Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (19 page)

A noise made him turn abruptly to the side. The cords in his neck stood out sharp as a well-honed blade above his tunic. But finally he turned back. His body was somewhat less tense, but his eyes had not lost their anger.

"I would suggest we return to camp,
Lady
Rachel," he murmured. "Unless you're still in the mood to entertain the Rom."

Rachel bit off a sharp retort. Lifting her skirt in one shaky hand, she retrieved her shoes from where she'd left them, and hurried from the woods.

The wagon was as silent as death that night. Rachel lay in the quiet, staring at the dark wall and wishing she couldn't feel Liam's gaze on her. Wishing she couldn't imagine his fingers against her skin.

"I'll need your assistance when we reach the next village."

His words broke the silence like the crack of an egg, but she didn't turn toward him.

"Assistance with what?"

"I spoke to Marta. They've agreed to lend me a few things. The old woman even has a bit of black powder for me. The explosion adds a certain element to my act. I shall be performing with the Roms."

She sat up. His face was barely visible in the darkness. "Do you think tis safe?"

"Would you rather I turned to thievery?"

She said nothing.

"If I'm not mistaken, you'll want to eat every day until you reach the king, Rachel."

Her stomach pitched. "I'm not going to the king."

He laughed, the sound low in the darkness. "Tis strange that after all these years you are still such a poor liar. You told me some days hence that you had to reach Blackburn Castle."

"I did no such thing."

"Aye you did," he countered. "It slipped out when you were not thinking. Maybe for a moment, you forgot who I was. Forgot that you cannot trust me."

"I'm going to Dunlock."

He snorted. "Truly, Rachel? To marry? And thus your tryst with the Rom? Because it may be your last fling?"

She considered telling him the truth. That she'd had no intention of meeting Rory there. But she'd learned long ago that pride was all she had where Liam was concerned, and little enough of that.

"You're right," she said. "A lass must take her pleasure where she may, and Rory seemed as good a choice as any."

"If you're looking for naught but the feel of a lover's lance between your thighs, why not choose me?"

His crass words were like a sharp slap across her heart. For a moment she was breathless. But she struggled for control, trying to think, to be smart, but he had always brought out the worst in her.

When he was near, it seemed she lost all she had been taught and was reduced to a mass of raw emotions. Even her precious pride was shattered. "If you remember correctly, Liam, you turned me down some years past. I thought maybe Rory would not be so particular."

"Damn it, Rachel! You'll stay away from him!" Liam stormed, leaning closer.

She stiffened her back. "I'll do as I like, Liam. And you've nothing to say about it."

"You'll do as I say!" he growled. "Do not touch the Rom."

"I fear I left my chastity belt at Glen Creag, hence—"

"Damn you!" he swore, and reaching out, grabbed her arm, and pulled her close.

Face-to-face, they stared at each other, their breath rasping and their bodies taut with sizzling emotion.

"You'll vow to leave the Rom be!" he gritted.

"Or what, Liam?" she asked, her voice barely audible to her own ears.

"Or I'll... truss you up like a wayward lamb. Not until I see you married with me own eyes will I set you free."

She lifted her chin, her chest aching with the hard beat of her heart.

"Then you'd best get a long tether, Liam. For you'll not be the one dictating my actions," she said, and yanking her arm from his grasp, turned shakily away.

The village of York was humming with life. Even so, the Rom's colorful wagons drew more than a few glances as they rolled through a towering gate and down a rutted street. They came to the marketplace, noted the size of the crowds, then found a courtyard of sorts where they unhitched their horses and began preparing for their show.

Rory led the sleek white mare forward. Catriona had hung a scarlet cloth over her back and coiled up her mane and tail in matching ribbons.

Light as the wind, she leapt to the horse's back. With her reins firmly attached to a surcingle beneath the cloth, the mare stood perfectly still, her elegant neck arched and dark eyes watchful as she champed her bit.

Straddling the steed for a moment, Catriona leaned forward to whisper a few words then pushed herself easily to her feet. For the briefest moment she searched for her balance on the mare's crimson cloth then she lifted her bare, slender arms above her head and clapped.

She'd donned the same costume she'd worn the first time they'd seen her, a sapphire gown of sorts. But instead of a free-flowing skirt, it had broad pant legs that were cuffed at the ankle. Her feet were bare and her waist was cinched as tight as a trussed goose.

"Lords and ladies, maids and masters, come hither and see the finest show in all of Britain, a show fit for the king himself. Bring your wee ones, bring your old ones. Bring your purses." She smiled, and even Rachel, who was helping Liam see to a few details, couldn't help but be captured by her charisma. Catriona was entrancing. Twas little wonder Liam had no interest in a woman called the Lady Saint.

A crowd had already begun to gather. Rachel looked out over the mass of people and felt her stomach churn. True, she was no hermit. Indeed, she had spent most of her life tending the needy with her mother. But never had she been looked at as they were looking at the Rom lass.

The mare shifted her feet, stepping restlessly in place. Catriona's body swayed with the easy movement, her hips undulating gently. More folk gathered around, as attracted by her perfect balance and bold demeanor as by her exotic beauty.

"Come hither," she called again, "and witness the magic of the Rom. Hear Marta's music." As if from nowhere, a bittersweet tune lifted into the air. "Learn Hertha's secrets for your future. Marvel at Hugh's clever hands." Liam stepped forward, bowed then spun a trio of potatoes twirling into the air.

"And see feats of balance and strength as you have never seen before." Leaping lightly from the mare's back, Catriona somersaulted into the air. The crowd gasped, but just before she struck the ground, Rory stepped out of nowhere. She landed in his arms, still smiling.

"You remember what we practiced?" Liam asked, drawing Rachel's attention back to him.

"Tis not so difficult," Rachel said. Not like somersaulting from a horse's back into a man's waiting arms. She felt just a bit more appealing than the potatoes he'd just finished tossing. She pulled her homely coif lower over her face, shifted her gaze to Catriona, then nervously to the crowd.

"Liam..." She didn't want to say the words, but she wasn't meant to be an entertainer. Twas not in her character. "I do not think I can—"

"Tis too bad you are not so demure with the Rom." His eyes were still sharp with anger. "The woman in the woods... the naked woman, would have had no trouble performing for a crowd."

Rachel drew herself up. "And me, I thought twas you who was supposed to draw the crowd."

"Of course. Tis far beneath her ladyship to be put on public display," he said.

"So it is a display you want?" she snapped.

"Huh! As if you could do such a thing! Nay. Your appeal is of a more personal nature."

"You are right. And not for the likes of you," she snarled, and turning on her heel, sped back to their wagon.

Pulling the door closed behind her, Rachel closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. But anger was sparking through her like lightning down a tree limb.

Damn the Irishman for everything he was. So he could draw a crowd and she could not. Twas certainly not a talent she wished to acquire. Her mother had raised her better. She had no wish to flaunt herself, to strut across a stage as Liam did.

But the fact that he thought she couldn't do it irritated her no end. She clenched her fists and snarled at the unoffending walls.

Damn the Irishman! she thought again, and glancing down at the homely, oversized tunic beneath her gown, made a decision.

Outside, Liam paced across his makeshift stage. Far be it from him to beg the haughty Lady Saint for her assistance. He certainly didn't need her. Nay. He'd been performing alone for more than a decade. He'd only insisted that she help him so that he might keep her close at hand, keep her out of trouble.

He’d never before thought of her as a foolish lass. Haughty, unbending, and self-important, yes.

But not foolish. The day in the woods had proved him wrong, for no clever woman would be so careless with her innocence. And she was an innocent. That he knew. Didn't he? Of course he did. But Rory would change that if he had half an opportunity. And she was idiotic enough to give him that.

God's balls, he had to get her to Blackburn before she tempted the wrong man. True, she dressed like a nun, but it made no difference. No man could get a glimpse of her red-hued, sassy lips and not feel the sharp draw of her allure. In truth, he was glad she was gone, out of sight. Safe.

Catriona's performance wound down. With a wave and a swoop, she handed the crowd over to him.

It was nice to lose himself in the performance, to toss a knobby potato into the air, to catch it in the opposite hand, to toss up another and see the awed spectators turn expectantly toward him.

"Good day, me fine folk," he said. "Tis good of you to stop by. Maybe you have need of a tasty tattie?" He spun another tuber into the air. "Or maybe—"

But suddenly his words snapped to a halt. He felt his jaw drop and his eyes pop open as Lady Rachel Forbes sauntered into view.

Damn her to bloody hell. She'd removed her tunic.

Rachel couldn't breathe. The laces on her bodice were too tight. Or maybe... She kept walking, forcing one leg in front of the other.

Maybe it was the people's stares that made her chest ache and her legs wooden. Maybe it was the little boy who was pointing at her or the miller whose eyes looked as if they might pop from his head like a pair of cooked turnips.

Or maybe it was Liam.

He stood immobile, a trio of potatoes in his hands, his eyes sparking black flame and his body stiff. She couldn't judge his expression, couldn't tell if he were angry or outraged or shocked.

But he was looking. That much she knew. But who would not? She was all but naked.

Her hands shook. She forced her feet to keep moving, forced her mind to reverse its line of thought. She was not almost naked. All she'd done was remove her tunic... and her shoes...and her coif…and tighten the laces of her bodice.

Sweet Mary! Her breasts were bare nearly to the nipples and tucked up under her chin like over-zealous bread dough. Dragonheart purred between them.

Liam dropped one of his potatoes, but didn't seem to notice, and now Rachel stood only inches from him.

The crowd waited in expectant silence. Rachel's knees threatened to spill her face first onto the grass, but she clamped her muscles and refused to buckle. Instead, she cleared her throat. The noise did nothing to bring Liam around.

There were a few titters of amusement from the crowd. "Hugh," she said, but the word came out as no more than a whisper.

"I guess his hands aren't so clever just now," someone called.

"Maybe they're not where they wish to be."

There were guffaws of laughter.

"Woman, what have you done!" Liam finally hissed, his shocked gaze never leaving her bosom.

Rachel stiffened her back, every defensive instinct coming to the fore. Damn him for forcing her into this. But she wouldn't back down. He'd challenged her and she would win. "What is it?" she asked. "Did you not know I had..."—she forced herself to lift her skirt and take another step forward.

Her bare toes peeked into view—"feet?" she asked.

The crowd chuckled.

"Maybe he didn't know they were so large," someone shouted.

"You'd best toss up them tatties, boy," a man called, "or we'll have to find another to amuse us."

Liam's gaze snapped to the man who had just spoken.

Rachel bent shakily to retrieve the fallen potato and press it into Liam's hand. "Do your tricks,"

she murmured desperately, her voice low and husky with fear.

A nearby man chuckled. "Drag your eyeballs out of her cleavage and do something, lad."

"Very well then," Liam said and tossed the tubers into the air with an obvious effort. For several seconds they did nothing but fly into orbit, caught and replaced by his hands. Finally he exhaled heavily and increased the speed. He shook his head, and though Rachel knew his grin was forced, maybe the crowd could not tell. Maybe they thought it was nothing more than a clever act.

"Let it not be said that Hugh the great cannot work under pressure."

The potatoes swirled faster and faster, spinning finally into a continuous arc of brown. But suddenly the drab color was replaced by a flash of yellow.

"Oh, look," Liam exclaimed, and caught the spinning color with a flourish. Lifting his hand high, he revealed a long yellow scarf. "The fates have sent a bit of something to cover your immodesty."

Stepping forward, he prepared to drape the bright cloth across Rachel's chest. But just as he did so, their gazes caught. Feelings as sharp as daggers sliced through Rachel.

The air seemed suddenly taut, as if lightning had just crackled through the sky. He reached forward. His fingers brushed her shoulder, feather soft. She shivered beneath his touch.

"Don't forget you've an audience," someone called.

Liam snapped his hand away as if burned, leaving the scarf behind. But suddenly it was gone, replaced by a tiny yellow finch that perched on her shoulder.

The crowd gasped.

"Bird's got the best view in the village," someone called.

Liam pulled himself back to his act. "Tis more than she's offered me," he retorted dryly.

Damn him, Rachel thought. So he was playing the rogue. But two could toss that die.