Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (16 page)

Liam ducked inside, taking in every detail.

"Tis your decision, laddie," said the old woman, her gnarled face framed like a dried apple in the doorway, "but if you hope to see the lady safely to her destination, twould be wise to keep yourself alive."

"Who—" Liam began, but she cut off his question.

"Stay inside," she said, and closed the door. Darkness settled in.

Beside him, Rachel's breaths still came in hard, fast rasps.

"What the devil were you thinking?" he asked, not daring to turn toward her lest his emotions show in his face.

For a moment she said nothing, then, "I was thinking I'd just as soon not see you dead until I've completed my miss—" She stopped suddenly and pursed her lips.

Liam turned. The terror of seeing her in the huge man's grasp faded slowly. He narrowed his eyes. "Until you've completed what?" he asked.

"Until I've completed my journey to my laird Dunlock."

Silence settled in. Liam's mind raced.

"Until you've completed your mission. Twas what you were about to say."

"You're wrong," she said, but she didn't look at him.

"I'm right, and I know it."

"You know nothing!" Her words were rasped, and now she jerked her gaze to his. Her eyes sparked with anger. "Not even that I need—" She stopped again, breathing hard.

"What?" He all but croaked the word.

"I need you alive," she said, and raised her chin slightly. "If you're bent on theft, at least you could choose a more likely victim."

"More likely?" He made certain his expression was cocky, though his heart was racing overtime, and his mind too, wondering what she had meant to say. "There was none more likely than he."

"None more likely! He was the biggest man in the crowd. Nay!" She swept a hand angrily before her as if to encompass the universe. "The biggest in the world."

Liam stared at her, his gut clenched like a fist at the thought of her in danger. "Just so," he said, and turning his back to her, refused to speak again.

Liam awoke with a start. It took a moment to remember where he was, an instant longer to realize Rachel slept beside him.

Evening had settled in. Though it had been dim, it was darker now. Beneath him, the wagon shifted again, and he realized by the jangling noises and the rumbling voices outside that it was being hitched to a horse.

What now? Should he wake Rachel and insist that they leave this band? he wondered, but one glance at her slumbering features decided him.

She lay on her side, her lips slightly parted and one narrow hand nestled beneath her cheek. Her otherworldly eyes were closed, and beneath the silky lengths of her lashes, the skin was cast with purple shadows of fatigue.

His heart wrenched.

She was right. He shouldn't have chosen that particular man to steal from. But old habits die hard. Why choose an easy mark when you could endanger your life instead? Why take the well-trod path when he could assuage his guilt and quell her hunger all in one fell swoop?

Up front, the wagon seat creaked. The driver clicked, and they lurched forward.

Rachel moaned, shifted slightly, but didn't awaken. Liam settled in, watching her face as she fell back into oblivion.

Some hours later Liam sat staring across the fire at the ancient Gypsy woman who had piped the music for Rachel's dance—pathetic as it was.

They'd stopped only a short time before. He'd lain quietly for a while, watching Rachel awake at the cessation of movement, watching her eyes open, watching awareness come to her.

It had taken her a few moments to realize where they were, a few more to sit up and voice the obvious questions.

The old woman had eventually knocked at the narrow door, and now Rachel occupied the log beside him in the midst of a sheltered glen.

Across the bright fire, the old woman's eyes dulled the light of the flame. Taking her smoking pipe from her mouth, she squinted at him. "Tis your business, lad," she said. "But the next time you filch a purse, I'd suggest you choose someone more your own size."

"Filch a purse?" Liam lifted a hand innocently to his chest and gave her a practiced smile. Who was this woman who had initiated the dance that had saved Rachel? And why had she done it?

Though these questions went unanswered, something told him his act was wasted on her. Still, he had to try, for he could afford to trust no one. "I fear you're mistaken, Grandmother."

She stared at him in silent speculation. Beside him, Rachel shifted slightly. She'd said no more than a dozen words since awakening, and he longed to glance at her, to assure himself that she was well. But there was little point, for he knew how she would look if he turned toward her—tattered and worn but with a frayed sort of elegance that was all her own.

Damn! Maybe he had been a fool. Perhaps his actions had been misguided from the start.

Perhaps the hulking Davin was nothing but loyal, and Liam should have returned her into his protection. But Warwick—Damn Warwick! Liam's mind reeled. Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe Warwick was dead and it was nothing more than Liam's continuing terror that made him think otherwise. Or maybe...

For a moment, he refused to finish the thought, but just because one was an excellent liar did not give him free rein to lie to himself, so he forced the thought through to its finish.

Maybe he had wanted to believe it was Warwick on the opposite shore. Maybe he had wanted to believe in a fate so horrible that would give him an opportunity to play the hero. Maybe the risk of death in the rapids was worth having Rachel to himself, if only for a little while.

God's balls! He was a dolt. If he were going to pretend to be the man he was not, at least he could see her decently clothed and fed instead of allowing her to traipse about half-dressed and starving.

At least he could have snatched the giant man's purse with his usual aplomb. It wasn't like him to botch up a job. But suddenly Rachel had appeared, and the sight of her involved in his black deeds — "Tis not like you to botch up a job so," said the old woman.

"What?" Liam nearly dropped the bowl some nameless man had handed him moments before.

The old woman chuckled. "But I suppose your lady distracted you."

"Me lady! Nay, she is my—" Liam began.

"Do not say she's your sister, lad," warned the crone quietly, the corner of a smirk on her dried-apple face. "If I were foolish enough to believe such tripe, twould make your feelings for her suspect indeed. We shall say she is your wife."

Liam stared agog. He was absolutely
not
going to pretend Rachel was his wife. For he knew his limitations and such a pretense would put him hell and gone past them. He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could form appropriate words, the old woman spoke again.

"And what of you, lass? No permanent damage done, I see."

"I am well," Rachel said, her carefully schooled voice quiet in the darkness, her gaze not flickering from the old matriarch's. "You have my thanks, Grandmother."

"You may call me Marta," she said, and paused. "But not in that voice."

Liam tensed, knowing the old woman had recognized nobility. But when he glanced at Rachel, he saw no alarm, only a hint of humor, and maybe the flash of respect in her otherworldly eyes.

"You have me thanks, Marta," she corrected, her tone heavy with a Highland brogue.

The old woman's obsidian eyes sparkled. "So you think better than you dance. I hoped twas true. In fact, I would have wagered on it."

A young lad panted up, snaring their attention. Dressed in breeches and a tunic three times too large for his narrow body, he looked to be no more than eight years of age.

"Rory said you filched a purse," he spouted, breathless as he stared wide-eyed at Liam. "Will you teach me how?"

"I did not—" Liam began, but suddenly a growl rumbled in his ear.

He lurched to his feet. A black beast reared from the darkness. Frantically, Liam searched for a weapon, but he had none. Quick as a snake, the beast snatched the boy up by the back of his tunic. The lad squawked and thrashed, but it did no good.

Liam yanked a branch from the fire, ready to do battle.

But a woman's voice stopped him. "Take him down to the river, Bear. And do not bring him back till you've washed such filthy notions from his mind."

Liam turned toward the voice. The slim Gypsy girl stood at the edge of the fire's light, her arms akimbo and her bright eyes perturbed.

"That was a—that was a bear!" Liam said. He tried to make his tone casual, but the boy had just been snatched up by a bear. Surely that warranted some excitement.

"Aye." The girl turned her scowl from the darkness to Liam. "I but hope Lachlan does not corrupt him before their return."

Liam tried to formulate questions, but none found their way into words.

"My granddaughter, Catriona," the old woman introduced.

The girl stepped into the firelight. Shadows danced off exotic features—straight nose, high cheekbones, eyes slightly almond in shape and indescribable in color. Built like a restless reed, was this small bundle of energy.

The outlandish costume she'd worn during her performance was gone. Now she was dressed in a simple gown of nondescript hue. But if this was a simple woman, Liam was a saint.

Stepping up to the fire, she scooped a bit of soup into a wooden bowl and turned to Rachel.

"Who taught you to dance?"

For a moment the woods were silent, then, "No one," Rachel said dryly.

"Good," Catriona said. "Then there is no one to blame."

A young man, just over twenty years of age, stepped into the fire's light. His black eyes skimmed to Rachel, settled there for a fraction of a second, then shifted aside. But a second was too long to Liam's way of thinking.

"This be Rory," Marta said.

Liam recognized him as the fellow who had caught Catriona during her high-flying performance, and guessed that, judging by how close he was standing to the girl, he claimed her for his own, at least in his own mind.

"What be your name?" he asked, skimming his attention from Liam to Rachel again.

"I am Hugh, and this be me wife, Flora." God, he was going to burn in hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames licking him even now. But he couldn't have Rory thinking... whatever he was thinking.

"And where are you heading?" asked Marta.

"North," said Liam succinctly. These nomads would expect no more explanations from other wanderers.

"Then you may as well travel with us for a time," Marta said. "For we go in the same direction, and tis less likely you'll be found if you travel with our familia, aye?"

"Found by whom?" Liam asked innocently, but Rachel spoke up, surprising him.

"We've no wish to endanger you or yours," she said, her gaze steady on the old woman's, her brogue still heavy.

For a moment Marta said nothing, then, "But you have deeds that must be done. And mayhaps your efforts will only aid our own." She paused then nodded, as if seeing things in Rachel's eyes.

"Aye. You will travel with us for a spell, and we shall see what we can do with you."

Liam watched the old woman nervously, but her gaze didn't flicker from Rachel's.

"The eyes of a saint and the skin of a lady. But what of your soul?" she murmured.

Liam opened his mouth to object, but Marta raised a hand for silence.

"We shall eat now," she said.

The campground fell silent. There seemed nothing to do but follow her instructions. Liam noticed now that his stomach knotted with hunger as he tasted the soup again.

The boy called Lachlan hustled back to the campsite, the back of his tunic wet and his expression peeved as he glanced over his shoulder at the bear that lumbered along behind him. Liam warily watched the huge beast, but the bear seemed to have no appetite for Irishmen. Dropping to his haunches, he folded his legs beneath him, snored a note of contentment, and settled down with a freshly caught trout.

Quiet murmuring began up again as if this were an everyday occurrence. Bread was passed around and a bottle of wine was brought forth.

Further introductions were made. Hertha was a woman of middling years. She had a belly round with child, and two daughters who had a tendency to stare at Liam and giggle behind their hands. Their father's name was John and
his
father, a man with a limp who called Marta, Mother, was named Fane.

As far as Liam could tell, Rory was the only one without direct ties to the old woman.

Supper ended finally. Marta pushed herself stiffly to her feet, using a gnarled staff, its end worn smooth with wear.

"Rory, you and the boy shall give up your wagon this night," she pronounced.

"Can we sleep in the trees?" Lachlan asked.

"Tis likely to rain," Rory said, his dark gaze flitting to Rachel. "Best to sleep beneath the wagon."

For a moment the old woman's eyes sparkled. "Methinks you would get more sleep in the trees," she said, and chuckling softly, disappeared inside the first wagon in the row of three.

Liam made a concerted effort not to clear his throat, not to fidget, not to burst into spontaneous flame. But he was expected to spend the night with Rachel! And he had neither the advantage of being freezing cold or ravenously hungry to save himself from her. What the hell were they thinking?

But when he glanced frantically about him, he realized with numbing surprise that no one seemed to realize the enormity of his problem. Lachlan was busy fighting off the advances of Bear, who had plopped a gargantuan paw on the boy's shoulder as he begged for treats. Catriona was braiding the hair of one of the girls, and Hertha was already toting the bowls off to the river.

Only Rory was watching him.

"Well..." Liam rose to his feet. "Our thanks for your beds," he said, nodding to the dark-eyed man.

The other made no response.

Liam extended a hand to Rachel, who rose with only a moment of hesitation.

The journey to the wagon seemed inordinately long. Inside, it was darker than ever. Liam closed the door behind them and turned toward Rachel. The world went quiet.