Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (9 page)

Drawing a deep, careful breath, Roderic rethought the situation. Perhaps he didn't have to leave
immediately.

It would be several hours yet until dawn's first light.

From the far side of the door, Flanna's maidservant snored, startling Roderic from his reverie.

What the devil was he thinking? Of course he had to leave, and he had to leave now, before it was too late. But... his gaze skimmed to Flanna's face again. She was very lovely. It seemed a shame not to say goodbye. In fact, it seemed a shame not to smooth his palm down the length of her fine, bared leg, to feel her stir beneath him, to kiss her gently awake.

Good God! What was he thinking? Yes, she was lovely, but she was not some humble milkmaid who might awaken and swoon at his nearness. Nay, she was the kind who mesmerized him with a glance and a touch, teased him with a few breathy words, then pushed him into the burn. It was humiliating, and yet...

She had such fire. She was the Flame. And the Flame drew and entranced him, for he had never met a woman who matched him wit for wit and parry for parry, who could ignite his senses so that he forgot the danger. But flames burned, he remembered suddenly and turned away, forcing himself toward the far side of the room. He should never have come here, but her cool assurance that he could not escape had provoked him into proving how wrong she was. So, as long as he was here, he would leave his mark somehow, let her know he had watched her sleep.

Silently, he moved toward the far wall. There was a small writing desk there. Upon its surface, he could see a scroll of parchment and a quill. Perfect. He would leave her a note. With one quick glance toward the bed, he uncurled the parchment, letting his gaze fall to the bottom of the sheet.

Leith Forbes!
The name was written in dark, sprawled letters and seemed to jump from the page at him. Roderic sucked in his breath and skimmed to the top of the text. But the darkness masked the rest of the missive.

God's wrath! So this was the note that had returned with Simon's head. But it couldn't have been penned by his brother. And yet, the signature resembled Leith's sprawling script. Rage filled Roderic like high tide at dusk. He turned rapidly toward the bed, wanting to shake the lady awake and demand an explanation. But in that moment, she gave a small cry.

He stopped in his tracks, reason flooding back. From the bed, Flame whimpered and rolled to her side, pulling her knees to her chest and clutching the blankets to her. She looked very small suddenly, like a frightened child.

A nightmare? he wondered. Was the Flame of the MacGowans frightened despite her usual haughty demeanor? But why wouldn't she be? She had lost all of her immediate family at far too young an age. She had inherited the leadership of an unruly, hot-blooded clan. She had sent a man to make peace with those who were supposed to be her allies and had received her kinsman's severed head for her efforts.

She whimpered again.

Roderic scowled, clutching the note in his hand. Damn it to hell. He could not leave!

Chapter
6

Despite his late-night excursion, Roderic rose with the dawn.

Flame arrived shortly after. Her legs were encased in brown, supple leather. Her saffron shirt was belted at the waist and fell in soft folds halfway to her knees, and at her side was her ruby-studded dirk.

Roderic glanced at her, tried to adjust his breathing and said, "You've doubled the guard." Flame watched him as if waiting for his comment on her attire. But he refused to act shocked. Intrigued was the word to fit his mood more closely. "'Tis na fair."

"Step back!" Bullock ordered gruffly. Behind him, William, Gilbert, and Nevin looked on. "Step away from the lady."

Roderic shrugged and did as told. Nevertheless, he grinned at her from against the wall. Why did she wear such an outlandish costume? Mannish, some might call it. But the simple saffron shirt caressed her bosom and the leather hose hugged her lower regions. Manly was not the term he would use for it. "How am I ta escape when there are two men at me door and no other way out?"

She watched him closely. Her expression was regal and self-assured, and yet past the polished veneer he sensed fatigue, as if she hadn't slept well. That fact reminded Roderic of his nocturnal visit. He remembered how she had looked in the pale light of the moon, how she had whimpered in her sleep.

It had been difficult to leave her, but he had, taking the parchment with him. In the first rays of morning light, he had read the ghoulish letter over and over. It was short, concise: /
am sending this
—
a-head, so that ye may know that the Forbeses do not parley with MacGowan filth. Leith Forbes.

He could imagine Flanna's expression when she had seen her kinsman's severed head and read the missive. But it was not just the murder that would have worried her. It was the fact that the note was written in blood and contained a sick play on words. /
am sending this
—
a-head...

What kind of man would kill an innocent herald, then compose a sinister joke and blame the deed on another. And why? But the most haunting part of the entire message was the seal that had once held it closed. Stamped into the hardened wax was the image of a wildcat that looked very much like Leith's own seal!

Roderic curled his hands into fists and reminded himself to remain calm. Had someone stolen his brother's seal? Or made a copy of it? Whatever the case, he would find the true villain. And the villain would die.

"I told you at the outset that you would not escape Dun Ard," Flame said.

He watched her eyes. They were entrancing, wide, vividly green and filled with a thousand emotions he could not quite fathom. "So ye did, lass," he murmured, then pulled himself from her eyes to notice the breakfast that had just been delivered. "Am I ta eat alone?"

"Did ye mayhap think that the MacGowans would be falling over each other for a chance to eat with a Forbes?"

It fascinated him that she could banish her doubts and fatigue behind her emerald eyes and meet his gaze full force.

"I had considered it," he said.

She turned away, but he softened his tone and added,

"I am accustomed to the company of me family and friends. In short, I am lonely."

She looked back over her shoulder at him. A queen should look so proud, he thought, and pressed on.

"Might ye na share me trencher?"

"Nay," she said simply and turned away.

"Please" he said softly. "I would speak with ye for a spell. Mightn't ye have a seat?"

"Nay," Nevin warned. "Do not risk it, lady. I know these Forbeses, for my father, bless his soul, used to sell them his wares. They are a crafty lot."

Roderic almost laughed. Four well-armed warriors guarded her. Each man looked hearty, able, and more than willing to cut him into bite-sized morsels should he raise a suspicious finger to her. Still, he was flattered by their worry and glad he had made an impression. "I willna harm her," he vowed. "Ye have me word of honor."

No one moved. Roderic could not quite resist a grin. "What could I do against four guards?"

Bullock shuffled his feet and reddened, probably remembering his disgraceful failure to guard Roderic on the previous day, but Roderic had no need to salt old wounds.

"Yesterday ye werena prepared for me foolhardy attempt at escape, for ye knew I wouldna leave alive," he said. "Be assured that I know ye willna be caught unawares again. Dunna worry. Surely she is safe with me."

Flame nodded once at her men, then turned toward Roderic. All four guards stepped inside, spread their legs, and gripped their weapons.

The room was painfully silent. "Must ye glare at me?" Roderic asked, addressing the guards. "I am na about to devour yer Lady."

"Touch her and ye'll na live long enough ta regret it," Bullock warned.

"Bullock does not oft suffer being made a fool of," Nevin added. "He has some pride."

Roderic watched Nevin before shifting his gaze to Bullock. The stocky warrior's face reddened, the flames of his anger fanned by his companion's reminder of his shame. But Nevin's emotions were not so easily read, though he seemed intelligent and spoke as if he had been well educated.

Drawing his attention from the warriors, Roderic sighed and motioned Flame toward the only chair. "Be seated, lady."

She remained standing where she was. "What is it you wish to speak to me about?"

Roderic moved to the wall nearest her and let his gaze draw in fresh perceptions. Her shirt was laced at the throat with a single narrow strip of leather that was knotted at the bottom, weaved through the holes and tipped with a small cone of pewter that rested against her left breast.

He sighed mentally. 'Twould truly be pathetic to be jealous of a bit of metal.

"What did you want to—"

"’Tis about Leith," Roderic interrupted, wrenching himself from his reverie and snapping his gaze back to her face. "Have ye sent a herald to him yet?"

It was a poor choice of words, for Simon had been a herald and Simon had been decapitated. Roderic had no wish to remind her of that just now, especially since he had recently stolen the note from her room and she was bound to eventually wonder what had happened to it.

"No." Her answer was cool and reserved and did nothing to shed light on her true thoughts. "I have not."

"Then I would like to send a message of me own."

"And why would I allow you to do that, Forbes?"

"Leith is a stubborn man." Roderic let that statement lay in the silence for a moment. "But he is still me brother. And while 'tis true that for a time I thought I might escape this fortress, I see now that I was wrong. I wish to send him a message saying that I am well and that I wish for na blood to be shed. In essence, I wish to recommend that he comply with yer demands."

"But ye do not know what our demands will be."

"Would I appear petty if I admitted that I think me own life ta be worth whatever price ye ask?"

She pursed her lips. They were full and berry-bright. "I will bring ye a quill," she said and turned to go, but he stopped her again.

"Please stay. There is na rush. I would ken, what
are
yer demands?"

"Ye cannot repay all ye have taken from us, for Simon was a good man and well loved," she said, staring at him from her regal height. "So we but ask for enough goods to ease his widow's burdens and help restore Dun Ard. And, of course, for the return of our stock."

It was no use denying that the Forbeses were at fault until he could prove the truth. And yet he longed to proclaim their innocence, and could not stop himself from asking, "What stock might that be?"

Anger sparked immediately in her eyes. Roderic cleared his throat and tried to look disarming. He took some pride in his innocuous expression. "I mean, what stock, exactly. Ye'll want to be precise."

She drew a deep breath and slipped into the chair. Grace robed her like a velvet cloak. "Ye have taken at least a score of our cattle that were fattening in the glen."

He waited in silence for her to continue.

"More than a dozen sheep were lost or killed."

Beef and mutton were mainstays in the Highlands, but Roderic was beginning to know her mind. "And the horses?"

He saw the anger in the tightening of her lips. "Fourteen steeds are missing, five fine mares, and nine young stallions."

No way in hell would the Forbeses give up fourteen of their valuable mounts to atone for a sin they did not commit, thought Roderic. But he nodded, as if agreeing with her right to have them. "Then ye want them all replaced."

"Nay!" She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair in her haste. "I want those same animals back."

"The sheep?" he asked, knowing he was being contrary.

"Not the sheep! The horses!"

"But perhaps they have been sold. Or perhaps ..." Roderic took a step toward her, though he knew he should not. He knew he should play along, draw out the facts.

Near the door, the guards tensed and raised their weapons.

"Or perhaps the Forbeses didna take them," he suggested quietly.

"Your plaids were clearly identified during the raids!" she countered and leveled her gaze on his. "Ye took them and ye shall return them. Those exact animals."

"But one cow is pretty much the same as—"

"I dunna mean the..." She stopped and narrowed her eyes as if wondering if he was baiting her. Her language changed ever so slightly under duress. It became softly burred. Roderic wondered now about her childhood. Had she spent time abroad? England perhaps? But no, no father could allow such sunshine to leave his life. "I do not mean the cows," she said more slowly. "I mean the horses. We will have our horses returned and will accept replacement for the other livestock."

She really was too attached to those horses, Roderic thought. "I assure ye that the Forbeses steeds be a good deal finer..." he began, then mentally grinned as he changed his course and waited for her anger. He couldn't resist trying to rile her. "I mean to say, the horse ye call Lochan is na verra..." He waved his hand vaguely.

"Come along!" Her order was brusque and brooked no argument.

"Me?" He motioned toward his own chest, as if surprised by her demand.

"I said, come."

Roderic glanced at the guards, tried not to grin, and shrugged. "As ye wish."

Pivoting on her heel, she stalked toward the door. Roderic followed at a respectable distance. He saw the guards' dubious glances at one another and felt no compunction to cause them alarm by doing something foolish.

Her legs were long and her strides quick as she hurried down the narrow, stone steps. Once in the bailey, Roderic took a deep breath of the fresh air and hurried after her. They must seem a strange convoy indeed, he thought—the MacGowan Flame, their notorious prisoner, and four guards, hurrying along as if auld horny himself were on their trail.

Two maids were tending the herb garden beside the kitchen.

"A bonny morning ta ye, Marjory. And to ye," Roderic greeted.