkened his cheeks. To etch the scar that creased his upper lip.
“Yours was a fine da, aye?” he asked, and now his tone seemed almost hopeful, as if he needed to hear there was some good in the world.
She watched his lips move. He sat very still, his haunting eyes solemn. Upon his powerful knees, his wrists looked sun-browned and broad, sprinkled with sable hair, crossed with pulsing veins. But his hands were not meaty or coarse, and there was something about the way his fingers curled that made it seem that they would be the perfect instruments for writing sonnets or coaxing music from a mandolin.
“Lass?”
She started from her reverie. “Yes. Of course. Until…” Her head throbbed again. “He died. In July of 1809.” A pulse throbbed in her left eye. “Mother succumbed shortly after…of a broken heart,” she added, then chided herself, sure she’d said as much before. But if he noticed her freakish need to spill the information she’d so painstakingly memorized, he did not mention it.
“You were cherished then,” he said. “As a wee one ought to be?”
Her throat constricted. Her head pounded. She refrained from spewing more lies like a well-versed crow. “Weren’t you?”
“Cherished?” His lips quirked up again. “In a manner of speaking perhaps.”
Memories crowded in. Loneliness, guilt, fear so thick it all but drowned her. “Who bought you?” she whispered, lost for a moment, hopeless.
His brows dropped. “What?” he asked, and she caught her breath, jerking back to reality.
Dear God, she couldn’t afford to be mad. She’d made a promise to be sane. A promise she would keep.
“Who brought you…” she breathed. “…to the Highlands? After your mother’s death? Was it your father?”
“Nay,” he said, but there was still a question in his eyes, as if he’d glimpsed a hint of madness and would wait to see it again. “My father, too, died when I was yet young, but I had uncles.”
“Real uncles?” Her question made him scowl again, and she caught herself. “I mean, blood kin?” she asked, and though she tried to imbue the words with mere curiosity, her tone sounded almost reverent to her own ears, for despite everything she knew of men, despite everything she had experienced, the thought of true kinship still resonated like waves in her shivering soul.
“Three of them,” he said.
“Three.” The word came out raspy, for in her wildest imaginings she could not fathom it. Could not see having three blood relatives to care for her. “How wonderful.”
“That I didn’t have five?”
She scowled.
He dropped his head back against the tree behind him. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was curling with the cool humidity. “Four might well have been the death of me.”
Her heart lurched. She’d misread things completely. “They were cruel,” she whispered, but he was already shaking his head.
“Nay, lass. Nay, not cruel, just…” He was staring at her, thinking. His feet were large, planted well apart, his powerful arms at rest atop them. “Just…men,” he said.
Cruel then, she thought, but managed not to voice the words as she glanced at the forest bed and felt the memories creep in like evil spirits.
“Perhaps ye should remove your boot,” he said.
She glanced up, scared, but he made no move to approach her.
“To alleviate the pressure on your ankle.”
She shook her head, finally remembering her lie, and he scowled.
“I once left me boot on too long,” he said.
She should probably speak now, she realized. A witty tale of footwear perhaps. But nothing immediately sprang to mind.
“After an injury,” he explained. “’Twas not a wise decision.”
“No?” It was the best she could do.
“They were forced to cut through the leather. The boot was ruined.”
“I meant…” She searched for normal, but it was elusive. “How were you injured?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did you twist your ankle?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and shifted to his knees as if to approach. “You’d best remove that if—”
She yanked her feet back under her skirt.
Silence marched in, lonely and thoughtful. He was staring at her, as if he knew things. As if he sensed things.
“I’ll not touch you,” he said, words slow, voice quiet. “If that be your wish.”
She said nothing. Could think of nothing.
“You’ve no need to fear.”
“Fear?” The word came out rushed. She tried to cover it with laughter, but the sound was coarse and ugly. “I’m not fearful,” she said, and felt her head pound.
“Fear is not a shameful thing,” he said.
His dark-fringed eyes were thoughtful, filled with his soul. But why? Who was he? What did he know?
“Surely you don’t,” she said.
He watched her. Somewhere far above a jay scolded the world at large.
“Fear,” she explained, and he breathed a sound that might have been a chuckle.
Amusement lit his sea-storm eyes, casting rays of laughter at their corners. “You jest,” he said.
“But you’re so…” She lifted a hand, indicating his size, his strength, his sheer raw power.
“Troll-like?”
“Strong,” she breathed.
If he was flattered, he didn’t show it. “There is always someone stronger, lass.”
She remained silent, taking in the massive breadth of his chest, the amazing width of his leather-clad calves.
“Or quicker. Or smarter. Or better armed.”
Their gazes melded silently.
“In truth, I have spent most of my days in the darkness of fear.”
She was watching him, reading him, nearly believing, but suddenly she realized the jest was at her expense and almost laughed at her naïveté. “You lie,” she said.
He drew a deep breath, then glanced to the right, thoughtful, quiet. “Lies have rarely been my friend.”
Or hers. And yet she told them. Told them until her head throbbed. But…it did not, she realized suddenly. The pain was gone. She touched her fingers to her brow.
“Does your head yet ache?”
“No,” she said, and marveled at the truth. But she would not belabor the point. Stranger things had happened, and there was something to learn here. To understand. “What happened?” she asked.
He shrugged, an economical lift of power. “Did you fall when you twisted your ankle? Mayhap you hit your head. Sometimes it but takes a bit of time for the pain to—”
“I meant your foot,” she said. “What happened to your foot? Before they belatedly removed your boot.”
“’Tis not a tale for the likes of you,” he said.
“The likes of me?”
“The fairer folk,” he said.
She raised her brows. “You think me a…pixie?”
Did his face redden the slightest degree? “The fair sex,” he corrected, and she nearly laughed.
“Perhaps you could tell me nevertheless.”
He paused for a moment, thinking, and finally spoke. “I was in Boxtel,” he said. “In the Netherlands.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what I do.” His expression was exceptionally somber again. “What I did.” He caught her gaze, as if it was difficult to do so and therefore must be done. “I was a Tommy.”
She scowled.
“A soldier for the Thirty-third Regiment of Foot. I was young…and foolish. My company had been routed.” His face was blank as he turned to look through the woods to the open fields beyond. “Outnumbe
red.”
“You were running,” she said, and winced. “Like the fox.”
Surprise showed on his face, but he nodded. “Like the fox,” he said. “Scared out of my wits. But we had no place to run. The French were ahead and behind.”
The woods were silent.
“What happened?”
“My horse…” He paused, almost winced, then shored up his emotions as if they never were. “My mount was shot. He was not so big as Colt, but when he fell, I was broken. And he was dead.”
There was no expression on his face, and yet there was something in his voice, something that almost suggested the death of his mount was worse than the pain he’d endured.
“How did you escape?”
“I am not above crawling,” he said, voice rough.
She waited, heart beating slowly in the close constraints of her chest.
“I was able to drag myself into the woods. To hide like a cur in a hole.”
Her throat felt tight. Her skin itchy. “There’s nothing wrong with hiding.”
His eyes struck her, flint on steel. She felt breathless, mourning.
“Is there?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Their gazes melded.
“Please tell me there is not,” she murmured, though she knew she gave too much away, knew she exposed too much of herself.
“There is nothing wrong with hiding,” he rumbled finally. “If there is a purpose to seeing another day.”
She scowled, not knowing what that meant. “Would that the fox had hidden.”
He watched her for a moment. “Nay,” he said, and drew a deep breath, making his chest rise, making his eyes go sad and dark. “For she had a purpose.”
“To save herself,” she said, but he shook his head.
Raindrops were just beginning to fall, soft as mist from the darkening sky.
“’Twas a choice she made,” he said. “Herself or her young.”
“I—” she began, then stopped abruptly, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach.
“She had kits.” Her voice was wooden. It was the best she could do.
He opened his mouth to speak, but perhaps there was something in her expression that stopped him.
