Highlanders (7 page)

She poured the kettle of hot water into the cooling bathwater, ignoring the uncomfortable heat as the steam curled in thick ribbons around her body. Back against the tub, she slid downward until her face submerged. When her lungs neared bursting, she shoved upwards, gasping for air. Despite the blazing hearth fire, gooseflesh raced across her shoulders. She pulled her knees up to her belly and wrapped her arms around her legs, then sat until her teeth chattered so violently that her jaw ached. Still, she did not move. A thunk outside her room jerked her from her stupor.

St. Claire
.

Rhoslyn scrambled from the tub, losing her balance and nearly falling in her haste to grab the drying cloth and wrap it around her body. Silence came from the other side of the door, yet she stood several long moments before accepting that no one was going to enter the room. Then she remembered the key on the table. She crossed to the small table near the window, poured a mug of mulled wine, and drank the contents in several large gulps. After refilling the mug, she went to the bed and slipped beneath the blanket, back against the wall, gripping the mug close to her breasts.

How was she ever going to remove the feel of Dayton St. Claire from inside her? What was she going to do when St. Claire eventually claimed his husbandly rights? How was she going to be wife to the brother of the man who had violated her? Rhoslyn recalled her first sight of Dayton St. Claire, how the two brothers were as different as the sun was from the moon. They shared the same father, but not the same mother. St. Claire had forcibly taken her from the safety of her father’s men—and had threatened to avail himself of his husbandly rights. But he had left her unmolested and had, instead, gone to lend aid to her grandfather.

She mouthed a prayer to Saint George. God had forsaken her, and her supplications to the saints had gone unheeded these last two years. What had she done to so displease her Lord? Was it possible to atone for an unknown sin?

Rhoslyn took another long sip of wine. The liquid sent a ripple of warmth through her body. She took another sip.  She longed to return to the convent. But if answers lay there, why had God allowed her to be ripped away before she found peace?

The walls at Saint Mary’s hadn’t closed in on her as did the current silence. There, she could turn her mind to God. Staring at the wall of the inn, all she saw was a child with dark hair like Dayton St. Claire’s. What would Sir Talbot do if his brother’s seed had taken root in her? Could she become pregnant so easily when it had taken nearly seven years of marriage to conceive Alec’s son?

Alec’s kindness hadn’t concealed his disappointment. He loved his daughter, but he wanted a son to carry on his name. Daily, Rhoslyn prayed to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of infertility, and Saint Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary, and begged to conceive. At last, her miracle happened, and she missed her flux. Rhoslyn dedicated the next month to prayers and supplications, and didn’t miss a single mass. The second month came and no blood appeared.

Alec joined her in daily prayers, and when the child at last moved inside her, she allowed herself to believe she was going to give her husband the son he so wanted. Then six weeks after she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Alec became ill and died within a fortnight. Then Dougal began to cough and developed a fever. Nothing the doctors did helped the child, and Rhoslyn’s prayers went unanswered. Tears trickled down her cheeks. The months she’d spent in the convent melted away and she again sat in her chambers, desperately rocking Dougal in her arms, while his breath rattled. And then stopped.

She held him for hours, washing his face with her tears, while the hearth fire burned to ash and the room chilled. As sunlight seeped through the closed shutters, Mistress Miura entered the room, summoned the doctor, and then sent for her grandfather.

Rhoslyn didn’t fight when the old housekeeper took the babe from her arms. She allowed herself to be led to the bed and the covers pulled up over her shoulders. When she finally awoke, she called for her grandfather and begged to go to Saint Mary’s. She had gone ere’ her son was laid in the ground. She had yet to visit his grave in the family cemetery at Castle Glenbarr.

Rhoslyn drank the last of the wine and set the mug on the shelf beside the bed. Her brain muddled and the room blurred. She considered refilling the mug, but the weight of her body sagged against the mattress and she couldn’t muster the strength to move. Perhaps if she rested just a moment...

Chapter Seven

Near midnight, a sudden downpour ended their search, but by then Talbot knew Dayton had eluded him. Talbot’s anger mingled with bitter frustration. He would have to chase Dayton into England and, likely, challenge their father’s protection of the cur.

The walls of the inn came into view up ahead and Talbot allowed his shoulders to relax a fraction. The security its walls afforded meant the establishment was of a better cut than the one where they’d found Lady Rhoslyn. He slowed and Seward followed suit, as did the men riding behind them. They passed through the gate into the courtyard and Talbot spotted one of his men sitting on a bench near the door. The man rose as they brought their horses to a halt in front of the inn.

The door opened just as Talbot dismounted. A murmur of voices spilled into the courtyard as a lad emerged, and he glimpsed men inside the tavern on the ground floor of the building.

The lad stepped up to Talbot. “Can I take your horses?”

“Aye,” Talbot replied. “Have you accommodations for my men in your stables?”

“Ye can speak with John. Your men can come with me.”

“Blair,” Talbot called to the man at the head of the company, “you and the rest of the men sleep in the stables. The boy will show you the way.” The boy started around the building and the men spurred their horses to follow.

“All is well?” Talbot asked the warrior who had been seated.

“Aye. Ross himself guards your lady wife.”

“What room is she in?” Talbot asked.

“Third floor, second door on the left.”

Talbot nodded, and Seward followed him inside the tavern.

Talbot stopped a young maid as she passed a nearby table. “Have you another room?” he asked.

“I think so. I will fetch the innkeeper.”

A moment later a tall, lean man in his thirties entered from the hallway. “Good evening. Brae tells me ye are looking for a room.”

“Aye, my wife, Lady Rhoslyn is here,” Talbot said. “Her grandfather, Baron Kinsley, needs accommodations.”

“Lady Rhoslyn, yes. She is in our finest room on the third floor. I have a vacant room at the end of the hall on the second floor, the baron can have. ‘Tis a good room, though no’ as fine as the one where I put your wife.”

“That will do,” Talbot said. “I have sent my men to your stables. See to their dinner.” He turned toward the stairs.

“I expect to see my granddaughter first thing in the morning, St. Claire,” Seward said.

Talbot started up the stairs. “I will tell her.”

* * *

Rhoslyn’s eyes snapped open. A stifling heat washed over her. The glow of firelight penetrated her blurred vision. The convent was on fire! She threw back the covers and leapt from bed. She took two steps before realizing she was naked. She swung toward the fire. There was no hearth in her cell. The events of the last day crashed in around her. Rhoslyn gasped and swayed with the spinning room.

Strong arms caught her against a wall of velvety steel warmth. She snapped her head up and saw a masculine face looming over her. Her mind propelled back to Dayton St. Claire on top of her, his stubbled jaw harsh against her neck as he—Rhoslyn shoved the man’s chest.

“No!” she screamed.

The arms tightened around her. “Lady Rhoslyn.”

She beat his chest.

“It is I—”

Rhoslyn thrashed.

His arms tightened. “Rhoslyn, it is I, Talbot.”

She froze.

Shock rolled over her and tears became sobs. Rhoslyn felt herself lifted from the floor, then her body settled against hard thighs. Her mind told her to break free, but wracking sobs shook her shoulders and she could do nothing but allow the hot tears to flow.

At last, she heaved a long, stuttered sigh, too spent to shed another tear. Too tired to care.

“Are you thirsty?”

St. Claire’s voice reverberated through his chest and Rhoslyn remembered she was naked. Fear gave way to an embarrassment that sent a tremor rippling through her stomach. In truth, she wasn’t afraid. His gentle touch surprised her and, despite the fact he wore no shirt—and she was certain she felt a bulge beneath her bottom—he made no move to force or seduce her. She was however, uncomfortably aware of her breast flattened against his chest and the warmth of his muscled arms against her flesh.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked again.

Very thirsty, she realized. Her mouth felt like sand. “Aye,” she rasped.

St. Claire slid her from his lap onto the bed, then rose. He surprised her by keeping his eyes straight ahead and didn’t so much as flick a glance at her naked body. She pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself. Her hair was still damp. The long, thick tresses would be impossible to manage into a braid in the morning. She might be forced to allow the maid to help her.

St. Claire turned and crossed back to the bed. When he handed her the mug, she caught sight of the markings on his arm. The face and upper body of a girl no more than thirteen years of age covered his flesh from shoulder to bicep. Long hair rippled along the sculpted muscle.

He unexpectedly grasped her chin and tilted her head up toward his. His mouth thinned and she realized he was studying her bruised cheek. He released her and sat on the bed beside her. Rhoslyn fingered her cheek and found the flesh even more tender than it had been when she went to bed.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She startled. “‘Tis only a little sore.” She took a drink of the wine. “How is your wound?”

“Healing well.”

“Is it deep?”

“Little more than a scratch,” he replied.

Rhoslyn took another sip of her wine. “You should no’ have attacked me.”

“You should not have tried to marry another man.”

“What was your sister’s name?”

“Lilas,” he replied without looking at her.

Rhoslyn’s gaze caught on the room key still sitting on the table near the tub. “How did you get into my room? I have the key.”

“Ross had another.”

She should have felt annoyed, but couldn’t muster the strength.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Rhoslyn stiffened. “What do ye think happened?”

He looked at her now. “I am asking how you came to be with my brother.”

“I did no’ go with him willingly, if that is what ye mean.”

“It would make no sense to do so,” he replied. And she heard the unspoken thought,
No more sense than to try to marry another man.

“He killed Sheila and your guard.” Her chest tightened. “And Mistress Muira.”

“Not Mistress Muira.”

Rhoslyn startled. “But he said—”

St. Claire shook his head. “She was found unconscious. I assume her would-be killer was interrupted before he could finish the job.”

Tears stung the corners of Rhoslyn’s eyes. She took a long, slow drink of wine in an effort to gain control. “Muira took me under her wing when I married Alec,” she finally said. “Taught me about herbs, how to manage a kitchen.” Her voice hitched. “She was more mother than housekeeper. I thank God he spared her.” But could she forgive Him for taking the other two lives? Even as the thought formed she knew it wasn’t God’s doing, but her own. She had neglected her duty and left herself and those who depended on her vulnerable.
Forgive me
, she mentally prayed.

“She said my brother arrived not long after I left,” St. Claire said.

Rhoslyn nodded. “No more than two hours later.”

“That is early to receive visitors.”

“He was your brother and I had a guard. I had no idea I had anything to fear.”

St. Claire nodded. “Still, I would prefer that you not entertain in the early hours of the morning.”

Ire flared. “We are no’ truly wed and already ye are giving orders.”

His expression remained calm. “I do not think it is too much to ask that a wife allow her husband to protect her.”

Her heart began to beat fast. What she would have given for his protection when Dayton yanked up her skirt. The shock and anger on St. Claire’s face when he saw her tied to the bed came to mind and the urge to cry nearly overwhelmed her.

She dropped her gaze. “I am sorry.”

“You are not to blame.”

She jerked her gaze back to him. “But you just said I should no’ entertain at night.”

“That does not mean you are at fault. I should have left you better protected.”

“Or not gone at all?” she asked

A hint of a smile played at the edges of his full mouth. “You would not have forgiven me if I did not help your grandfather.”

“That is true,” she admitted. “How is he? You didna’ tell him everything?”

St. Claire shook his head. “He is well, and sleeping here at the inn. You can see him in the morning.”

Anxiety knotted her stomach. Could she face him so soon after what had happened? Another thought struck and her insides began to tremble. “What of your brother?”

The humor on St. Claire’s face vanished and his mouth thinned to a hard line. “We did not find him.”

She drew a sharp breath.

St. Claire met her gaze. “He will never again harm you.”

Rhoslyn nodded.

“I swear, Rhoslyn, I will find and kill him.”

“He is your brother.”

“You are my wife.”

She studied him. “Why would you kill your brother for a woman you do no’ know, much less care for?”

“I will do that and more, my lady.”

Her breath caught at sight of the intense light in his eyes. She was afraid to ask what the ‘more’ included.

“What happened with Aodh?” she asked.

St. Claire rose. She noticed a long scar on his right side before he turned toward the hearth. Another, longer, scar slashed across his left shoulder blade, and yet another small scar marred the flesh above the waistband of his hose. He set his mug on the table beside the tub and continued to the hearth. The fire had burned down considerably.

He knelt on one knee and stoked the fire. “Roberts left with little trouble.”

St. Claire grabbed a log from the stack beside the fireplace and tossed it onto the burning coals. Rhoslyn couldn’t tear her gaze from the play of muscle in his back. She estimated him to be about thirty-three years old, yet his body was better muscled than many men ten years his junior. That’s what came of a lifetime of war.

“How did you know I left the convent?” she asked.

“Your grandfather made the mistake of sending two dozen men to escort you. Then he went to Longford Castle. News of such a large company of men travels fast.”

“How could you know the men were coming for me? He could have been sending them elsewhere.”

He twisted his head and met her gaze. “Somewhere else? Such as?”

Nothing came immediately to mind. She had been sequestered in the convent for fourteen months. She knew nothing of current politics. He went back to tending the fire and she found that his quick dismissal piqued her pride. The man was too sure of himself.

His attention fixed on something amongst the coals. Rhoslyn followed the turn of his head and spied a piece of gray cloth—a fragment of the dress that hadn’t burned. Mortification washed over her. She tensed in anticipation of his question, but he jabbed the fabric closer to the coals so that it caught and blazed beneath the logs. He leaned the poker against the stone, then rose.

“Mayhap you should return to bed.”

For an instant, she pictured herself naked beneath the blankets and him climbing into bed beside her. Fear slashed through her.

“I have work,” he said.

Rhoslyn frowned. “What?”

He pointed to the desk in the alcove near the door. “I have work. You need not worry about me coming to your bed.”

What work could he possibly have? But she decided she didn’t want to know. He approached and took the mug from her. She nodded thanks, then crawled across the mattress and lay atop the remaining blanket. He strode toward the desk and disappeared from view.

Blanket still wrapped around her, she closed her eyes.