Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (8 page)

"Why should I tell ye what ye already know, Forbes?"

Why could she not be normal, he wondered. Normal women did not make him angry, and he didn't like to get angry. He had learned as a child that when anger took control, people died. His father had been a rash man—and long dead.

"Let us assume for just a wee bit that I ken nothing of yer losses," he said.

Flame opened her mouth to refuse his request, but he raised a hand, palm outward to stop her.

“If I had cut off Bullock's breath just a wee bit longer he would be dead. It could be said, lass, that ye owe me for sparing yer men's lives." He held her with his eyes, reading her emotions and watching her expressions. "When did ye send yer messenger ta me brother?"

She was silent for a few moments but finally answered. "'Twas five days since. 'Twas Nevin's idea. And for once, he and Troy agreed. Most of the men wished to make a raid instead of a peace parley." She smiled grimly. "But I thought surely it was for the best to make an attempt at peace while I could. Simon set out in the bright light of day, carrying no weapons."

Her back was as straight and stiff as Bullock's spear. "His horse came home with a missive from your brother. Oh, and strapped to the steed's saddle was Simon's—"

"I have heard the rest of the tale," Roderic interrupted, turning abruptly away.

"Ye have heard it?" she asked grimly. "Or ye have caused it?"

He pivoted about. "Ye ken little of men if ye think that of me, lady."

"Then I know little of men," she vowed and strode from the room.

Roderic lay atop his lumpy pallet and contemplated the water stains on the lead ceiling above him. Water stains meant there was a good chance he would get wet when it rained. And they had served mutton for supper. He hated mutton. Thus he had two excellent reasons to leave. Besides, he had only promised to stay until sunset and it was well past that time.

Scowling at the cloud-shaped stain, he thought about the meat he had stored in his sporran. He would be a fool not to leave, of course. The MacGowans were a hot-blooded clan and dangerous. They hated the Forbeses, and they hated him.

He sat up and swung his feet over the side of his humble pallet. He had removed his footgear some hours earlier and sat now deep in silent debate.

If he stayed he might untangle the mystery that haunted him. Who had killed Simon and sent the note signed with Leith's name? He knew his brother far too well to ever suspect him of such a heinous act But someone had done it, and Roderic needed to know the truth. On the other hand, if he stayed, someone might soon be wondering who had killed
him
.

Reaching to the far side of his ugly straw tick, Roderic retrieved his leather sporran and rose. The wise thing to do would be to leave now. The
safe
thing would be to leave now. There was no reason to think he couldn't solve this puzzle from outside Dun Ard as well as from within its walls.

With that decision made, Roderic glanced about the room. The tower boasted one window. It was shuttered and narrow and more than thirty feet above the nearest wall.

But the drop to the stone parapet didn't concern him. Leith had often said Roderic had been born to be an acrobat or perhaps a jester. Approaching the window, Roderic reached into his sporran and extracted the cold hunk of greasy mutton. He rubbed the meat onto the rusty hinges and hook, then silently swung the shutters open. He was halfway home.

Removing his plaid, he slipped a corner of it around a hinge and pinned it in place with his brooch. It was lucky indeed that Flanna had returned his shirt to him, he thought, or he would be roaming about Dun Ard just as his mother had birthed him. Only larger, and stronger, and infinitely more handsome. He smiled as he tied his sporran about his waist. Then, he retrieved the borrowed blanket from his pallet, knotted the thing to the end of his plaid, and tossed the bound woolens through the window. 'Twas a fine night for a prowl, but the MacGowans would owe him dearly—a brooch, a plaid, and his favorite pair of boots.

The sandstone blocks of the tower wall felt cool against his feet as he descended. Something gave slightly, but whether it was the brooch or the hinge or the wool itself, Roderic couldn't be sure. Still he skimmed downward, unperturbed by the instability of his rope. His first true concern was when the blanket ended nearly ten feet above the walkway he intended to reach.

Roderic scowled into the dark depths. The parapet was perhaps twice the width of his body and sloped downward in both directions. To the left of that and perhaps six feet below was the stone walkway which completed the enormous width of the wall. To the right was a long, dark, and painful drop into death.

Above him, something groaned against his weight.

Probably the blanket, he thought. 'Twould be like the MacGowans to make inferior wool just to spite him.

Taking a deep breath and sending one quick prayer to his maker, Roderic eased to the end of the blanket, swung to the left, and dropped. His feet hit the parapet, numbing them with the force of the impact and throwing him onto the very edge of the walkway, where he clung like a cat on a limb.

A dark abyss stared him in the face. Somewhere far below was the bailey. His toes curled, his fingers clutched at the stone. He teetered forward, and then with a Herculean effort hauled himself back against the cold wall behind him. He lay there for a spell, gasping for breath and listening for any untoward noises from above or below.

No unusual sounds caught his attention, so he leaned his head gratefully back, taking in deep breaths and gathering his strength.

The cool air finally convinced him to get moving. He glanced at his legs. They were mostly bare, only partly hidden by the length of his freshly laundered shirt. 'Twas a shameful way for a Forbes to return to his homeland. Roderic had half a mind to march into Flanna MacGowan's bedchamber and demand the use of a tartan to cover his nakedness. Or perhaps he should simply leave her something to remember him by, to prove he could not only escape but could breach her very chambers and watch her as she slept.

The night was very quiet. From somewhere far away, an owl called. Roderic smiled. Damned if he wasn't tempted to see her just once more. Not because he was attracted to her, but merely to gloat. Easing his back away from the wall, he glanced about. Where would she sleep?

Dun Ard was not nearly so large or so well fortified as Glen Creag. The tower and forward part of the wall were crafted from stone, but most of the remainder of the fortress was made from crude, native timbers, the far side being perched on the edge of an almost unscalable precipice. He had noticed that the kitchen was set on the far side of the bailey and was also made of timber, a fact which spoke of Dun Ard's lack of stone or manpower or both. The broad sweeps of a windmill were not far away. The stable stood opposite where he now rested, which left the keep, the heart of the castle, as the only place where the MacGowans' Lady Flame would sleep.

Roderic rapped his index finger silently against the stone, thinking. 'Twas tempting indeed to wish her farewell, though Leith would have his hide if he knew the unnecessary risks he took. Still, Roderic reasoned, rising to a crouched position, 'twas
his
hide and none other's. Excitement pumped through his veins. Darkness was an old companion, one he loved for its mystery and challenge.

Less than twenty feet from where he had landed, stairs began. Roderic descended them carefully, hugging the wall in the darkness. There seemed to be no upper floor entrance to the keep from the tower, which meant he would have to cross the hall in search of Flanna's chambers.

At the bottom of the stairs, Roderic halted. Through the arched, stone doorway, he could see the interior of the hall. The last efforts of a fire still burned in the great hearth to his right. Gathered about the dying embers was a plethora of scrambled bodies. Someone shifted, muttering in his sleep. Roderic eased back against the wall, debating. Everyone seemed to be unconscious and therefore would cause no problems. But it would take only a single waking man to make trouble.

Roderic shifted to the opposite wall, studying the scene before him again. Not far from where he hid, two men lay side by side. A squashed, deep green bonnet had fallen from one balding fellow's head. A crumpled blanket covered his knees and his partner's torso. An empty tankard rested on its side between them. So these two had shared a draft of spirits and slept soundly because of it, Roderic reasoned, leaning back again. From the wall near the large, front door, a hound rose and growled softly, watching him, her tawny ears pricked forward. A man stirred, mumbled an oath to quiet the dog, and lay silent again.

Taking a deep breath, Roderic considered the dangers. First, he would concern himself with the men then with the dogs. What if a MacGowan should awaken while Roderic was padding across the floor toward the stairway? Would he immediately be recognized as an outsider, he wondered, glancing down at his scanty attire. Many men went barefooted, and during the night just as many loosened their plaids to use them as blankets. Still, he was taller than most, and the entire tribe was bound to be edgy after abducting a Forbes. Roderic glanced about to be certain all was still quiet and stepped into the hall. Squatting by the pair of men closest to him, he lifted the green bonnet from the floor and set it upon his own head.

The nearest man snorted and turned, abandoning his shared blanket altogether and flopping a flaccid hand onto Roderic's bare foot.

Roderic held his breath and remained absolutely sail. The hall was silent as a tomb and the tawny hound watched him, but not a man stirred.

Seconds ticked by. Perhaps men were awake after all. Perhaps they lay wide-eyed, watching him. Their swords were drawn under their plaids and they were laughing at his predicament. Sweat beaded on Roderic's brow.

Near the fire, someone began to snore, breaking the silence. Roderic forced himself to relax. Assuring himself that all were asleep, he reached out, pushed the hand from his foot, and claimed the blanket for his own.

He rose smoothly, already wrapping the purloined woolen about his hips as he stepped toward the distant stairs. The watchful hound growled again. Roderic spared her a glance, and then, feeling no particular need to hurry, pulled the mutton from his sporran.

Approaching the dogs at a moderate pace, he stopped not far away, extending a bit of his meal to the tawny bitch that watched him. She stared into his face, unblinking, solemn and large—a careful lass. Roderic grinned and squatted before her. He had met shy maids before and had overcome their uncertainty, but there was very little time now. Behind him, someone grumbled an expletive in his sleep.

Roderic set the meat by the hound's paws and rose. She tilted her long, elegant head and watched him but made no protest as he moved away.

The stairs up which Roderic finally traveled were narrow. He made his way quickly, his bare feet silent against the cool stone. It was very dark in the hallway that he entered. Barely a glimmer of light penetrated the dimness, but he skimmed his fingers along the walls until he felt the rough timber of a door. Putting his ear to the wood, he listened for just a moment before pushing it quietly open. The tenacious light of the moon through a window showed him rows of barrels and little else.

He moved onward again, his hand grazing the plastered wall until his toes bumped something soft. A feminine voice mumbled a complaint, and near his feet the woman shifted upon her pallet. Roderic held his breath. Of course. Flanna would have a maidservant outside her door. And thus, he knew he had finally arrived at his destination.

Ever so carefully, he leaned over the maid and set his hand to the door latch. It creaked softly beneath his fingers. The woman on the pallet sighed and turned. Roderic froze, not breathing.

An eternity followed, but finally the servant's exhalations could be heard again, soft and cadenced. Stepping over her, Roderic balanced himself between the mattress and the door to ply the hinges and handle with his impromptu lubricant once again.

Only when the flap of his sporran closed over the mutton for the third time that evening did Roderic set his hand to the handle once more. It turned soft as thistledown beneath his fingers. The door eased inward on silent hinges.

He was through in an instant. He pushed the weighty portal closed behind him, stepped smoothly inside, glancing this way and that. 'Twas possible Flanna would retain another servant on this side of the door. But if such was the case, he saw no one on the floor near the huge bed that occupied the room.

It was draped with curtains that were drawn back at the corners, letting in the night air. So Flanna Mac-Gowan was not a lass to become easily chilled, Roderic thought. Indeed, she must be quite a hot-blooded maid. Walking stealthily toward her bed, he kept his attention focused on the form in its center.

The narrow window opened on the night sky not far away, gracing the room with errant moonbeams. They flooded through the window like liquid silver, falling across the mattress and onto the smooth, regal face that rested on a fat, goose-down pillow.

Her hair was loose. Roderic eased a bit closer, drinking in the image. Her lips were parted, her left hand rested beneath her soft cheek, and amidst the tangled blankets, one pale leg was visible from her thigh down.

God's truth, she was a bonny lass. If only he had met her under different circumstances. If only she had not lied to him, kidnapped him, and hated him. But such was not the case, and thus his life now hung in the balance, for surely if he were found in the sanctity of her bedchamber, his life would be forfeit.

He must be mad to be here. He must truly be out of his mind, he thought, and turned to leave.

But just then she sighed in her sleep, shifting restlessly and drawing her bare leg closer to her chest.

Roderic turned back, noticing how her narrow ankle was turned just so, how the slim muscles of her calf curved gracefully, how the smooth, pale flesh of her thigh...