Emerald Embrace (22 page)

“No,” he said simply.

She inhaled and exhaled, feeling him there, feeling him with heart and soul, feeling as if she lay naked before him in all things.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” she managed to whisper. And his hands ceased their movement and his eyes seemed to impale hers.

“I have never murdered, that I swear to you, Martise. And now I’m telling you, you’ve got to trust me.”

“How can I?”

“You must.”

“But someone was down there—”

“Aye, someone was down there.”

“But—”

“You were down there, girl. And you’ve still not answered me about why—and where you came from.” His voice was soft, subtle, insinuating. She trembled, and knew that he felt the shivers in her body, and she wondered if he thought that she was afraid.

Or filled with longing.

She moistened her lips. “Who is in the coffin?”

“Forget the coffin.”

“But—”

“For the love of God, trust me, Martise!”

“I’ll trust you,” she said swiftly. “I’ll not say a thing, I swear it. But someone will know something. Someone attacked me tonight. Unless …”

“Unless?” he inquired.

“Unless it was you,” she said.

He was silent for a moment, studying her.

“Nay, girl, I did not hit you,” he said at last. And for a moment, the hardness, the arrogance, the ruthlessness, were gone. He leaned down her, and his lips found hers, formed over them completely, hot and open-mouthed. And his tongue invaded her, raped and ravaged, and she found herself enfolded in his arms. His hands moved rapidly, hungrily, over the length of her body, exploring swells and curves, lingering over the rise of her breasts.

Then she was up, up in his arms, and her lips were still fused with his. His fingers were within her laces, touching flesh, bare flesh, caressing and discovering the fullness of her breasts, teasing and rubbing her nipples to hardening peaks. Then his lips moved from hers, and ravaged the length of her throat, and paused there, in the dishevelment of her clothing.

His mouth pressed tightly, erotically, over her breast, and she felt the fullness of the pink tip taken into his mouth, and played with there, his tongue circling it again and again until the suction upon it became hard and caused a hot streak of fire to shoot straight to her loins.

She cried out with the shocking fullness of the sensation, with the longing and desire it created. She wanted him. Wanted … this. Wanted it to go on and on.

But then his dark head rose above her, studying the abundance of her body, and she cried out in distress, and the words were not really those she should have uttered, but they were filled with the truth of her emotion. “No, no, not here!” Her head tossed upon the pillow, sending her hair cascading about as her blue eyes watered. “Not in Mary’s bed!”

She might have splashed icy water into his face. His features hardened as his eyes grew cold and narrowed sharply and then he was on his feet.

“Not here, not anywhere!” he snapped ruggedly. “You’re getting out of here. Do you ken, girl, you’re going to leave!”

And with that, he slammed his way out of her room. Martise bit her lip, leapt up to bolt the doors, then pitched back into her bed.

    There was no mention in the morning that she should leave, nor did anyone seem to be behaving in the least suspicious manner.

If Bruce hadn’t struck her, who had? She might have tried to pretend that her panic in the crypt had swept her senses away, except that beneath a fringe of her hair, she was still wearing a big bruise. I might have fallen, she thought. I might have fallen and struck one of the slabs.

Except that she had not.

Bruce was not in the castle during the day. The next day, nearing the feast of All Hallows’ Eve, would be the games. Bruce was out practicing with the caber, Elaina told her. Together, they planned their outfits for the event. Martise would wear Mary’s colors, she decided. Creeghan colors. There was a beautiful ruffled blouse and a long wool skirt, matching shawl, and bright green tam.

On the day of the games, she donned them all. She left her hair loose, cascading around her shoulders.

There was a knock on her door. She answered it, and was startled to find Bruce there. She backed away, a bit in awe, because he was, indeed, the Highland laird that day. He was kilted, rather than wearing a kilt, she knew, because Peter had explained the wearing of the colors to her. He was in full regalia, from his deep green jacket and balmoral to the dress sporan that hung low from his hips. The outfit became him well, as it should the laird, she thought.

With his startling eyes and dark hair and muscular structure, he seemed the fierce warrior of ages past. She shivered slightly, remembering the feel of his arms and the brush of his chest. His shoulders seemed even broader today, and his legs were hard as young oaks, lean but tautly muscled and rounded from constant use.

She realized then that his eyes were likewise studying her.

“Our colors become you, milady,” he told her quietly.

“Thank you.”

He offered her his arm and Martise accepted it, trying not to tremble beneath his touch. She lowered her eyes, unable to forget their last meeting. It seemed that each encounter became more intimate. Or that she still dreamed: of a man, of a beast, of a dragon, breathing fire, fire over her naked flesh as he came to claim her with his kiss.

He escorted her down to the great hall where the others were waiting, Ian and Conar and Peter and Elaina. Ian whistled sharply and Elaina clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, ’tis perfect, Martise, indeed it is!”

“Shall we go?” Peter suggested. He was carrying his bagpipes, a beautiful set, his own colors covering the skin bag. They came outside, and Bruce helped Martise to mount Desdemona. Their eyes met as she adjusted herself to her seat.

“Does this mean, milord,” she asked softly, “that I am to stay?”

His gaze narrowed. She bit her lip, realizing that she had spoken in a taunting fashion, and that he was not a man to taunt.

“The games will be over soon,” he replied. And then he added, “You stay at your own risk.”

She did not know what it was he implied that she risked, but she knew she should be afraid.

Yet she forgot her fear during the day, for she had never had so much fun. When they reached the village, the festivities were already in full swing. The sounds of pipes, strident, wistful, sad, beautiful, resounded from the cliffs. Every man and woman and child sported some piece of their colors. Booths were set up with all kinds of delicacies, pastries, and meat pies, and the Scottish dish, haggis, which Martise could not help but avoid once Elaina cheerfully told her that it was made from sheep bellies.

Bruce and the men soon disappeared, joining in with the others who drank dark ale and bet on horse races. Elaina took Martise in tow, locking arms with her as they strolled along the paths between the booths. They watched the girls’ competition for the dancing, and then the boys’, listening to the flutes and bagpipes as they did. Peter, up on a dais, winked down to them and then played a sad lament. There was thunderous applause, and the older man was awarded a medal for his playing. Elaina and Martise both kissed his cheeks in congratulation, and they wandered on, sampling cider and more pastries. Then Elaina murmured it was time for the caber throw, and they hurried to watch the spectacle.

Martise wondered how such a game had come about as she watched the first player. He was a stocky, muscular fellow who wore the colors of a Cameron. The caber, or pole, was huge, and Martise wondered how he could balance the rod, much less toss it. But with a startling force and power, the man did it. The distance was measured, and the next contestant stepped forward.

Ian and Conar played, and Martise clapped especially hard when Conar took the farthest record. Then he was back by them, grinning. “I think I’ll take a medal at the least,” he said.

Martise’s eyes were wide. “You should take the grand prize,” she said.

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Nay, lassie, ye’ve not seen Bruce up there yet. ’Tis inbred in the Creeghan heir, I do believe. Wait. Watch.”

“But you were wonderful.”

“Watch,” he warned her. “Bruce is coming now.”

The great laird of Creeghan, his plaid wrapped low about his hips, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, stepped forward for his throw. There was, Martise thought, a certain magic about him. A magic like the cliffs and hills today, all dressed in white and purple heather, the sky so blue, the rock so gray and shimmering, the grass so incredibly green.

Bruce handled the caber almost tenderly. Like a child. And when he tossed the massive log, it seemed to fly.

Indisputably, his went the farthest. Martise didn’t need to hear the numbers called to know it was so. There was wild cheering and applause, and while they waited for the awards to be called, Ian told Martise with a wry smile that winning didn’t matter. “The prize is so much lamb and mutton, and we turn it back over to the village every year anyway. Conar’s medal is worth more.”

Conar shrugged and Ian laughed. “And me, I’ve earned a sore shoulder. And I’m ready for supper. Ah, here comes our laird and master, without whom we dare not dine!”

His words were somewhat bitter, but his smile remained, and he easily clapped Bruce upon the shoulder and congratulated him as he approached. “And well done, me fine Laird Creeghan! We shall hold sway for another year now. Shall we move on for some tender spitted lamb?”

“Thank you, cousin, and aye,” Bruce said. His eyes had found Martise’s quickly. “Come, then,” he said, and offered her his arm.

Darkness was falling, and yet the village was alight with burning tapers. In a clearing before the cliff, several spitted lambs cooked slowly over open flames, and there were huge black pots of late vegetables, simmering fragrantly. Bruce had just taken her to make a plate when a cry went up, and a young blond girl rushed forward with a crown of flowers in her hand. She laughed and leapt up and placed them atop Bruce’s head, and kissed his cheek and cried out, “’Tis our laird of Creeghan, and King of All Hallows’ Eve!” And then she turned to Martise, placing a second crown upon her head. “Queen, milady! Be our queen this eve, and forever the spirits will watch over ye!”

Before Martise could protest, the girl had disappeared, and wild cheers were going up again. Someone struck up a fiddle, and then a lute joined in, and she found herself turned into Bruce’s arms.

“Queen, milady?” he murmured. “They’ve honored you. And as my queen, I fear that you are expected to dance with me to open the evening celebration.”

She didn’t say anything and prayed he didn’t mean a Highland dance, but she needn’t have feared. She was swept into his arms and led along, and it was very much as if she were back home, enjoying a Virginia reel. Suddenly people were all around them, dancing and laughing beneath the stars. And the moon was out, not quite full, beautiful and benign. Bruce smiled at her, and she was breathless and found herself smiling in return.

“You’re a beautiful queen, lass.”

“Thank you. And you’re a handsome king. But then, you are always the king, are you not? Laird of Creeghan … the king in truth, as far as it matters to these people?”

He arched a brow. “Aye. Perhaps. But the queen,” he said, his voice low and mischievous, “is usually a sweet and virginal young maiden.”

“To appease the dragon, the beast?”

“So I am a beast?”

“We are discussing custom and legend, so I thought.”

“All right,” he said lightly. “Then a maiden, pure and innocent, given to appease the dragon, the beast, the laird, however you would have it. But a widow … this is quite different.”

“A widow?”

“You, milady.”

“Oh, of course!” she said quickly. “Well, times do change,” she said sweetly.

“Alas, that they do,” he said.

But he was smiling, and she knew that he taunted her, and it felt delicious just to be in his arms, and to enjoy the moon and stars and the coolness of the night and the delicious smell of the roasting meat. She tossed her head and lifted her chin. “Then thank heavens that I am a widow. Perhaps this ferocious beast needs to be slapped hard in the nose rather than appeased.”

“Ah … and do you think you’re the one to do such a deed? A dragon slayer, then, milady?”

“I’ve not come to slay the dragon—”

“Merely tame it?” he suggested.

She flushed and he laughed, the sound deep and melodious, truly wicked. He swirled her in his arms and warned her with a soft whisper, “Creeghan dragons are not to be tamed, milady. They remain forever ferocious and terrible, and the strong of heart can merely learn at best to keep upwind of their fire.”

“That seems to be because they keep acquiring sweet innocent maidens,” she replied, undaunted, chin raised impudently, eyes sparkling.

He laughed again, and they whirled around. Finally, he danced her from the center of the clearing to a long trestle table where two high-backed chairs had been prepared for them so they could sit at the head like a true king and queen while their subjects arrayed themselves around. Plates were set before them, heaped high with food, and wine-colored chalices decorated with ribbons and lace and late flowers were brought to them, filled to the brim with home-brewed ale.

Bruce toasted Martise, and she sipped her ale and found it heady and strong. As she swallowed the delicious, potent brew, she felt the searing heat of his eyes upon her, and did not care. It was fun to be here tonight, exhilarating to be at his side, to tease and laugh, and feel his arms.

In the safety of all of these people around her.

The night went on. There was more food and more dancing, and Martise was claimed by Ian and Conar, and even a few of the lads from the village. Bruce dutifully danced with all the young maidens who would not be queen this year. And she danced with Dr. MacTeague, and even Father Martin, and chose to take young Michael Cunningham as a partner, and then his father, Henry, too. Even Peggy seemed happy that night, although her eyes remained haunted. Clarissa had never returned.

Acrobats leapt and jumped about, and a trained bear danced. Young men practiced swordplay and wrestling. And there was more ale and more dancing, and Bruce whispered to her that she moved exceptionally well for an outlander, and she cast her head back, feeling the ale, smiling mischievously. “The dance is very much like the dancing back ho—in America!” she corrected herself quickly.