Charming the Chieftain (8 page)

“Oh, Aeden, you’ve regained your stamina so rapidly I’d quite forgotten you are not completely healed.”

Worry clouded her eyes. He waved off her concern and guided her to a flat rock. She sat down and splayed her dress. The feminine gesture captivated him and momentarily he forgot what he wanted to say. Just then, Fergal approached carrying a drink skin filled with clear river water. Aeden waited attendance on Elisande, until her thirst abated before he continued.

“Where did you learn the yew spell?”

She gave him a peculiar look. “It is not a spell, but a prayer.”

• • •

Uncertain he heard right, he framed the question another way. His relaxed demeanor belied the sudden tension at her answer.

“So, this is a prayer to you?”

Her face lit up with relief. Damn she was pretty.

“Yes.”

“Father Fenton assured me this prayer would dispel spiteful spirits wont to linger in the area.” She canted her head and continued, “I did assume that as head of your clan, you would know this particular prayer.”

He studied her eyes. They were an unusual shade, like the color of warm honey.

“And this was part of your healer training?”

“Oh no, Father Fenton taught me the ways of Christianity. My training came from the village healer.”

He didn’t show any reaction to her remarks, wanting to understand her mind more fully. Still, he could not fathom that a man of the cloth would form these strange opinions much less teach such blaspheme as God’s truth. Seems the man may have been as mad as a garderobe rat.

“I have to tell you, lass, it sounds to me like you’re away with the faeries.”

Guarded, she dropped her smile.

“I do not understand what you mean.”

An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “It means out of your head, lass.”

She tsked, indignance etched into every ripe curve of body.

“Really, Chief, ’tis a terrible judgment to imply.”

“Well, lass, ’tis no’ out of the realm of possibility since one moment you are dancing about with a weed on your shoulder chanting an auld fish wife’s tale, and then stabbing the earth with a stick to attack an evil spirit.”

“I am not witless, Chief Maxwell, if that is what you are inferring.”

The scowl carved on her face could split stone. She poked his chest to emphasize her point. His breath came out in a whoosh. The unexpected sensation of her touch sent his pulse racing and his head swimming with images of Elisande naked in his arms. He shook off the sensation. Christ, what had they been speaking of? He had to backtrack over their conversation. Right, madness. He rubbed a hand over his face. It disturbed him to know that such bare contact upended his entire thought. Out of the blue, a nugget of a conversation with Onora jarred loose from his memory. On more than one occasion, she had impressed upon him Elisande’s unorthodox upbringing.

Nevertheless, he failed to grasp the enormity of the situation. He wondered if Onora even guessed at the extent of her niece’s strange beliefs. Now, more than ever, he must conceal this oddity from the clan, until Father Pollock set her mind to rights. For the moment, he decided no harm would be done if he indulged her peculiar notions when they were alone. Then, he grimaced as a thought surfaced. Addis would never coddle her ideas. Something had to be done, and quickly.

“Tell me again what you wished to accomplish with the sprig of heather.”

She thrust her nose in the air. “No, thank you. I prefer not to be scoffed at for my beliefs.”

Ah hell, he had bruised her feelings.

“I promise you, I will no’ scoff at anything you have to say. I shall keep my mind open, but no’ so open that my brain slides out. Fair enough?”

She gave him a slow smile. “Aye, Chief, fair enough.”

Understanding passed between them, and then turned into something more. His eyes roamed her curves. She possessed all the physical qualities he sought in a woman — soft, yielding and utterly feminine. His gaze traveled back to her face and noted the high color fell to the creamy expanse of her neck where her pulse throbbed. He took an unsteady breath.
Dare he allow himself to believe the pull of attraction mutual?

• • •

Unexpectedly, the very air around them became electrified. All at once, she wanted nothing more than to escape his disturbing presence. When she fled her father’s home, she promised herself to never allow anyone into her heart again. Yet, in a short space of time, Aeden managed to bypass her carefully constructed defenses and mend a corner of her shattered heart. Stunned by the unwanted revelation, her eyes widened in panic.

Concern furrowed his brow. “Are you all right, lass?”

“Aeden — ” She tried to push through the quaver in her voice, worried she might blurt out an unsuitable remark. She blushed. Heaven help her, the man made her forget her own name. She needed something to distract him from her odd behavior.

Dear Lord, what to tell him?
Then a sudden idea took shape.

“I really must return to the river.”

He peered behind him toward the river bank then back at her, dubious.

“You do no’ want to bathe again, do you.”

She shook her head and it drew his attention to her lush locks. He itched to spread her glorious hair across his bare chest.

“No. I should like to search for another stone.”

That statement jolted him back to the conversation.

“You want to search for a rock?”

She nodded. “Yes, I must replace the one I used.”

His brow clouded. “You want to replace a stone you used?”

Why does he repeat my words?

“And what became of the stone you need to replace?”

Ignoring his too-patient tone she answered, “I used it to start the fire that has been burning in the cave these five days past.”

She followed his scarred hands as they massaged the back of his neck. Tanned, calloused, and strong, they were also gentle, warm. She noticed his bright, clear blue eyes take on a preoccupied, far away stare. Disconcerted by his contemplative manner, she spoke softly.

“Chief?”

Her voice broke the spell and he directed his attentions back on her. “Woman, you may drain the river of every rock if that is what pleases you.”

Without another word, he brushed past her and stalked off in the direction of the water.

Once again, he managed to throw her off. She did not welcome the familiar sensation one bit. Annoyed, she stood with her hands perched on her hips.

“I am only in need of the one stone!”

• • •

Aeden lounged against a mushroom studded log, one leg pulled up an arm resting across his knee. Relaxed, though alert, he kept his attention on Elisande, knee deep in water. She hitched her arasaid to mid-thigh with the ends tucked securely into the leather belt at her waist. A frown of concentration marred her brow, and she cursed like a soldier all the while discarding one stone after another that she pulled from the water with her toes.

Weary to the bone, Elisande gagged down the nightly offering of pounded, dried berries, oatcakes, and withered meat strips with the aid of an enormous drinking horn filled with water. She showed the men her appreciation for the meal by swallowing every morsel no matter how much she wanted to hurl it into the bushes. Finished, she wrapped herself in another plaid Fergal had fetched for her. She thanked him, chose a parcel of ground covered in velvety moss, and bedded down for the evening.

She detected eyes on her and struggled to gain a comfortable position under close scrutiny. With her feet poking out from beneath the plaid, she resembled a butterfly about to break free of its chrysalis. Furtively, she glanced at Aeden and then his men. It became glaringly obvious the brisk evening bothered not one, save her. Resigned, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth against the cold, and prayed she still had use of her limbs come first light.

• • •

Aeden waited for Elisande to settle in before staking his claim opposite her against a wide tree trunk. He shut his eyes and tried to dislodge her from his mind. By some means, she had gotten to him in a way he never predicted. Her scent still lingered, and the unexpected throatiness of her voice flowed over him like warmed whisky. With an impatient movement, he flipped the plaid over his head only to throw if off again. There was no escaping the truth. He wanted her in his bed. In the beginning, he was captivated by her winsome beauty, but her lively mind, quick wit, and odd beliefs surpassed even her physical beauty.

“Did you hear that?” Ronan asked, breaking into Aeden’s musings.

“Aye, you would have to be a deaf man no’ to,” Kiernan said hoisting his bulk up on an elbow.

Aeden smiled into the dark.

“God’s teeth, it’s akin to bones rattlin’,” Fergal added on a yawn.

“There ’tis again, what in hell is it?” Kiernan demanded.

“S-s-sorry everyone, m-my teeth are ch-ch-chattering,” Elisande stuttered.

“You’re that cold, lass?” Aeden questioned, surprised.

“Y-yes.”

Worried for her health, Aeden leapt to his feet, moved over the mossy ground, stopping short of Elisande’s head, visible at the top of her plaid.

“Why did you no’ say you were cold?” he accused.

“I a-assure you, I am n-n-not doing this t-t-to thwart you.”

Her disgruntled tone made him smile. He stood there a moment and stared. The breeze had lifted her silken curls and deposited them in a windswept manner around her head. His fist clenched by his thigh. He had to fight the irrational urge to reach out and run his fingers through her tangled mane. He gave himself a mental shake and conjured up mundane chores in an effort to calm his quickening heartbeat. It didn’t work. The woman made him mad.

Apparently mistaking his silent manner for annoyance, she apologized.

“I am sorry if I k-kept you and the men awake. I c-c-cannot seem to grow w-warm enough t-t-to nod off.”

The meager firelight showed the poor lass’s lips had turned blue. She looked wrung out. Without a word, he bent down and plucked her from the ground. She weighed no more than a sack of dandelion fluff.

The wind caught the edge of the plaid and exposed her legs.

“Well, that helped,” she muttered.

He ignored her biting comment, and continued moving further into the shelter of an ancient hawthorn grove.

“I’m p-perfectly able to w-walk.”

He ignored her.

“You s-shall tear your st-stitches,” she remarked.

“I heal fast.”

Desperation laced her voice. “For g-g-goodness sake, put me down. I must be taxing your wound.”

Incredulous, he stared down at her. “You canna weigh no more than a bag of goose feathers.”

Satisfied they were far enough under the cover of tree to keep the brunt of the wind at bay, he set her back on her feet.

Her expression of gratitude died on her lips when he ripped the blanket from her body. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“I am only taking your plaid and spreading it on the ground, lass.”

Next, he settled his large frame against the substantial trunk of a Rannoch crab tree, wrapped his plaid around his shoulders, and then opened his arms to her. By her expression, she wanted to raise a fuss over the impropriety. Nonetheless, the lateness of the hour coupled with the brisk evening air halted any protest she might have made.

True, he could have warmed her with any number of extra plaids carried by his men, thereby protecting her modesty, and his sanity, but he was tired of fighting his desires. He wanted to hold her, press her against him, just this once.

“Come, before you freeze on your feet. I promise I will no’ bite.”

• • •

The damp chill had long ago seeped deep in her bones, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into the comfort he offered. Conversely, the notion of such familiarity chafed. Really, she should protest the suggestion. However, her willpower froze with the rest of her limbs. In the end, she conceded there were very few situations in which a female had the opportunity to fling propriety aside.

Her mind made up, she pitched herself at him. Immediately the heat of his embrace surrounded her, and a hearty moan pulled itself from her throat. As she laid her head on his chest, she allowed herself a soft sigh of contentment, and took immense pleasure in the quickening of his heartbeat. He cocooned them within the Maxwell plaid and for the first time in a very long time, she experienced the protective side of a man.

Just before she drifted into a deep sleep, she thought she heard him whisper, “Ah, lass, what are you doin’ to me?”

Gently, he shifted her to her back, insinuated a warm thigh in-between hers, and bestowed a light kiss upon her slightly parted lips. He tangled her tongue with his, and the raw craving kept leashed roared to life. He averted his face and dragged in a lungful of fresh air. As if branded by her touch, he reclined backwards and the look of disbelief reflected back in her eyes. After a long moment, he gently guided her head back down to his shoulder. On his life, he believed his desire nothing more than a natural response for being deprived of bed sport. With one stolen kiss, he set out to prove nothing special existed between them, only to discover that a kiss from the right woman could resonate throughout his mind and body.

“What am I to do with you?” he murmured.

Whether he liked it or not, a bond had formed — a connection beyond anything he bore for another woman. He expelled his breath and gathered her close and lay there for a time stroking her hair, listening to her even breaths. Rolling onto his back, he tucked her into his side and studied the multitude of stars spilled across the clear night sky to wait for sleep that would never come.

“It has been over one full week since he pulled me from the river. The man scarce speaks to me, yet, each night shames me by taking me in his arms. What must his men think?”

Elisande threw her hands in the air. She was near the breaking point. Each day dragged into another and another until she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming aloud. After that first night he took her into the hawthorn grove, she tried making her bed away from him, only to awaken the next morning entwined like a vine around his muscular form. Desperate to save her sanity, she fought to maintain a physical distance, if not a mental one, but the contrary man never permitted her even that small dignity. Oh, he presented the appearance of being put upon and threw out a sigh or two for the benefit of his men. Still, when it was time to settle in for the night, he would scoop her up, blankets and all, and drag her off to their private coppice. She always ended up unyielding as a brick, until the tantalizing heat from his inner thighs warmed her bottom. Once that happened, the will to extract her person from his body vanished. If she were honest, she supposed she didn’t really put up much of a struggle. Not that it signified, he did seem determined to have his way.