Beloved Stranger (25 page)

“If you have doubts, we can turn around and follow them.”

Rory shook his head. “I just wanted it to be so. The reiver must have been distracted.”

Yet as Rory rode back, his mind kept going back to the reiver. He’d sat a small bay horse. There had been nothing to distinguish him from the other reivers. He had been one among many.

It could not be Lachlan.

 
 
H
E was getting far too used to pain. He was among the least wounded, though his shoulder hurt like the blazes. The thought of Kimbra, of Audra at the Charlton tower made it bearable.

What he was not getting used to were the flashes that were coming faster now.

The Armstrong’s face kept returning. Pictures flipped through his mind. The Armstrong—he had to be an Armstrong—standing next to a woman who held a bairn.

His friend? Or someone closer?

Blazes! Why couldn’t he remember? Why taunting images?

After far too many hours, they arrived at the tower. Having been alerted by an advance rider, the Charltons left behind came running out. They took the wounded into the tower, where the physician, Claire, and Kimbra waited.

Robert Howard waited his turn, although Kimbra had rushed over and taken a quick look at his wound. “You cannot seem to keep out of harm’s way,” she scolded, her eyes alarmed at first, then quieting as she saw the wound. “’Tis not so bad.”

The Charlton stepped in. “He saved my life, moved in between a pike and me. Take good care of him.” He looked down at Robert Howard. “My thanks.” Then he went among the other wounded.

Kimbra moved on, and Robert took pleasure in watching her quick, confident ministrations. At one point she argued with the physician who once more wanted to combat bleeding with more bleeding by his leeches.

It was the Charlton who stepped in and sided with her.

Finally she came to him. The pike had been blunted by the steel sewn into the jack, but it had still gouged a hole in his shoulder.

Servants had brought clean water, and Kimbra washed the wound, her fingers lingering on his skin as if reluctant to leave. Then she applied a familiar poultice to it. “Stay quiet,” she said. “I will look in on you later.”

“The others?”

“Two probably will not live out the night,” she said.

“Any you know?”

“Aye. They rode with Will. How did you come to be ambushed?”

He shook his head.

“They are saying someone betrayed them.”

The thought had surely crossed all their minds. How else could the Armstrongs know when and where they would pass? They might have guessed, having raided the Charltons, that there would be retribution. But a traitor was more likely.

He went up to his room. He had ridden all night and had had little sleep the previous night. He wanted to think. He wanted to see again that face from last night. He wanted to remember.

He knew now he could not make any plans without knowing his past. He was beginning to feel at home here, much too at home. And Kimbra? He wanted her with all his being.

If he thought the past was truly gone, mayhap he could stay here and be content. But it haunted him, throwing out tempting morsels one at a time. How could he take a wife if one morning he woke and found he had another?

Concentrate. Go back to that moment. The gray eyes.
They were fighting. No, not fighting, training. The sword was heavy. He was but a boy. He did not want to train. He pleaded with an older man.

The older man was the same one he had seen in an earlier flash, the one that lay on the ground, bleeding profusely. The sense of guilt flooded back with a strength that almost made him double over.

Then the important question: If he hated fighting, how had it come that he rode with his king into battle?

His shoulder throbbed, but it mattered little. He had to discover who he was, whether he had obligations. But how? He could not just ride to the Armstrongs and ask about a man with gray eyes.

A knock came on the door before it abruptly opened, and Jock walked in. “The Charltons believe there is a traitor. Cedric’s brother is blaming ye.”

“I’ve not been off the property,” Robert said.

“He claims ye could have sent someone.”

“Now who would that be?” he asked reasonably. “You and the Charlton are the only two I see.” He paused. “Cedric’s brother? Where is Cedric?”

“Cedric’s brother said he followed them, hoping to get some of the horses back.” Jock paused. “I thought ye should know what is being said. I do not believe it. Nor does the Charlton, who has told everyone ye saved his life. But there is muttering. Ye are a stranger. Cedric is not. And some see ye as a threat to their hopes. They will not challenge you directly but with a dagger in the back, or accident of some kind. ’Tis a note of warning. Be cautious, Robert Howard, and for Kimbra’s sake, keep a distance, unless ye want her drawn into it.”

He left, leaving Robert Howard—or whoever he was—feeling as if he had just jumped from the pot into the coals. His heart plummeted as he realized he might well take Kimbra and Audra with him.

A
FTER Kimbra finished tending the last of the some rest.wounded, Claire and the servants told her to get some rest.

 
She needed that rest, some respite.

Her emotions were churning about like clouds in a thunderstorm. She’d just managed to control them when she’d heard the Scot was injured. Thank the Holy Mother that, though painful, his wound wasn’t far worse.

How many more lives did he have? He seemed to be spending them rapidly. Why in all that was holy did he persist in putting himself in jeopardy? As she’d watched him make his way toward the stone steps leading up to the chambers, guilt assailed her. She should be thankful he had saved the Charlton. But, dear Mother, the Scot seemed to be courting death. And now he had come even more to the attention of the Charlton, as well as the most ambitious Charltons.

The Charlton’s favor could be a dangerous thing.

After she wearily washed her hands, she mounted the steep stairs, hesitating at the top of them. She turned to go to her own room.

But then she reversed herself, finding herself walking down to the Scot’s room. She had not seen Cedric since the wounded came in, and no one else in the tower appeared to be awake. Certainly no one was in the hallway.

She hesitated at the door, knocked lightly, then went inside. If he appeared to be asleep, she would leave.

He lay on the bed, but she saw that his eyes were open. He sat up, his lips without the slow smile that so charmed her.

“Kimbra,” he acknowledged, his voice low and husky.

“You should be sleeping.”

“’Tis hard to do.”

“I can fetch you some rosemary.”

“’Tis not the pain, lass. I’ve had more memories.”

“You remember your name?”

“Nay, but faces. I saw one tonight. He was riding with the Armstrongs.”

She stared at him. “You saw someone you remembered?”

“I am not sure, lass. But his eyes . . .”

“And he was with the Armstrongs?”

“Aye.”

“Was there anything else?”

“I saw a younger version of myself fighting him. But it was not a battle.” His brows furrowed together. Each word seemed to be pulled from somewhere inside. “We were . . . training.”

“A brother? Cousin? Someone who was fostered with you?”

“I do not know. The more I reach for a memory, the faster it fades.”

“There are others?”

She watched him struggle with himself. Then, “An older man. My father. I think . . . I think . . . I was responsible for his death.”

He stood, swaying slightly. She took his hand just as she realized he wore nothing but the long shirt. She had seen him naked before when she had first cared for him. Now, though, it was different.

Now her body was aware of his. Far too aware.

She took his hand, as much to steady him. Nay, that was a lie. It was not to steady him at all. It was because she’d yearned to do it since he arrived this morning. “I do not believe that.”

“You know little about me,” he said roughly. “About who and what I was.”

“I know enough.” She sensed a loneliness and despair in him that pierced her like a hot knife.

Her fingers tightened around his. “I cannot believe that you have done anything wrong.’Tis not within you.”

“I was ready to kill someone tonight. I probably did weeks ago during the battle. I
know
I am skilled at it. And I seem to be as good a liar. You do not know what I was. Or am. And the hell of it is, I do not either.”

She knew the same desperation. She was a liar and a thief, and she hated herself for it, even though she’d felt she had no choice. She’d lied to the Charlton and to all the men who had ridden with Will.

She shook those thoughts aside, and her mind went back to the rider he’d seen. An Armstrong who looked familiar.

How could his ken be with the Armstrongs? Or was he an Armstrong himself? Surely if he was a member of that clan, someone here would have seen him at the games most of the border families—both Scot and English—attended. And his manners were far superior to any Armstrong she’d met. His speech also was too fine for a borderer.

“You are not an Armstrong,” she said.

“How do you know?” His frustration and pain at suspecting, but not knowing, was carved in his face.

She reached over and touched her lips to his. His good arm went around her, clutching her to him almost desperately.

“I would have seen you. Or others here would have.”

She released his hand and touched his face, trying to smooth out all the new crevices, and ease some of the anguish and confusion she felt in him.

“Kimbra.” His voice was a caress. His breath was feather light on her forehead, the slight whisper of a kiss. Warmth spread through her, like a hot summer’s sun pooling golden rays on a lake.

He stroked the side of her neck in gentle movements. Her pulse quickened, and she trembled. She moved instinctively closer to him, the warmth turning molten.

The searing heat of their bodies radiated between them, melding them into one. His lips hungrily traced the lines of her cheek, then her neck, hesitating there. She lifted her face to his, wanting more of the feelings and sensations and emotions that shimmered between them.

Tremors shook her body. Careful not to hurt his bandaged shoulder, her arms went around him. Her heart thundered, and she heard his as well.

His lips left her mouth, moved to her ear, where he nibbled, his breath sending shivers of pleasure through her. His feathering kisses moved to her neck, to the pulse at her throat, and she lifted her head up, her eyes misting as she felt the tenderness in each caress. Yet his body shuddered with restraint, even as its rigidity radiated his need.

She was consumed with wanting and feeling, and anticipation made her writhe inside. She heard something like a purr coming from her throat, and his lips parted in a smile so wistful it hurt her.

He went to the door, pulled the bolt close. Then he took a few steps to the bed and sat, bringing her down with him.

She wanted him with a need that erased every warning in her head. He had been wounded only hours earlier, and his shoulder must be agonizingly painful, yet he seemed more concerned with her than with himself. But then it had always been thus, from the first day she had brought him to the cottage.

Someone might come.
The lock would prevent anyone from entering, but a locked door said much on its own.

If Cedric . . . or even the Charlton . . . ?

But surely there was no harm with lying next to him. Reveling in the fact he was alive!

He untied the laces of her dress, and suddenly she wore only her chemise. He pulled that off, wincing as he lifted his arm. The expression faded as his hands slipped up her body ever so slowly, exploring her back, her waist, and then her breasts.

He leaned down then, and his lips touched her nipple with exquisite lightness. Nothing could have been more seductive. His eyes blazed with the flames she felt, and the barely restrained passion was irresistible in its promise. She reached out and touched the corner of his mouth, then her fingers traced the strong, fine lines of his cheeks.

“It is not wise,” he said softly, obviously wanting to be persuaded that it was.

She hesitated, but she was lost in those eyes of his, in the steady hold of them. “Nay,” she agreed. “But I weary of being wise.”

He smiled at that, then winced as he moved slightly.

“You are in pain,” she said.

“’Tis not the pain from the wound that haunts me.”

“What does haunt you?”

He was silent for a moment. “Too many things, love.”

“The images?”

“Aye, and how much . . . I want you.”

“Is there ever a woman in those images?”

“Aye,” he said reluctantly.

Unwanted jealousy ripped through her. “What does she look like?”

“She is not as bonny as you,” he said. “She does not have that upturned nose and determined chin and wild dark hair.”

“Do you love her?”

“I felt something. Love? I do not know.”

“Then you must find her. You must leave this place and return to where you belong.” It hurt her to say the words, but her conscience demanded it.

“I belong with you.” He looked as surprised at his words as she felt hearing them.

“Nay, you belong somewhere else.”

He caught her finger that was still wandering about his cheek. “I feel as if I have always known you, that we were meant to be.”

“I am English. You are a Scot. I am a reiver’s wife. You are obviously of high rank. We were
not
meant to be,” she said.