Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (7 page)

It seemed like they walked through hell and back, though Liam knew the farther they got from the water the safer they'd be. The ground became steep and rocky. The trees thinned out, granting them even less shelter. Liam's leg throbbed like the beat of a drum, but he'd be damned before he asked her to stop.

He was nearly ready to reverse that decision, when he bumped into her back.

"There." She breathed the word like a prayer.

"What?" he asked, but she didn't answer. Instead, she bent beneath a dripping branch and moved toward a wall of stone that was directly in front of them.

Liam glanced behind him. He was not such a fool to believe that the darkness, their heart-stopping rush down the falls, or their retreat would hide them from the powers that hunted them.

Despite what Rachel believed or refused to believe, her life had been in dire peril. He knew that. Felt it in his soul. Of course, their present situation wasn't exactly a day at the fair, either.

"Find that castle?" he asked, facing forward. But he realized suddenly that she was gone, nowhere to be seen, with the black face of the rock stretching off in both directions. "Rachel?"

Despite every jaded instinct in him, he couldn't arrest the panic that flashed through him. Plunging forward, he reached out toward the cliff.

His hand met nothing but air. He stumbled forward over jagged rocks, jarring his wounded leg and nearly falling flat on his face in the absolute darkness.

"Rachel!" he said, staggering to a halt.

"A cave," she whispered.

That much was apparent. But he wanted to know how she'd found it. No he didn't, he told himself sternly. He'd made a vow long ago not to fall into her spider's trap. Still, the idea that they'd walked for more than an hour through the darkness only to come to this place in the heart of the stone was a bit too eerie to disregard without some effort.

"Someone told you of this place?" he asked hopefully.

"N-Nay," she stuttered slightly, and he wondered suddenly if it was from the cold or if she felt the same eerie sensations he did. Perhaps it was absolute luck that had brought them safely out of the elements and she was just as surprised as he.

"I think we can chance a fire here," he said, turning his mind aside.

"Have you a flint and steel?"

"Nay, my sporran is gone."

"That wee bonny thing?"

"It served its purpose," he said distractedly. His leg throbbed and his head was beginning to pound. But just at that moment his fingers brushed against something beneath his cape.

A glimmer of hope surged through him.

"What is it?" Her voice came from close beside him.

"The husband's purse," he said, feeling a splash of satisfaction as he drew it forward on his belt.

"You stole it."

It was really quite amazing, he thought, how, despite everything, she managed to sound offended. Aye, I did," he said, "and quite artfully."

His fingers were stiff and numb, but he finally managed to untie the knot. Even then, it took him a moment to wrench the thing open. Kneeling on the unyielding floor of the cave, he spilled the contents noisily onto the rock and tried to distinguish the contents by feel alone.

"Is there a steel?"

"Nay. Just money." Under other circumstances, his dismissive statement about something as wondrous as money may well have been amusing. It was somehow disconcerting to think he might be losing his sense of humor, or his sense of values.

"Mayhap we could find a s-stone," she stuttered, "and strike it against a coin."

She'd always been clever. He rose rustily to his feet and grabbed her arm to turn her in an arbitrary direction. "You look over there. I'll try the opposite side."

They moved apart, walking slowly, for it was impossible to tell when they would run into a wall, or a wildcat, or anything else that might be here in the dark interior of this musty place.

"And kindling," she said.

"Aye," he agreed.

She cried out suddenly. He spun toward her, the movement nearly spilling him to the rocky floor.

"What is it?"

"My toes found a rock."

He chuckled. Ahh. So his sense of humor was restored. Twas good to know. Or mayhap fatigue and hypothermia were contriving against his better sense. "You always had smart feet."

She stumbled toward him, handed him the stone then turned away in search of kindling. He did the same, but in a few minutes she returned to shakily deposit a small pile of indistinguishable something on the floor in front of him.

Squatting, he gripped a coin in ungainly fingers and struck it against the stone. It felt rather like trying to remove a sliver with a pair of turnips.

Nevertheless, Rachel hurried away, searching again. Liam struck, hit his fingers on the rock, swore, and tried again. A spark streaked from the stone, but extinguished before it hit their precious pile of kindling.

Time moved on, punctuated by the keeling of the wind outside and their chattering teeth.

Something cracked behind him. Liam jumped, nearly dropping his stone. "Rachel!"

"Tis me," she rasped, breathing hard.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Scaring you witless, apparently."

"What have you got?"

"Start the fire and you'll find out."

Something cracked near at hand, and he could only assume she'd found a tree limb.

He set to striking again, rhythmically now, forcing his fingers to do his bidding again and again until finally another spark flashed from the stone. It lit precariously onto the tinder. Liam leaned forward, blowing frantically... and blew the tiny flame into nothingness.

"Sweet Mary," Rachel rasped, and for a moment Liam wondered if he heard tears in her voice.

She hunkered down beside him. Their arms brushed. He felt her shiver against him. "You strike, I'll nurture the flame. Hurry."

Liam fell stiffly to his job again. An eternity later another spark streaked in the darkness. The fragile flame soared into the kindling.

Liam held his breath. Rachel leaned over the spark and blew.

"Carefully! Carefully!" Liam chattered, but she didn't respond.

Hands cupped around the tiny pile of twigs and feathers, she blew again. The tiny spark flared.

Dropping his tools, Liam snatched up a dry stalk of something and fed it to the infant flame. It ate into the chaff.

"More! More kindling!" Rachel rasped.

Liam jolted to his feet and rushed away to search the walls, the floor, the ceiling only a few inches above his head.

"Here!" A short time later he knelt before her, bearing gifts.

"Bless you," she breathed, and snatching up a dried bird's nest, carefully fed it to the flame.

It crackled greedily, the size of his fist now, and Liam was nearly overpowered by an aching desire to bend over it, to absorb its timid heat. But by its glow, he could see Rachel's face. It was as pale as death, and her lips were nearly the color of her eyes, an eerie mixture of blue and purple.

Straightening with a jolt, he hurried off to scour the cave again.

It took an eternity to conjure up a real fire, but finally after breathless care and muscle-numbing worry, they nursed it into the world, feeding it scraps and twigs until it was ready for small branches.

"We did it!" Rachel stared into the flame, her narrow hands spread to catch its warmth.

"Aye." He was crouched on the opposite side. "Tis a good thing you have such clever feet."

She glanced up.

"They found the rock," he explained.

Her face had gained a tiny bit of color, he noticed, and the corners of her lips twitched ever so slightly. They had regained some of their usual raspberry hue, but not nearly enough.

"And tis a good thing you're immoral," she said.

"Or we would have no coins with which to strike a fire."

Her lips tilted up more dramatically. She was near exhaustion, he told himself. Near exhaustion and flirting with hysteria, but still, her expression conjured up memories of a time when there had been peace between them. A time when she had been young and trusting. Before... Well, before many things, and he wasn't going to think about it. There were more important matters to consider. Survival, for instance.

"We'd best get out of these clothes." He knew better than to look at her when he said it, but he couldn't help himself.

Her eyes looked only slightly larger than their precious fire when she glanced up, her body as stiff as death.

"God's balls, Rachel, I'm not about to throw myself upon you. But I wouldn't care to explain your demise to your laird and father when you die of the ague. After all, you— "What are you doing?" he asked, jerking to his feet when her fingers brushed his neck.

"Removing your clothes," she said, rising with him.

"What?"

She reached for the ties that bound his tattered cape to his neck.

He moved his lips, trying to speak.

"We were safe enough whilst we kept walking," she said. "The movement kept us warm. But we cannot walk forever." The ties gave way beneath her icy fingers. The cape fell heavily to the floor. "There's no time to waste now, for our fire may not last long."

Panic would have well described his state of mind. A panic that nearly dulled the emotions he had felt during the fall down the river. "Shouldn't we..."

"We must hurry. We'll hang your clothes over the tree limb near the fire, then search for other wood."

He moved his lips wordlessly again, but her fingers were already on the laces of his tunic. One sleeve had been ripped off and the other severed at the cuff.

"I can..." he began, but she brusquely pushed his hands away.

The ties came open in a moment. She reached for the hem, tugged it upward, and pulled it over his head. Goosebumps followed its exit. Liam stared at her.

"The bandage is doing you no good," she said.

Looking down, he saw that her handiwork of yesterday was little more than shreds hanging from his shoulder.

She removed it quickly.

"Here. Move closer to the fire. Rub your hands together." She took them between her own and rubbed brusquely. "It'll help you..."

Her gaze snagged on his. Their breath stopped in unison. So she had finally realized the erotica of this moment, he thought. She'd finally seen that the bodice of her gown had been mangled and that her breasts, pale and magical as moonlight, swelled into view like ripe, forbidden fruit.

So she would finally find her good sense and draw away.

He forced his gaze to her face and watched her lips move. Although he knew she spoke words of caution, he could not quite distinguish them.

"What?" he rasped finally.

"You must remove your plaid," she said quickly.

Liam's jaw dropped. If he had had to guess what she was about to say, that would have been at the bottom of the list, although in his dreams... He dashed the thoughts aside with the hard image of her father's claymore. It was a huge weapon, longer than Liam was tall and wielded by a man who was notably attached to his only daughter.

"I'm really quite warm now," he managed pitifully.

But she shook her head. "We've no time to waste, Liam," she said, and skimmed her gaze down his body as if he were no more interesting than an overcooked onion. Less actually, since an onion was, at least, edible. "You'll dry more quickly without your clothes. And it'll give me a chance to see to your wounds."

And to see other stuff, stuff that, despite everything—her haughty demeanor, their mutual dislike for each other, these horrible circumstances—refused to stay were he had put it. Stuff that, ever since he'd met her years ago, still ached at the sight of her, the scent of her, the mention of her.

"I'm fine," he said.

She reached for the belt that held his plaid in place. "You must not—"

"Rachel!" He caught her arms in a hard grip. "I'm fine."

Their gazes caught again. She blinked, her amethyst eyes as wide as a promise.

"I need you, Liam," she whispered.

He was dreaming again, had slipped into unconsciousness, he thought. But in a moment, she continued.

"I have no time to waste. On the morrow I must be traveling. I must not fail! No matter if we cannot find my guards or our horses or our supplies. Somehow I must see my way through. But I cannot do it alone. I need your help."

He blinked, trying to catch up to her thoughts and lose his foolish dreams. "With what?" he rasped.

"Please," she pleaded. "I need you healthy and hale. I must see to your wounds. Let me take off your clothes."

There was probably any number of things a man could say in this position, Liam thought. He could refuse to comply unless she told him why she was so desperate to get to her fiance. He could insist that she take off her clothes first. He could refuse to take them off at all unless she gave herself to him.

That last one was particularly interesting, but made his heart do funny, twisty things in his chest.

Still, Liam did none of those things. Instead, he swallowed once and nodded.

She exhaled softly as if she'd been holding her breath, and then her hands moved again. He found he couldn't look. Instead, he stood like a statue, staring straight ahead, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

The belt proved to be tricky, the leather thick and difficult. She worked at it for a moment then dropped to her knees.

Liam tightened his jaw and concentrated on thoughts of her father. He was a big man. Big! And powerful—not just physically but politically. Twould be no great feat for him to see Liam eviscerated, decapitated, and emasculated.

Rachel leaned slightly closer. He felt her breath against the tense planes of his abdomen, felt her fingers brush his skin. That single, simple touch struck a fire where no fire should be lit. He opened his hand to reach for her.

Her mother! Lady Fiona's face flashed into Liam's mind. He yanked his hand back. Fiona was a healer, gentle, loving. Never for a moment had she dismissed him as a thieving bastard. Never for a moment had she treated him as less than an equal. Surely he owed her something for that.

He felt his belt ease open. Despite his certainty that it could not happen, sweat popped out on his forehead. Rachel's hands were gentle as she unwrapped his plaid. His breathing escalated. His hands shook.