Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (18 page)

They traveled on again that afternoon, but stopped early.

Hertha made a sweet sauce with the dewberries Rachel had picked and saved the water they'd cooked in, though God knew what for.

They were a strange lot, these Roms, and Liam would just as soon have departed from them.

But the trail ahead would be difficult, and if they were being followed, he and Rachel would not easily be found amongst them, for twas a well-known fact that the Roms did not easily accept outsiders.

Yet this Rory seemed to be accepting Rachel well enough. Liam glanced over to where they sat by the fire. Rory leaned close to murmur something and Rachel laughed aloud.

The sound did strange things to his belly, as did the sight of her face in the firelight. It had become pink in the sun today, and he couldn't help but wonder about Marta's reasons for sending Rachel alone into the woods.

Though Liam couldn't explain it, the old woman seemed to care about Rachel's safety. So maybe she simply hoped to change Rachel's appearance in an attempt to keep her safe. But Liam had grown up in the underbelly of Firthport. Tutored by a master of theft and disguise known only as the Shadow, he'd learned much of deception. Thus, 'to his way of thinking, a wee bit of the sun's color seemed a pathetic guise. So perhaps Marta had plans he knew nothing about. Whatever the case, he had best keep a close eye on things.

The night passed slowly. In the morning, they headed north again. Their pace seemed pathetically slow, but at least they could rest and eat during the journey, so Liam tried to be content.

He passed the time by teaching Lachlan a few simple tricks and making a poor attempt to ignore Rachel's too close presence.

Being locked in with her at night was nearly more than his flagging self-control could bear, listening to the sound of her breath, imagining the softness of her skin. But the daylight hours were worse, for then she was out of his sight, leaving her fate to his imagination. Often Rachel would ride with one of the women, and each day Marta would find some reason to send Rachel off alone.

Finally, in a peaceful valley where the hills stretched up and away, they stopped to make a meal.

The clan fell to their usual chores, and Marta clumped up to Rachel with an earthenware jar.

Liam tried to hear what was said, but he was too far away, and in a moment Rachel was heading off alone.

He hurried after her and caught up before she reached the woods.

"Where are you bound?" he asked.

For a moment, he thought she looked embarrassed, but he couldn't be certain. "Marta said I could find motherwort growing just inside the woods. I think it best that I replenish my supply of remedies."

He nodded. Twas like Rachel to worry over her concoctions or the lack thereof. "I'll go with you." But just then Marta called him over. "Wait for me," he said, and turned away to speak to the old matron.

"We've a need for firewood, lad," she said.

"I'll be happy enough to fetch it after I accompany Flora to the woods."

The old woman's eyes sparkled. "Your Flora is already in the woods and not likely to be out of them anytime soon. So if you've a hope of besting the dark one, you'll watch your step."

"What dark one?" Liam hissed.

"Don't play games with me, lad," Marta rasped. "You're sure to lose. Now fetch the wood, and when you're finished I have other chores for you."

It didn't seem possible that there could be so many tasks for such a small caravan of folk, Liam thought, but all seemed busy.

Lachlan and the girls gathered extra kindling, for the weather had been dry of late. John set to replacing a shoe on one of the cart horses. The women talked among themselves as they prepared the evening meal, and Rory set off toward the river with a willow switch and hook.

As for Liam, he was kept busy with a number of small jobs, carrying water, feeding the horses, sharpening Hertha's scaling knife.

The last was a pleasant task, for he could sit in the sun, letting the brightness of the day and the lush scent of grass, fill his senses. The regular hiss of the blade against the whetting stone lulled him, and a gentle breeze whispered in time.

It was the cold slap of reality that made him realize finally that Rory had been gone for some time and had not yet returned with a single fish to show for his efforts.

The sun stroked Rachel with a bold caress. Maybe she should be ashamed of herself, she thought, but since the first time in the woods behind the dewberry plants, she'd found herself less and less reluctant to shed her clothes.

In truth, the feel of the sunlight against her bare skin was a sensual delight she'd never before imagined. But today she'd given herself a special treat. Feeling an aching need to bathe, she'd made certain there was no one in sight, then slipped out of her clothing and hurried into the water.

The soap Marta had given her smelled of lye and grease, and the dewberry water Hertha had saved still held the scent of the fruit when she poured it through her hair, but she did as ordered and finally emerged clean and chilled from the burn.

Maybe she should have dressed immediately, but she had committed herself to this simple disguise Marta had thought up. Or so she told herself. In actually, twas the kind warmth of the sunlight that kept her naked, for it felt like a lover's gentle touch against her skin.

As Rachel sank onto a mossy bed, she scoffed at herself for that thought, for indeed, she knew little of lovers' touches. Even Liam, notorious womanizer that he was did nothing but turn away and find sleep in the confinement of their wagon.

But with the sun caressing her bare skin, and her hair cascading about her shoulders in wet rivulets, she felt primitive and untamed. Twas not a feeling she had entertained before, for she had always been nothing more or less than Lady Rachel of the Forbes.

It wasn't that she thought herself unattractive to men. Men had always sought her out—poor men who wished for an advantageous match. Old men who needed a healer. Widowed men who knew she would be an asset to their households. She had, in fact, agreed to marry on several occasions. But twas certainly duty and not love, mutual or otherwise that made her agree.

Now, here in this quiet Eden, she wondered why she'd never been offered more. What of passion and heat? What of strong arms and whispered words of adoration? Her cousins had surely found that.

Why not she? She wasn't hideous to look at. She had all her teeth and her disposition wasn't beyond repair—regardless of Liam's opinion to the contrary.

The thought of the Irishman sent a spasm of emotion through her. True, he was like a nettle in her backside, but try as she might, she couldn't forget his kiss, the way he had scooped his hand behind her neck, how his body had felt tight and hard against hers.

Upon her chest, Dragonheart seemed to thrum to life. Reaching up, she touched its ruby heart then slipped her fingers slowly down her body, between her breasts, shivering at the thrill of her naughtiness. Never had she been aught but the epitome of good breeding. Yet here she was, unclothed in the open air, kissed by the sum's gentle beams. Like a wild thing she was, a creature of the woods, lush, lovely, seductive and suddenly she didn't care who saw— What was that?

Sitting up quickly, she snatched her gown from the branch where she'd hung it to dry. Pulling it over her body, she couldn't help but see the humor in the situation. She'd felt quite decadent for a moment, but she was still herself. No enchanting seductress, just Rachel of the Forbes, healer, nurturer, lady. Twas a good thing Marta's approach brought her back to reality before she did something truly idiotic, or she'd find herself in trouble aplenty.

She grinned at her own foolishness, but just then a voice broke the silence.

"So there you be," Rory said, and stepped into view.

Rachel stifled a gasp and scrunched her legs back another few inches, covering as much of her naked anatomy as possible with the full red skirt.

"I've been hoping to see you. Although I admit..." Rory grinned at her from no more than five yards away. His teeth were very white against his dark complexion, his black eyes intense. "I dared not hope I'd see so much of you."

Glancing sideways, Rachel wondered frantically what to do now. Decadence, it seemed, did not suit her.

"Marta..." Her voice sounded uncharacteristically high-pitched. She tried again. "Marta will be here in a moment to fetch me."

"Ahh. So twas Grandmother's idea." Crossing his arms against his chest, Rory leaned his shoulder on the knobby trunk of a poplar. "I must remember to thank her."

If she screamed, they would possibly hear her back at camp. But she didn't truly wish to cause a problem for these people who had protected her thus far. Not if she could avoid it. And it was all together possible that Rory meant no real harm.

"Thank her?" Rachel asked, eager to keep him talking.

His eyes were steady as the sun on her. "I have to think there could only be two reasons she would send you here. Either to darken your skin...or to wait for me."

Rachel kept her expression impassive. But her heart was beating overtime and her mind was spinning, searching frantically for the best way out of this mess.

"And since your skin surpassed lovely when it was pale..." He shifted his weight from the tree and straightened, "I can only assume she sent you here for the other purpose."

He took a step forward.

Rachel launched to her feet. True, it was impossible to keep all her parts covered with the dress that flopped over her arm, but if he came closer, she would be ready to run.

Sweet Mary, mother of God, please don't make her run buck naked through these woods, she prayed.

The Rom advanced another step, his lithe body moving with supple grace.

"Listen, Rory," she said, trying to remember to do all the necessary things at once—keep all her more scandalous body parts covered, speak with a brogue, and most importantly, figure out a way to keep the Rom at bay. "I appreciate all your familia has done for me, but—I be a married woman."

He stopped and shrugged as though wounded. "And so we cannot even talk."

She licked her lips and checked her exit route. She'd be heading downhill where her lighter weight would give her no advantage, so she'd better make her escape good if it came to that. "You just want to talk?" she asked, biding her time.

"Of course." He laughed. Let it never be said that he was an unattractive man. "What did
you
have in mind, bonny Flora?"

Rachel swallowed hard and wondered if she should feel stupid for her misunderstanding. But reality sliced quickly through her. Regardless of her lack of sexual experience, she had
some
knowledge of men, and if all he wanted was to talk, she was a hare-brained bunny. Cotton tail and all.

Still, verbiage seemed her best ally, for eventually, Marta
would
come.

"What is it you wished to speak of?" she asked, splaying her fingers over her chest.

"Your marriage," he said, not hesitating a moment. "Sometimes I sense that you are not wholly content with your husband."

She forced a laugh. "Of course I'm content." Her mind churned for her supposed spouse's supposed name for a moment, then, "Hugh is a good man."

Rory shrugged. "I don't argue with good. I only wondered..." His eyes skimmed down her body.

She felt the heat of his intentions like a lurid caress. "I've slept beneath your bed for several days now. Not once has my rest been disturbed. Not once have I heard your moans of pleasure." He took a step toward her, moving like a hunting cat.

"Catriona!" The name burst from Rachel's lips as the girl's image popped into her mind.

"What of her?" Rory asked, immediately tense.

"I think I heard her calling."

He glanced quickly about them then settled his sly gaze back on Rachel. "I think tis your imagination," he said, stepping closer still. "When I left camp she was well occupied with the--"

"Nay," Rachel rasped, retreating warily. "I'm certain I heard—"

"And I'm certain you did not. Now let us—"

But just then Rachel heard a low chuckle issue from the woods to her right. "Catriona,"

someone said. "You surprise me." It took her a moment to realize the voice was Liam's.

There was a whisper of indistinguishable, feminine words then Liam laughed again, the sound a deep, seductive chuckle. "Nay! Right here?"

"Damn them!" Rory swore, and lurched off in the direction of the voices.

Rachel yanked her gown over her head with shaky hands. Still damp, it became bound up on her chest and refused to go lower. Popping her head through the neck hole, she scanned the woods as she struggled with the recalcitrant fabric.

"Need some help?" asked a voice from behind her.

Rachel squawked as she spun about. "Liam!"

He stood unmoving, his expression absolutely sober, his gaze burning into hers.

Heart pumping, Rachel finally managed to yank the gown into place. "What are you doing here?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I wondered the same about you."

She licked her lips. Heat flooded her face. But suddenly she remembered his voice in the woods. Anger bubbled through her, broiling her embarrassment. "Where's Catriona?"

He didn't even blink. "In camp I suspect, where you should be."

Confusion rolled up with the anger and the embarrassment and the fading remnants of fear. "But I thought—"

"What?" he prompted. "That I was planning to take advantage of the woods for a private tryst just as you were?"

She said nothing as she fought to make sense of things.

"Tis none of my affair, of course, to judge someone such as yourself—the Lady Saint," he said, his voice deep. "But were I you, I would be more discriminating about who I take as a lover. Rory does not seem the type—"

"If you were me!" she snarled, a medley of raw emotions melting together in a confusing mass in her gut. "In truth, Liam, I have seen your lovers. Tis not as though you choose them for their wit or the good they do their fellow—"

"We cannot all be saints!" he rasped. "But at least I can be fairly certain they are not going to ravage me body and slit me throat before leaving me to—"