Cates, Kimberly (8 page)

Hot spots of color rose on the rebel leader's high-slashed cheekbones, but Rachel saw a devilish grin tugging once again at his lips. It was as if he was thinking of the absurdity of Mama Fee's chidings: be a gentleman scoundrel, a gentleman rebel, a kidnapper who minds his manners. God forbid he should commit a faux pas—especially while he was bleeding from a bullet wound!

The door shut, and Rachel heard Adam slam the bar down across it again with a vehemence that made her certain he wished the Glen Lyon's thick head was beneath it.

The sound echoed through the room, then faded into a silence that chafed at her.

She turned on him, her eyes fired with fury. "Don't you
ever
dare to kiss me again!"

"Mama Fee would have chastised me for my rudeness if I'd told you to shut your mouth, ma'am. You have amazingly soft lips for so formidable a... lady."

"You're insane. All of you. The old woman, that— that mountain of a man. And you! You're the worst of all. Completely mad."

"Without a doubt," the Glen Lyon murmured. She heard the chair scrape back against the cave floor, a soft, guttural moan as the rebel leader stood up, starting toward the heather pallet that served as a bed. "But, then, sanity is... highly overrated."

The words were lost in a sudden thud, and Rachel turned to see the Glen Lyon sprawled on the cave floor. His face contorted in pain. The wad of cloth had fallen away from his wound. Rachel's stomach plunged to her toes at the amount of blood that darkened his jacket.

"Sweet heaven! You—you really are hurt!" she said accusingly, rushing to his side and dropping to her knees.

"You did shoot me, if you remember," he said rather gently.

"You said it was a mere gash!"

"No.
You
said it was a paltry gash. I... merely chose not to correct you."

She fumbled with the blood-soaked cloth of his jacket and the fastenings of his waistcoat, peeling them off of his shoulders.

She ripped off the linen of his shirt as well to expose sleek, tanned muscle, dusted with dark-gold hair, the gaping, crimson mouth of the bullet wound obscene where it tore a six-inch gash along his ribs. Her stomach threatened outright rebellion at her handiwork as her whole body quaked in horror at what she had done.

God in heaven, how had the man stayed on his feet during the argument with Adam? How had he managed to conceal that he was badly hurt?

"Why didn't you say something?" she breathed. "I have to tell them."

"No! Please!" His right hand shot out, capturing her wrist. "Adam worries... too damn much already. Not about to... give him an excuse. And Mama Fee... I can't let her see..." The words trailed off, but he didn't need to finish. Rachel had glimpsed the suffering in the Scotswoman's vague and lovely eyes; those frail white hands clung to a slender thread of sanity. She couldn't help but wonder what horror lay in the dark abyss beyond the older woman's gaze.

Apparently satisfied that Rachel was no longer going to bolt for the door to summon help, the Glen Lyon levered himself up on his right elbow, and, with one booted foot, edged himself over until he could prop his shoulders against the wall beside the bed. Sweat beaded his ashen face, running in rivulets to dampen the waistband of his breeches.

"If you could... hand me the bowl and... the bandages, I can get started on this," he said, his gray eyes trailing down to the gash in his side. He grimaced. "Bloody nuisance."

Rachel fetched the bowl of water and the bandages, her hands trembling. Emotions warred inside her— anger and frustration, outrage and fear shifting to a wariness, a confusion. He had had her abducted, for heaven's sake. It wasn't as if he were some kind of... of knight errant. He was a rebel. A coward. A traitor. Why did she suddenly look into those gray eyes that were so wise, so warm despite their pain, and see only a man whom she had injured?

She attempted to steel herself against those eyes, that wry sense of humor. She might have been able to do so if he hadn't smiled at her with very real gratitude.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the supplies. "I'm... afraid you are about to be treated to some... most inappropriate language, Mistress de Lacey." He took up a cloth, dipping it in water. "But I'll try to keep it in... Latin. Those... brats of mine repeat the... damnedest things."

Latin. When she'd first entered the cave, he'd been swearing in Latin. Something warm and wary squeezed at her heart.

A string of fierce, unintelligible words hissed between his teeth as he strained to reach the gash. He dabbed at the wound, his body twisted in a manner she knew must be excruciating.

The corded muscles stood out in his neck, his bared chest gleaming with sweat.

Rachel watched as long as she could, her fingers knotted in her skirts, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Then she couldn't endure it a moment more.

"Stop being a stubborn fool!" she said, her fingers clamping down on a wrist surprisingly supple and strong. "No wonder that Adam person wants to murder you if you're always this—this bullheaded. Let me do that."

The Glen Lyon looked up at her in surprise. "There's no need. It's hardly appropriate for a—a lady to..."

"It was hardly appropriate for me to shoot you, either. Since we've already plunged past the bounds of propriety, I doubt tending a wound in your chest is going to send me into a fit of feminine apoplexies."

His lips twisted up in an ironic curve, and he leaned his head back against the stone wall. His eyelids drifted shut, thick, astonishingly dark lashes pillowed against high cheekbones. "I suppose if you're certain you won't... faint... I'd be damned grateful for some help. This dastardly villain business can be... damned fatiguing."

She took the cloth from his limp fingers, and dipped it again into the bowl. For an instant, she wasn't certain she could follow through on her offer.

Her whole body recoiled with horror at what she'd done.

Never, in all the tales of war she'd heard, in all the fantasies she'd spun, had she ever comprehended the sickening sensation of a finger tightening about a trigger, a lead ball ripping through human flesh.
I didn't mean to do it.

The words echoed through her. But somehow, that couldn't erase the fact that she had.

The cloth dipped into the deepest part of the wound, and the Glen Lyon swore, arching his head back, his fists clenched. Yet, he didn't move so much as a whisper to evade the painful probing.

She glanced up, the aristocratic planes of the rebel's face taut with the effort to hold still.

"It needs to be stitched up," he said tightly. "There's a wooden box with a... crest upon it in the trunk. I keep it stocked with... supplies for... emergencies like this. A curved needle. Some oil and... waxed thread and scissors. If you could... find them and... thread the infernal... needle, I can—"

"But you loathe mending." Rachel found herself attempting to make light of the grisly task that awaited her. "The least I can do is..." Pierce human flesh with a needle? Stitch up the edge of the wound? The very thought made her head swim.

She turned away, quickly rummaging through the trunk until she found the box he spoke of. After a moment, she threaded the strange, curved needle with waxed thread, then sucked in a breath to steady herself before she turned back to the Glen Lyon.

"I suppose this can't be much different than stitching up the hem of a ball gown that some clumsy dancing partner stepped on," she observed.

The Glen Lyon laughed, harsh edges of pain creeping through the rich sound. "You have to dip the needle in oil so it will slide through easier. And knot each stitch as you go. Other than that, feel free to consider me a particularly fetching length of taffeta."

She hesitated a long moment, trying to calm the trembling in her fingers.

But it was the Glen Lyon's voice that stilled them. "Skewer away, Mistress de Lacey," he said. "You've probably... spent most of the day planning... horrible fates for me. Consider me at your... mercy."

With no small difficulty, he raised his left arm, tucking his hand behind his head to bare his side to her. Her fingertips smoothed over the hot, torn edges of his wound, holding them close together. Her gaze flicked up to his for a heartbeat, drinking in the vague amusement, the irony, the warm encouragement.

Yet as she pressed on, the gleaming needle doing its work, humor faded from those incredible gray eyes, the smile hardening into a grim, white line. Not so much as a sound did he make, the silence so oppressive, she found herself talking, trying desperately to distract him from the pain.

"That mountain of a man said you—you saw Sir Dunstan. Is a hostage allowed to ask what happened?"

"I gave him my demands. He promised to consider them." The rebel sucked in a steadying breath. "At the... moment, I'm certain he's raging at his soldiers for not... managing to follow us back to our... lair. I suppose that once... he's done with that, he'll... tear himself apart, attempting to... figure out a way to... rescue you and yet not defile his... honor by bending to my will."

Hope shuddered in her breast. Dunstan was resourceful, his men well trained. Perhaps even now they were readying themselves to attack the Glen Lyon's cave.

She frowned, wondering why the idea of a company of red-coated soldiers charging down into this secluded glen didn't fill her with the overwhelming joy it should.

This is insane,
she thought, gritting her teeth.
For
pity's sake, the fact that my captor is wounded doesn't change anything.
She was in danger here—grave danger. Escape should be her most pressing concern.

Steeling herself against this unsettling confusion, she said, "You had best beware. Sir Dunstan has shown himself most shrewd in outwitting enemies."

Gray eyes opened. "That is simple enough when one chooses enemies as your betrothed does— because they are weaker than he."

The accusation set her off balance, making her hands suddenly clumsy as she attempted to knot the last thread. The needle, slippery with blood, tumbled from her hands.

Silence lay thick, heavy between them for long moments. Then the darkness ebbed from the Glen Lyon's sweat-shiny features.

"Rachel?" Her name—soft, quiet. "Listen... to me. I want you to know: no matter how Sir Dunstan... chooses to answer my terms, you needn't fear. I would... never hurt... you."

Rachel couldn't bear the weight of that solemn voice. She peered down at the gash, now closed with her neat little stitches, and her mind roiled with tales she'd heard—that the merest scratch of a bullet wound could open the gate for a killing fever. That wounds that became putrid made their victims suffer the most horrifyingly painful, lingering deaths.

Why did the idea of such a fate befalling the Glen Lyon suddenly seem so unspeakable?

She shivered, scooping up the bandaging, gently wrapping it about the angry wound. Then, with all her strength, she helped him get up on the heather pallet. He collapsed against it, his eyes closed, his skin white as the sheeting beneath him.

She turned away, busying herself by picking up the carved wooden box, gathering up and cleaning the implements she'd used. No, she didn't dare forget why she was imprisoned here, didn't dare forget how deeply she was in danger, despite the Glen Lyon's assurances.

Perhaps this unconventional rebel wouldn't harm her, no matter what choice Dunstan made. But if the wound she had dealt the Glen Lyon raged out of control, she doubted Adam or any of the others would be so forgiving.

Harm him, and I know a hundred people who would slit your throat,
Adam had said in threat,
be damned that you're a woman.

What kind of man inspired such fierce loyalty? A man labeled as a coward? A bumbling fool too awkward to abduct his own hostages, too preoccupied to take his pistol to a meeting with his most dreaded enemy? It made no sense.

She nibbled at her lower lip, remembering her conversation with Nate in the garden what seemed a million years ago.

The Glen Lyon is your hero, Rachel. I'd ride with him if I could.

She watched the Glen Lyon drift into oblivion, a shuddering sigh wracking through him. Her fingertips traced the top of scarred box that bore what appeared to be the Glenlyon crest, complete with family motto.

Let justice be done though the heavens fall...

Ice dripped down her spine, spiraled through her soul.

Justice.

Whatever mystery enshrouded this man, there was no denying a single certainty. In the next few days, she would be fighting for his life.

And in that battle, Rachel was suddenly aware she might also be fighting for her own.

CHAPTER 6

Something hard and knobby ground into Rachel's back, a chill seeping into her very bones. She shivered and shifted, attempting to find some comfortable spot on the cave floor, but despite her efforts in gathering up the scattered clothing into a makeshift bed, she felt as if she was dozing in a bramble patch. Even the fact that she had stripped off her corset in the dark shadows while her nemesis slept hadn't given her any ease.

She groaned, shoving a wad of quilted satin petticoat more firmly under her cheek, but the embroidery on the garment scratched at her skin as the dampness of the cave penetrated her left stocking. Yet it was far better to endure such discomfort than to tumble back into dreams—dreams filled with gray eyes brimming with a sensitivity, an intensity, a compassion that slayed her, with a mouth, firm and inexplicably bewitching when it curved into an ironic smile.

Galahad, as he peered down at the Maid of Astolate—a man excruciatingly alone.

Who was he, this rebel lord whose fate now seemed locked so firmly to her own? This Englishman who dwelt in the caves hidden in the very bosom of the Scottish Highlands? Who sheltered a confused old woman, looked after a half-wild bevy of children, rode out to face a man he hated, yet forgot to take his pistol to protect himself? This man, who dismissed a threat to his own life as if it were less than nothing. As if
he
were less than nothing.