The Presence (11 page)

He started for the bed, then halted, because suddenly she was moving, no longer simply staring and screaming, but shrinking back. As if something—someone—were after her.

He flew across the room, calling her name.

“Toni, Toni!”

Falling upon the bed, he caught her by the shoulders. She was stiff and cold, as if she were nearly dead herself. She didn't acknowledge him, but neither did she look through him. She looked around him.

“Toni!” He gave her a shake, drawing her to him, determined to transfer some of his own warmth into her form. “Toni, wake up, it's a dream, a nightmare.” He
stroked her head, his fingers cradling the shape of her skull. “Toni!”

At last, he felt her resistance. She pulled away from him, her eyes wide and confused in the night. She said his name, but with a strange hesitance and uncertainty.

“Bruce?”

“Aye, it's me.”

She still looked so wide-eyed, not so much terrified as…confused.

“In the flesh,” he added, trying to speak lightly. He was very nearly in little but the flesh, and was glad he'd gone to sleep in boxers.

“Bruce?”

One of her hands fell against his chest. The fingers were still chilled, but the brush against him seemed to evoke a flash of fire. He caught that hand, held it between his own, rubbed it, tried to warm it.

“Aye, kid, you're having something of a poor time getting sleep in here, eh?” he asked her.

She flushed, then looked at him sheepishly again. “It's rather ironic, really. I make up a fellow, only to find out that he existed, and now he keeps appearing at the foot of my bed, with his sword dripping blood.” She hesitated. “Do you think he's trying to warn me to get the hell out of your castle?”

They faced one another on the bed then, not touching, but very close. He couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips. “Nae,” he said softly, purposely allowing the Scots burr into his voice. “Nae, fer 'tis said that Bruce were a man what loved a damselle, and wouldna hae it that one should suffer at his door.”

He was glad of his speech, for she smiled, as well,
and it seemed that the terror and confusion had at last lost their grip upon her. “How did Lady MacNiall feel about that? If she was running around with some local fellow, it might have been out of revenge for all the lasses he kept giving, er, sanctuary? At his castle?”

“They were different days,” he told her lightly.

“Oh?”

“Well, there were a few instances in Scottish history that certainly wouldn't be the least politically correct these days. Take Robert the Bruce. His poor wife was captured by the English and held prisoner for years, just for being his wife. He loved her dearly—honestly, he did—but there were a number of children born in those days that bore the king's protection. So…while she was locked up for being his wife, he was still prey to manly temptation.”

“So Bruce MacNiall cheated like crazy, then killed his poor wife?” Toni said, wrinkling her nose.

“You made that part up. No one knows what happened to his wife,” Bruce reminded her.

“I made the whole thing up!” she reminded him with a soft groan.

He pulled her against him again, stroking her hair. “It's a castle, you invented a bloody warrior, he happens to have existed.”

She leaned against him, apparently content to be there. Her hair was a velvet tease against the nakedness of his chest, the scent of her a strange and riveting intoxication in the night. She could speak with such de termination, quell with a look, move with grace and dignity…by day. But at night, she was like a brush of pure silk, sweet smelling, lustrous, supple and…vulnerable. Tonight she was vulnerable.

“It's more than that,” she whispered.

“What more could it be?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. He threaded his fingers into her hair, gently tugging back, anxious to see her eyes. Huge, bluer than the midnight sea, they met his. Little triggers of electricity seemed to tease both his muscles and his flesh. Something akin to pure agony clamped down upon his groin. He gritted his teeth, determined not to let her see the rise of pure carnal instinct and natural humanity.

“I…You don't understand. I'm afraid. Never mind…” she murmured.

“What is it? You can tell me, honestly,” he assured her.

“Ah…so that you could mock an American further?”

“Americans are lovely people,” he told her, smiling.

“Most, anyway, right?”

“Toni, if there's something wrong, you can tell me. I swear, I will not bring it beyond the walls of this room,” he vowed levelly.

She shivered suddenly, then moved, as if pretending that she had not done so. She set her hands upon his shoulders. “You know, you're rather a lovely man your self—but only in the dead of night.”

“Ach, I'm really lovely as hell by day, as well. You're just not noticing,” he informed her.

Another shiver, almost imperceptible, ran down her spine. She moved closer, resting her head against his shoulder and throat. “I have noticed,” she informed him. Then she looked up. “You know that question you asked earlier?” she whispered.

Ah, and that whisper brushed his cheek, and soft and light as it was, it beckoned to an even greater desire inside, one that shrieked and cried out, in bone and sinew and blood.

“About jumping me?” he inquired.

“Yes, I would be referring to that one.”

The flannel of her nightgown suddenly seemed to hug her breasts with pure temptation, concealing, too clearly giving away structure, firmness, rise….

Her voice was meant to be casual, almost haphazard, but it was tremulous.

He caught hold of her chin.

“I won't sleep with you because you're frightened,” he told her.

“I wouldn't dream of sleeping with any man for that reason!” she told him.

“It's all right. I won't sleep with you, but I won't leave you,” he told her, stretching out on the bed, drawing her against his shoulder. “If my ancestor comes anywhere near, you can always try arguing him to death. You've come quite close with me, you know.”

She thumped on his chest with a finger.

“I am not that bad. And I am not a bitch.”

“Ah…so, your friends even know you want to jump me,” he said.

She started to push away from him in a sudden, indignant fury.

“Get some sleep!” he told her, drawing her down again, smoothing her hair as she rested her cheek against his face.

It was absurd. He'd known her so very short a time. She hadn't been so much as a figment in his mind just two days ago. And now…

He breathed in her scent and felt her softness, the warmth in his arms.
It was almost like forever.
He also felt the insane drumming in his groin. Lord, he wanted her. But…not because she woke screaming in the night, having seen
his
ancestor at the foot of her bed.

“Sleep,” he murmured again.

Later, when she breathed easily against him, her every breath adding torture against his awakened flesh, it was himself he mocked.

“You are an ass!” he whispered aloud.

When daylight came, he left her once again.

T
he bodies had been taken to a mass funeral pyre. It hadn't been out of a sense of brutality; they were sorry that many a good soldier with a different loyalty could not be returned to his family, could not receive honors and a proper burial. But they knew that, with so much death, flies and maggots would come in droves and the blood would taint the water and the earth. Sickness would soon follow.

The air was ripe. There was nothing so horrible as the smell of burning flesh, but there simply was no choice.

MacNiall's own men were seeing to their wounded, their own dead and their dying.

But victory had been achieved, and even among the wounded, aye, and the dying, there was a sense of justice and purpose. They had prevailed. Whiskey and beer were flowing freely—the wounded needed it, the victors craved it. Still, in the midst of jubilation, the troops knew discipline, and they celebrated in close-knit ranks.

From somewhere within the many pockets of men came the plaintive notes of a bagpipe. Despite victory, Bruce MacNiall could find no pleasure or solace that night. Secure that his scouts remained on the lookout,
that the wounded had been gathered and that the ranks would not break, he went to Angus at last.

“Ye are in charge, man. I'll be gone but a day or two.”

Angus shook his head. “Ye canna be runnin' off half-cocked, man. Not on the word of a liar who would see y'be the one hanged!”

“I have to go.”

“Nae, y'do not!” Angus protested. “She waits, as she has always waited. She loves ye, man!”

“Aye, and that be so, she is in danger herself. I must see to her welfare. She canna stay at the castle longer. Thus far, they've ignored it. Too far from any place that counts! Fer many years, I've been the enemy, they've not taken their vengeance ta the homes. Now, with the words Grayson Davis has spoken, I canna be sure!”

“Ye canna go! I've a fear deep in me heart. Ye canna do this, Bruce.”

“I must do this. As I must breathe,” he said simply.

He set his arms around Angus, giving him a fierce hug. “Y're in charge, man. They'd be no other ta know the heart and soul of the men. Keep them safe, keep yerself from harm, Angus!”

He had led his great black warhorse to the copse to speak with Angus, his right-hand man, his fiercest warrior, his dearest friend. He stepped away then and mounted, swinging easily upon the giant stallion. Then he looked down at Angus.

“Ye canna do this!” Angus begged again.

“I can, and I must,” Bruce said. “I wish to God that I dinna feel so urgent a need!”

Before he could swing the stallion around, Ian MacAllistair came hurrying through to the copse.

“Laird MacNiall!”

The fellow appeared stricken.

“Aye, man, what?”

“Three of the prisoners…have escaped.”

“Now how in bluidy hell did that happen?” Angus began in a fury.

“Which men?”

“The Smithson brothers, and Lord Davis. Grayson Davis.”

“He was half-dead already!” Angus roared.

“Ah, but half-dead isn't dead,” Bruce said.

“How?” Angus roared again, fear in his thunder.

“They were shackled together,” MacAllistair said, shaking his head. “MacIver and others watched them, but the fires were burning, the smell, the bluidy smell, and the smoke! When the wind shifted, they were gone, the lot of them!”

Angus turned to Bruce. “See there, man! Ye canna go.”

“Nae, Angus, more than ever, I must! God go with ye, lads. Heal the wounded. I'll be back in a few days' time!”

He could wait no longer. From their rocky tor, the castle was a day's ride.

And so he began. Usually he scorned what major roads there were, but this time he rode the night and the darkness bold as brass. By day, he was forced to pause, forced to realize that he would kill his noble mount. And when the light came, once again, he forced himself to care. He was a wanted man, a marked man. A dead man, if his enemies were to see him.

And still, he pushed and pushed. He knew the back ways as no other man could. He could ride them
more recklessly, and with his heart ruling his head, he did so.

At first, he prayed to come upon Grayson Davis. There would have been no mercy then.

He thanked God that the man was wounded, and on foot. He could not have reached the castle before him.

Rain hampered him, then cleared. By nightfall, he was nearly home.

Near midnight, the moon rose. It was full and glowing when he reached the last valley and looked up—at the castle.

Beneath the moon, the old stone seemed to glow. There was light, fires that burned to warm those within. All was well, he tried to assure himself. All was well.

The bridge over the moat was up. His men, bless them! They did intend guard against unlikely attack. They kept his vigil for him. By day, all here went about their business, good subjects of the Lord Cromwell's reign. But night, they were ever watchful, protecting their lady, as befitted her, and their absent laird. He had long ago told his tenants that no working man was to suffer for his allegiance to a distant, running king. They obeyed the laws, Cromwell's laws. And Cromwell kept care, ruling with a stern but judicial hand, ever wary that the Scots were a fierce lot, ready to rise and turn at any moment. Aye, they'd been beaten, those who honored the king. But they could rise again in mass, and that the governing powers did not want.

In the moonlight, he breathed a sigh. Pray God, it was all right. And pray God that Davis was a liar.

He spurred his horse. Shouting, he rode the distance to the castle, rising them upon the hill to the moat. The lookouts were at their station, and recognized their laird.

With a great cranking sound, the bridge was lowered. He thundered over it. A groom came forward to take his horse; men gathered around. He assured them of his welfare and told them of the victory. Then he begged away, for he would see his lady. The men under stood.

He burst through the front doors and stood in his great hall.

“Annalise! Annalise!” he shouted.

She was there already, standing at the top of the stairs, having heard the drawbridge, he was certain, and…hoping.

She had come running from the master chamber in a gown of white. It flowed about her in elegant swirls. Her delicate features were pale—had she been frightened that it was someone else? Her fingers, long and delicate, were at her throat. Blond hair like the sun at its highest point cascaded around her shoulders, swept down the length of her back.

Eyes bluer than blue were enormous in her face as she looked down at him.

“Annalise!”

He began to take the stairs, two by two. But…there was something wrong, something very, very wrong. He saw it in the way she looked.

And a fury gripped him, deep and terrible.

“Annalise!”

He had her by the shoulders, longing to enwrap her, to kiss the fullness of her lips, bury himself in her, seize her up, sweep her to their chambers….

“Tell me, before God, that Davis is a liar!” he demanded.

“My laird!” Trembling, her voice a whisper, she
fell, shaking, to her knees. “My laird! My dear, dear Bruce…”

He lifted her chin, looking into her eyes.

“Before God, Bruce!” she whispered.