The Highlander's Forbidden Bride (4 page)

No, tears wouldn’t do any good here. She would devise a plan of escape and return to the only life she knew. She had been foolish to think she could escape who she was, but she had hoped. Hoping, however, had never gotten her anywhere. She didn’t know why she ever thought it would.

Fate had decided her life many years ago, and she had no choice but to live it that way. And she had to keep her heart stone cold; she couldn’t be as foolish as to ever let herself hope again.

And she could
never, ever
let Ronan of the clan Sinclare know how very much she loved him.

R
onan woke with a start, Hope’s desperate cries for help pounding in his head like an endless, resonating bell. The dream haunted him almost every night. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save her. He was always too late.

He wondered if she cried out to him from the grave, if, when her murder was finally avenged, she would know peace. Then perhaps so would he. He turned slowly in the bed to rest an angry glare on the woman who had caused him so much heartache and grief.

She slept on her back, her arms tight to her sides, her fisted hands rigid on her chest and pressed against one another. She appeared ready to defend herself even in sleep, though one look at her lovely face would have you thinking differently.

Even in sleep, she was simply radiant, her features angelic rather than one spawned of the devil. But then Lucifer was thought to be the handsomest of angels, which made his offspring just as tempting. It was hard for a man to look on Carissa and not want her, she was that desirable. Her hair was
the color of rich honey and soft as the finest spun wool, and long lashes of deeper honey framed eyes the color of the bluest summer sky. Full rosy lips and highly structured cheekbones with a hint of a blush rounded out her gorgeous features. And then there was her body, which he had come to know briefly from when he lay across her naked, her thin wool nightshift the only barrier between them. She might be petite, yet she had been sculpted by a master artist. Her perfectly balanced curves and mounds were surely meant to drive a man mad with desire. And you would think one so incomparably beautiful would be one of God’s creations: good, unselfish, and loving.

Not so.

Her body suddenly jerked and her breath caught and for several moments he waited for her to take a breath. He released his own held breath, relieved when she sighed heavily. He wished her death to be at his hands, not something as simple as taking her last breath while in a peaceful slumber. She needed to pay for her crimes, for her sins, and he would see that she did.

Her beauty and tempting body would not prevent him from carrying out justice. He sprang from the bed and hurried into his dry clothes, briefly wondering if he would ever feel worthy of wearing the Sinclare plaid once again. With more important matters to consider, he brushed the never-ending question from his mind though he knew it would linger and continue to torment him.

They would need to get a good start against the
approaching storm. The farther he had traveled from the village Black, the worse the weather had grown. The snowfall had turned heavy, and the wind whipped wildly, sending shivers down clear to the bone. Twice he had to stop, once due to poor visibility and the other time due to an unexpected icy rain that had soaked him enough that he worried he’d freeze to death. Gratefully, he had been only a short distance from the cottage. And it had been easy to slip the latch with his dagger and gain entrance.

Lucky for him, the journey had been just as hard on Carissa, and she lay in a deep slumber, unaware of his arrival. It had given him time to shed his wet garments and warm himself in front of the hearth to stop his shivers. Then, with his blood heated and his determination renewed, he had been able to subdue her by surprise.

Now, however, he needed to get them both out of there before the storm became such that they would be trapped in the cottage for weeks, if not months. And that wasn’t a prospect he liked to envision.

He also was well aware that he could not return her to the village Black. If she stepped one foot in the village, she would once again be protected, and he was tired of delays. He wanted Carissa on Sinclare land, where he knew her fate would be sealed, but he worried that the weather would not permit it.

When he was fully dressed, he went to the door. As soon as he opened it, it was ripped from his
hand by the fierce wind with such force that it almost knocked him down. He had to struggle to remain on his feet as he grabbed hold of the door and forced it closed and locked against the raging snowstorm.

It took a moment to catch his breath, then he quickly hurried to the hearth to chase the intense chill and dry his garments before the dampness soaked through. He held his chilled hands out in front of the flames, though he doubted the heat would chase the cold dread that descended over him.

“Looks like you’ll be sharing
my bed
a lot longer than you ever thought possible,” Carissa said, sitting up with a smile and a slow stretch.

He wished he could strangle her right there and then, but that would make him like her, and he wasn’t anything like her. No matter how he had lived these past two years, he had not become a barbarian…at least he prayed he hadn’t.

“While that is not an appealing thought,” he said, keeping his focus on rubbing the warmth back into his hands, “what is appealing about our forced cohabitation is that it will provide more than enough time for me to get answers from you.”

“If you prefer talking to sex, that’s up to you.”

“Have you no morals?” he asked with a vehement snarl.

She sighed dramatically. “I forget I talk with a Highlander, honorable through and through.” She gave a shrewd laugh. “But I have heard stories that Highlander’s truly enjoy—”

“Enough!” he shouted. “I will not degrade myself by resting between the legs of my enemy, or for that matter going where far too many men have been.”

Carissa popped out of bed. “Too bad. You’re missing the enjoyment of your life.” And with that said, she yanked off her nightshift.

Ronan stood speechless, staring while she took her time dressing. Damn but she was gorgeous. She had the most curvaceous body he had ever seen. And where he thought she’d have hard muscles from her noted and often used skill with a sword, her arms bore no trace of it. Rather, her arms appeared soft, her skin silky. Her slim legs were toned but not hardened, and her stomach not completely flat but with just enough of a curve to match the rest of her. No sculptor could ever do her body justice. She was perfection. The thought was like a shot of icy water in his face, and he quickly turned his head away.

“Enjoyed the view?” She laughed, having finished dressing in a dark blue wool skirt and blouse and busy twisting her hair up to pin to the back of her head with an intricately carved bone comb.

While her clothing was plain, down to her leather boots, she looked exceptional, as did her hair, a few strands breaking loose to add a carefree wickedness to her appearance.

She was fast with her quips, and, unfortunately, he wasn’t. It took him a moment or two to evoke a wise response, which is why at times he preferred
silence to be his answer. Silence oftentimes said more than words.

“Too shy to admit it?” she taunted. “Well, I’m not. You are a splendid male specimen. It’s a shame you only let me look but not touch.”

He cringed with gritted teeth as he rounded on her. “Do you forget how much I hate you?”

“No, you have made that abundantly clear. But you don’t need to love or even like someone to couple with him,” she said.

“I do,” he claimed adamantly.

“Have it your way,” she said with a shrug, and pushed the rushes aside with her foot.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I’m going down into the root cellar to gather food staples so I can cook the morning meal since I’m starving.”

“You know how to cook?” he asked, surprised, recalling that she had slaves who had done everything for her.

“I can manage a simple meal,” she said, “but then you don’t have to eat my cooking if you do not want to.”

His grumbling stomach answered for him, and she laughed as she yanked up the door in the floor. She turned and reached past him for a candle on the mantel, her soft wool sleeve whispering across his face, and he caught his breath.

“Like my scent?” she asked softly, candle in hand.

He quickly regained his senses. “What fool likes the smell of death?”

After a lazy, sultry laugh, she said, “That isn’t death you smell, that’s my scent, and obviously you like it.”

He dug his fingers into the edge of the mantel, angry with himself and swearing beneath his breath that he should be trapped here with an evil woman who would seduce her enemy to gain her freedom. He had to keep his wits about him and keep Carissa at a distance.

Carissa sagged against one of the posts in the small cellar. She should be used to maintaining a farce; after all, she had done so since she’d been young, but she was so tired of being someone she wasn’t. However, she had played her part far too long and far too successfully to think anyone would believe otherwise of her. She was so good at her ruse that she often forgot who she truly was.

And to have to play this game with Ronan tore at her heart, especially after hearing him claim that he preferred love to sex with a stranger. He hadn’t even hesitated or gone into a long explanation. He stated it simply and forcefully, letting her know he would have it no other way.

How she wished he could love her with such intensity. She laughed to herself, the quiet rumble rippling down her throat. How did she ever allow herself to fall in love with him? As soon as the first stirring had occurred, she should have distanced herself from him, but she hadn’t. This was all her own fault, and now she was left with the consequences.

Enemies didn’t forgive, and they certainly didn’t fall in love. She was amazed she had been able to fall in love at all, having been taught that love was for fools. Her father had warned her repeatedly that love destroyed. It caused empires to fall and brought nothing but madness to great leaders. He had insisted that she avoid it completely, and when the time was right, he would arrange a lucrative marriage for her. That was, after all, a daughter’s duty to her father.

However, she discovered that love couldn’t be ruled, and it certainly couldn’t be ignored. But she also learned it could cause more pain than she ever imagined possible.

How she would ever be able to survive time alone with Ronan and in such close quarters wasn’t a prospect she liked to imagine, unless of course it was under different circumstances. But with that not being the case, here she was, doing what she had to do, playing the coldhearted, self-centered daughter of Mordrac, in order to survive.

As she collected the food staples, she repeatedly reminded herself not to stray from her role. Ronan had immediately questioned her cooking skills and rightly so, since that was the chore of slaves. But it was a slave who taught her the benefit of cooking. The old woman, Ula, had told her it was an art that could bring peace, pleasure, and control to her life. Carissa had thought her crazy, but Ula was far from mad; she was perceptive, wise, and grateful to Carissa for saving her.

What else could she have done? If Carissa had
not claimed the slave for her own use, her father’s cruelty would surely have seen the old woman dead in no time. So she had insisted she required the slave’s help, and her father relented.

It was at night when she and Ula were alone that the old woman began to teach her how to bake bread and buns, apple buns being her favorite, and mix herbs to make tasty stews and meats. And she looked forward to every moment spent with the woman.

Unfortunately, Carissa knew she was endangering Ula’s life by learning how to cook. Her father would be furious that his daughter was doing the work of a slave. And besides, Ula missed her village and her family, though she assumed all was lost after the barbarians attacked.

Carissa made discreet inquires and found that Ula’s son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren had survived and had made it safely to another village. Carissa made arrangements for the woman’s escape and reunited her with her family.

Ula shed tears when they bid each other goodbye, and as she hugged Carissa tightly, she told her that someday Carissa would shed tears once again, but they would be tears of joy, for goodness comes to those who are good.

Carissa wanted to believe that, but it was difficult. Even more so when her father realized the slave was gone. He demanded to know what had happened to her and Carissa related a tale she knew would please her father and cause no more questions.

She had told him that the old woman had died and, as the ground was frozen from the winter snow, Carissa had had the body tossed into the woods for the animals to feast on. As she expected, the story delighted him. So much so that he gifted her with precious jewels.

The question now was, did she dare take the chance and let her cooking skill be known? Or did she play ignorant and suffer through tasteless meals?

She had been confined for so long, that she ached to break free and truly live, which if Ronan had his way, wouldn’t be for long.

A rumble of laughter spilled from her. What a fool she was for loving a man who wanted her dead. But then, he didn’t know who she truly was, and she didn’t know if it would matter if he did. What a laughable state of affairs.

“What are you laughing at?” Ronan yelled down to her.

“The thought that I should want to bed the man who wishes me dead,” she called up to him, and that was the truth. She would love to know his touch, taste his kisses, and dare to be intimate with him, if only for a short time. But the crux of it was that she too would prefer being loved to bedding a stranger.

“Hurry,” he urged. “The cold is drifting up here.”

She hurriedly finished gathering the items she needed and climbed the ladder. Surprisingly, he leaned down to help her, taking several items out
of her hand, then taking hold of her arm and assisting her out of the cellar.

His hand was warm, his grip strong, though not hurtful. And when he was sure she was safe on her feet, he gently released her. It was a simple helping hand that meant so much more to her, for no one had ever helped her in such a manner.

He placed the items he had taken from her on the table and went to sit in the rocking chair, his brow knitted tight.

“Say what’s on your mind,” she challenged, while starting to mix ingredients for apple buns.

“My thoughts are my own.”

“We share tight quarters, nothing will be our own,” she said.