Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (42 page)

She lifted her gaze very slowly to his and with the greatest of efforts smiled. "For ye have treated me so well?"

"Aye!" The single word was growled. He stopped his impatient strides to momentarily stare at her from close range. "That I have."

"Truly?" The arrogance of the male mind! She had witnessed it a thousand times, and yet she was always stunned by its dimensions. But she was no longer a child, and fear was fading from her mind. "Let us review your goodness then, Forbes. Ye abducted me."

"Ye abducted me—" he began, but she raised her hand and smiled smugly.

"At knifepoint if my memory serves."

His gaze dropped away.

"Against my will, ye brought me to Glen Creag."

"Ye were badly wounded. Ye wouldna have survived had Fiona Rose na nursed ye ta health."

"And why was I wounded? Because I was being forced across the Highlands without weapons or escort."

"I was your escort." His voice was deep, and if she looked she could see vulnerability in his eyes. She refused to look.

"Ye hold me here," she continued, "knowing my kinsmen will storm this castle in my name and die upon the thirsty blades of the great Forbes warriors when they come."

He stared at her. The room was deadly quiet. Anger had drained from his face.

"Ye have forgotten one thing, Flanna." He drew a deep breath as if trying to fortify himself. "That I asked for yer hand in marriage."

For a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, but she marshalled her senses. "Ye do not want me," she said. "Or ye will not want me, not for long. My father—"

"Damn yer father ta hell!" Roderic's fists clenched and for a moment she thought he might strike, almost hoped he would absolve her from the guilt of being who she was, unlovable, unloving. "I am not yer father." His voice was steadier now. "And there will be na battle—if ye marry me."

She tried to voice an objection, but the thought of having him beside her for a lifetime jumbled her mind.

"It could be an amicable union," he rushed on. "A peace between yer people and mine. Young Hawk could stay and grow healthy. Fiona would teach yer healers. The Forbeses have some fine, stout mares. We could breed them to yer stallions and lend ye bulls to improve yer beef. And yer walls. I know every chink in the timbers and stone. The Forbeses could send men. The timber could be replaced with rock. Dun Ard could be—"

"And what would ye get in return?" Flame asked. The words seemed as if they came from another.

His eyes caught hers in an intimate spark, speaking a litany of words that never reached his lips.

Roderic paused. His face was as lean as a hunting beast's, as well sculpted as a marble bust. "Is it the truth ye wish ta hear, Flanna?"

No. She didn't want truth. Truth was hurtful and cold. She wanted lies and reassurances, promises of everlasting faithfulness. Things she did not believe existed. She wanted to sleep for an eternity in his arms and awaken to his smile. "Yes," she said. "The truth."

He delayed for a moment and men said, "I want children."

She could not help but laugh. Fatigue seemed to be tangling her emotions. "Children!" she scoffed. "Surely ye jest, Forbes. Ye have probably already sired more bastards than ye can name."

She had not thought his back could be straighter.

"I have na bastards and I never shall."

Hope erupted in her chest like childish laughter. But she hushed it to silence, for it was only an illusion. "The trouble is this, ye forget what I know of men."

"That they are not worth yer trust?"

"Just so."

He took two steps forward, seeming to be drawn against his will but forcing himself to stop. His fists clenched. "The trouble is this, ye forget what kind of man I am, Flanna."

No, the trouble was that she could not forget, could not disbelieve. And yet she tried. "Ye do not need me to produce your heirs, Forbes," she said. She forced her gaze firom his, for concentration eluded her when she was drawn into his eyes. "I suspect there are a good many others willing to grant ye children."

She felt him drawing nearer but refused to look up.

"Careful, lass, lest ye flatter me."

Humor had returned to his voice with characteristic speed. His eyes would be sparkling with mirth and there would be a crescent-shaped groove in his right cheek, a groove she could trace with her finger and feel the stubble of his beard. She closed her eyes, hoping for strength. She must not succumb. She must not, for the pain of his eventual rejection would be too great to bear.

He stopped and when he spoke again, his voice was deadly serious. "Ye are a fine leader, Flanna, fine and brave. And 'tis true that yer people respect ye. But they are, some of them, still uncertain." He tightened one fist. The movement almost made him appear nervous and tense. "I could ease away that uncertainty. My loyalty ta ye would secure their own. The MacGowans could prosper like never afore. Together we could bind their wounds and soothe their differences."

She stared at him in silence, barely able to breathe. He rushed on.

"They could become a great people again, respected and honored. They could choose a clan plaid to make them proud and cohesive." His words slowed, his gaze caught hers. "Green," he said, "to match yer eyes and honor ye. I would care for them as if they were me own."

She turned away, unable to face him a moment longer without crumbling, for he talked of clans and alliances while her heart wept for love and comfort.

“Flanna…" His soft voice drew her gaze back to him. “I love ye." The words hung in the silent room for a moment. “I love ye with me heart and me soul and me body. And if ye let me, I will be a good husband for ye. Mayhap…" He clenched his fist once in a nervous gesture. “…mayhap someday ye will love me in return. But until then I vow to treat yer people na different than I would mine own. Yer concerns will be mine. Yer hardships—''

"Yes."

She heard the slight hiss of his breath before the question. "What say ye?"

She had fought his charm, his allure, the laughter he had brought into her life, but she could not fight his declaration of love. God forgive her. Even if it was not honest, she couldn't fight it. "I will marry ye."

"I..." Rarely had she seen him at a loss for words. He took her hand and lifted it in both his own. Did they shake? But no, she was imagining. It was her own tremors that she felt. But when he brought her hand to his bare chest, she could not mistake the heat there. She felt his heartbeat strong and sure against her fingers. "Flanna, I..." His words stumbled to a halt again, and he drew her hand higher to press a kiss to her knuckles. Longing flooded her. She closed her eyes to it and to him but still felt his gaze on her face.

"Ye willna be sorry, Flanna." His voice was steadier now, but again she thought she felt him tremble. How silly of her. "'Tis good," he said brusquely and released her. But suddenly, he grabbed her by the arms and kissed her with hard, aching passion. Her breath stopped. Her heart soared and she longed to wrap her arms about him and hold him forever. But in a moment he released her and backed abruptly away. "'Tis good," he repeated. "'Tis a wise decision," he said and bumped clumsily against the door behind him. "Ye willna regret it. It is good," he murmured again. His expression was sober, but in his eyes, emotion flared. She refused to acknowledge it. "I will…" He cleared his throat and nodded once. "I will let ye sleep now while I send the news to yer kinsmen."

Flame slept well into the morning and awoke with a lurch. He had asked her to marry him! Wild hope surged within her, but she calmed it with a desperate effort. Perhaps it had been a dream. Perhaps she had misunderstood. But of course, she had not. They would be wed. But their marriage would be an alliance and little else, she assured herself. Still, her heart hammered in her chest, and when a rap sounded on her door, she jumped.

But it was only Clarinda, come to inform her that the seamstresses had arrived to fit her for the new gowns that had been ordered for her wedding.

Halfway through the afternoon, Flame still stood on a narrow stool in the solar where she now resided. There, she was measured and turned and poked and pricked until she felt she could not bear another moment.

It was then that Roderic stepped into the room.

She felt her heart stop as her eyes met his.

“My lady.'' His voice was as smooth as river water. Upon his head was the bonnet he had taken from her kinsman.

"Sir." She hoped she matched his tone, but knew she failed miserably, for just the sight of him made her want to melt like warm wax onto the bed nearby. The Flame of the MacGowans indeed! she thought numbly. More like a helpless lump of pudding.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Aye," she said, but his eyes seemed to strip her of any subterfuge.

"My lady tires," Roderic said to the room at large. "Come back tomorrow."

"But we've only a wee bit left ta—" began the eldest seamstress.

Roderic interrupted without glancing her way. "Tomorrow," he said.

The room was cleared in moments, leaving Flame alone with him.

"Ye hurt?" he asked softly.

"Nay." But she could not breathe properly when he was near.

"Then what? There is something in yer eyes. Is it only weariness?"

Every nerve in her body jangled. What could he see in her eyes? Could he read her longing? "Aye," she said, trying to concentrate. "I am weary of inactivity."

He studied her closer. "Would ye care for a ride then, lass?"

"On horse?" she breathed hopefully.

"Well!" He laughed. The sound shivered down to her toes. “I could think of other options, but, aye, horseback would seem the most... boring. Boring but practical," he hurried to add.

She could feel herself blush but tried to hide her embarrassment. "Fiona gave me orders to rest.”

"Methinks ye are na in a mood ta rest," he said, watching her eyes closely.

"Did ye not say she had a temper, Forbes?"

"Are ye suggesting that I am scairt of her?" Roderic asked, lifting a brow as if insulted.

"I am."

He laughed, and her heart sang with the sound. "And ye are right. But she canna stop us if she doesna see us leave."

"And ye think yourself capable of such a deception?"

"Where deception is concerned, I am a master," he declared, and moving to the bed, whipped a tartan blanket from the mattress. "Sir," he said, offering it to her with a flourish, "yer plaid."

"Surely ye do not expect me to wear that."

"Surely ye dunna expect me to challenge Fiona's authority outright," Roderic said, looking horrified. "Gawd's wrath, lass, where her patients are concerned she is below God and none other. She'd have me hide. Now hurry, into the plaid."

"Ye're jesting."

"Do ye wish ta ride?" he asked.

"Aye."

"Do ye wish ta see Fiona skin me alive?"

"Nay."

Roderic breathed a sigh of relief. "That's the sweetest thing ye've ever said ta me, lass. Now hurry out of that gown before someone comes."

The thought of disrobing in front of him made her skin warm and her breath halt.

"I..." She was trying to remember to breathe. "Someone took my clothes. I have no shirt."

"Oh." He scowled, but in a moment, his brooch was loosened and his shirt removed. "Here." He held the garment out to her. "Put this on."

He stood before her, his chest bare and thick with mounded muscle.

"Do ye need help, lass?" he asked, stepping forward.

"Nay." She lifted a hand to ward him off. Her fingers pressed against the smooth firmness of his chest, just above his left nipple. The flash of physical longing nearly knocked her off her feet, though he didn't move so much as a hair.

"Flanna ..." His voice was suddenly husky, the humor gone, the tone strained.

She backed away a quick step. "I'll... I'll wear the shirt."

He exhaled shakily, and when he turned his back, his fists were clenched.

It seemed to take forever for Flame's shaking fingers to remove her nightshirt and don the shirt. It was large. The sleeves fell past her fingers, the hem to her knees, and every inch of it was warm from its time against his skin.

"Are ye ready, lass?"

"I... um ... need the plaid."

He turned with the tartan in his hand and caught his breath. "Gawd, ye are bonny."

She swallowed. "I am supposed to be a man."

"Oh. Aye. Well then ye are…" He walked toward her, then stopped and scowled. "Gawd, ye are bonny."

She couldn't help but laugh, for he made her feel hopelessly giddy.

"Lass, I..." he began, but he stopped, loosened his fists, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Ye need a belt."

"A—"

"There," he said and hurrying to the bed, untied a braided cord that held back a velvet drape. In a moment he was kneeling before her.

"What are ye doing?" Her voice sounded breathy.

"Dressing ye, though 'tis the reverse of me desires," he said, then shushed her objections as he wrapped the plaid about her waist. His fingers felt warm and firm and when he had wound the entire length of the tartan about her, he tied the draping cord about her and folded the top edge of the blanket down to cover the impromptu belt.

"There, I am done," he said, but his hands did not leave her waist and he remained as he was, kneeling before her. His voice was deep and his eyes, when she dared look into them, were dark with unspoken emotion.

"Shouldn't I…” Touch you, stroke you, make love to you? "…hide my hair?" she asked.

"Ahh." Roderic seemed to draw himself from a trance and rose finally. "Yer hair." He gathered it in his hands. She felt his fingertips graze her neck and closed her eyes to the errant sensations that seared her senses. "’Tis so bonny." He breathed the words against her throat. She shivered, and in a moment she felt his kiss where his breath had touched her. "Flanna." He said her name like a caress.

She tried not to tremble. "I am... supposed to be a man."

"Right," he said, but his voice was shaky. Taking off his purloined bonnet, he tucked her hair into it and placed it on her head. But her tresses were not so easily mastered. They peeked out at odd angles. He tucked them in, smoothing his palms up her scalp. "Perfect." He stood back finally. "Now anyone would think..." He paused, tilting his head and grimacing. "Now any idiot would know ye're a woman."