Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (32 page)

Breaking off a bit of the seaweed, she tasted it. It was not likely to replace bread and honey as a daily staple, she decided, but starvation was an unwelcome alternative, so she ate some more, then draped handfuls of it over the nearby rocks to dry.

Not far away, she spied a glimmer of something that shone in the evening light. Hurrying to it, she bent to pick up a half shell from the silt. There in a small cove, the water lapped softly against the rocks. Beneath her bare feet, the stone felt smooth and soft. Following the flow of the water, she came to a tiny cave of sorts, barely large enough to crouch inside. She crept in, hoping to find some crustacean to make her supper, but there was nothing.

It was damp inside, with water condensed on the stone roof that dripped slowly down onto the rocky basin below. Thousands of years had worn a deep, smooth depression into the stone. Cupping her hands, she dipped them into the water and took a sip. It was then she noticed the rock was loose.

She knew the moment Liam awoke, sensed it in some untouchable part of her. Still crouched, she lifted a half-filled shell from the ground.

"How do you feel?"

"I don't feel anything."

"What?" Fear swamped her. She hadn't allowed him to move from the spot where she had originally dragged him, but maybe her precautions had been unnecessary, for maybe he
couldn't
move.

But at that moment, he shifted ever so slightly and added, "I don't hurt nearly as much as I should."

"Oh." She tried to hide her relief. There was no need to let him realize her worry. No reason to remind him how close the arrow had come to ending his life or at least to ending all movement. In truth, experience and anatomy told her that he should not have survived at all. She could only thank God that he had. "I'm an excellent healer," she said, and lifted the shell toward his lips. "Drink this."

He eyed it dubiously. "What is it?"

"Eye of newt."

He made a face and she laughed, for he was alive, and with him lived hope. "I jest," she said. "I fear I've been unable to find the proper newt thus far. Drink it. Tis something to aid in the mending."

Their gazes caught, his was somber and dark.

"How do I know you're not trying to drug me in an attempt to take advantage of me person?"

A shiver stole up her spine, stealing her breath. "Perhaps I am."

"Then I'll drink it."

She lifted the shell to his lips, and he drank, though not without a grimace for the bitter taste.

"I've never had to take such noxious stuff to be seduced before," he said.

"But you've never been seduced by the likes of me."

"Nay," he breathed, "I haven't."

Reaching out, she touched his hand. "Tell me you are mending."

"I am," he said. "Don't worry."

"Can you move your arm atall?"

"What's that aroma?"

He was trying to distract her, and she well knew it, but she let him, for doing otherwise might spoil their careful pretenses that all was well. "Soup," she said.

He raised his brows. "So you have finally moved me to the king's palace. I wondered when you would."

She smiled. There was a silent agreement between them. An unspoken pact that said for now they would speak of no evil. Instead, they would take what they had and be grateful for it.

"Nay," she said. "I brought the palace to us."

"Truly?"

"Aye." Rising to her feet, she stepped over him. It had not been a simple task to transport the weathered cave rock to their tiny shelter. Neither had it been easy to start a fire around it. But she had managed both, and now, in the worn depression of the rock, seaweed simmered with snails and sorrel. "I've prepared a feast."

Kneeling by the fire, she retrieved the dried gourd she'd found. Dipping it into the soup, she scooped a bit of broth into the shell and turned back toward him.

But when she did so, she saw his grimace of pain as he tried to turn over.

"Let me help you," she insisted, and rushed forward, but he didn't wait. Instead, gritting his teeth, he levered himself into a seated position.

It took him a moment to catch his breath, then, "Twill be a poor seduction if I cannot even sit up."

She felt like weeping for his pain, but sympathy rubbed against their careful game of make-believe. "Maybe I want you helpless," she said.

He leaned back, breathing hard from the exertion, and waiting a moment before he spoke again.

"And why would that be, lass?"

"My seductions haven't worked terribly well in the past. Maybe if you are helpless—"

"I have always been helpless where you're concerned."

She waited for the Liam of old to laugh, but he did not. The new Liam made her nervous. "Tis not true," she murmured, lowering her gaze.

He watched her in silence. "For one so wise, you know me little, Rachel," he said, and reached up with his hale hand to touch her cheek.

A thousand errant emotions sprang up in her. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to his, but in a moment she felt his hand tremble and carefully lowered it to his lap.

"Drink this," she urged and lifted the shell to his lips again.

He took a sip, raised his expressive brows at her, and sipped again, easily draining the shell.

"And here I thought all your greatest talent was tormenting me. I never guessed you could cook."

"I didn't make it." She hurried back to the fire and refilled the shell. "Cook prepared it. The servants set out the crookery..." She lifted the shell as she approached again. "And of course our royal cupbearer shall pour the wine." Reaching to her right, she lifted a hollowed chunk of wood from the earth. A few droplets of water lapped over the side.

"Ahhh." He sipped at the broth she offered again. "The privileges of traveling with the royal entourage. But what shall we do for entertainment?"

"I shall think of something," she said flippantly.

Liam's lips quirked slightly. "May I make a suggestion?" His tone was low and quiet.

Her heart thrummed heavily in her chest. "Suggestions are always welcome."

"There is that dance you performed in the village."

She felt suddenly warm and shy and lowered her eyes as she offered him more soup. "I have no music."

"You need no music."

The poetic silence of the woods surrounded them. She shifted her gaze to his, and wondered in poignant panic what would happen if they survived this place. Would he retreat into the irritating tormentor he had always been with her, or would his gaze still burn her when it touched on her face?

"Liam—"

"Nay," he interrupted. "Don't say it, Rachel. Please. All we have is now. Let us use it wisely."

She retreated into silence. They finished the soup together, and though it seemed inexplicable, it was both filling and satisfying.

"Twas a fine meal," Liam said, still leaning back against the slanted oak. "And now I be ready for me constitutional."

"You cannot even stand up," she reminded him.

"Then twill make what I have to do quite difficult."

She scowled at his words, but in a moment realization dawned. He had a call of nature. "Oh."

"Oh indeed."

"I shall... fetch a... vessel of sorts."

He quirked a brow at her. "A vessel?"

"To... you know."

"You jest." There was dry humor in his voice.

It did nothing to staunch her embarrassment. "You cannot move."

"Watch me," he said, and drew his feet up under him.

"Liam, you can't," she cried, rushing to his side.

"You're wrong," he argued, and easing carefully out from under his shelter, pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, he thought his legs would fail him, but he gritted his teeth, pressed his back to the tree trunk, and stood his ground. "See?" Even that single word was hard fought to produce. "Tis no great feat."

"Liam, sit down. Please." Rachel was grasping his arm as if he were no more substantial than a new born calf.

"I fear you don't understand, my lady," he said, trying to sound cavalier. Swooning would put a definite damper on that act. "I have need of a privy."

"Let me assist you."

"I am shocked," he exclaimed, but the words were horribly weak and the world seemed to be going black. He leaned his head back against the trunk of the oak, and in a moment the dimness passed. "Maybe you could help me a wee bit."

"Liam..."

"I cannot sit here forever. Saddle my royal steed. I am off to the hunt."

"Your steed is weary," she said, tugging at his arm, "and needs more time."

"More time?" Despite his efforts, he couldn't contain his seriousness. "You think me so foolish as to waste these moments with you, Rachel? Nay. I will have full use of my faculties."

Surprisingly, when he stepped forward, his legs actually moved. He lurched slightly as he did so, and Rachel clutched one arm as if he were as venerable as the trees about him. But still, he was moving, albeit at a snail's pace.

His foot caught on a root. He struggled to catch himself, and in that second, pain ripped through his chest. He gasped for breath and stability as colors swarmed in his head. But eventually the colors faded and he found himself still on his feet.

"Well..." His voice sounded as strained and raspy as an old man's. "Isn't this pleasant?" He found that he had somehow grasped her hand where it held his arm. He loosened his claw-fingered hold and prayed for some semblance of pride. Had she not done enough to save his worthless hide?

Lifting his hand, he patted her fingers. "How lovely to be out for a stroll with a bonny maid like you."

"Are you well?" she murmured, her gaze searing his face.

"Well?" With every bit of self-control at his disposal, he forced himself to take another step. It jarred his ribs and ripped at his lungs. "Well, is a relative term, my dear." Another step creaked out of his limited resources. "Why, in my younger days I could—" His foot caught again, jarring his insides like so many sacks of loose grain. But he was getting accustomed to the pain. "I could stand up all by myself, I could."

"Could you now?" She was trying to pitch her voice up higher, to play along, but her grip on his arm spoke of her tension.

"Aye. I was quite the stallion." He took a few more hard-won steps then leaned warily against a towering elm as he tried to slow the crashing beat of his heart. "Still am, in fact." If he didn't fall right off his feet it would be a splintering miracle. "But for just now, I think I may have... ventured far enough." And his bladder was about to explode. He managed to bring his hands to his laces.

"Let me help you with that," she said, still gripping one of his arms.

"Jesus, Rachel!" he rasped. "Give me some pride, will you!"

"I only—"

"Go stand..." He motioned behind him with short jerks of his head, being careful lest he rip something loose in his chest. "Over there."

"Truly, Liam, I have seen your—"

"Then you know how astounding it is," he said irritably. "And since I've no wish to see you faint just now, you'd best move aside."

She released his arm slowly and finally strode away.

Liam's hands shook as he untied his laces. They were bound tight from being soaked and stretched, and for one panicked moment he thought he would disgrace himself, but finally his fingers did his bidding, and he gratefully emptied his bladder.

Tying his laces proved to be no simpler, but he managed. Turning about was nearly impossible.

Nevertheless, he did so without losing consciousness. Even a few tottering, independent steps were accomplished.

"You might consider assisting me now before I fall on me face," he said, barely daring to glance toward where Rachel waited.

"I had no wish to rush you," she said, striding back to his side.

"I am quite finished. But twas no mean task." He shuffled along a few careful steps. "Most men don't have such troubles, you know."

"I am surprised you can walk atall, what with the gargantuan weight of the thing."

He jolted to a halt. "God's balls, Rachel, what has come over you?" he rasped.

"I think it may be the Roms," she said, taking his arm.

He sighed, but despite everything, his martyred act included, he could not stop the rise of his desire. "Your father will have me drawn and quartered if he hears you talk like that."

"I had not planned to proposition him."

"Is that what you're doing to me?" he asked, his ribs feeling, quite suddenly, too small for his heart.

"I thought I'd give you a bit of time to heal first." Her hand was warm against his arm, but she didn't turn to look at him.

"Holy Christmas," he said, straightening with painful effort to place his hand dramatically over his heart. "I am healed."

Her laughter was silvery sweet. It tugged at his soul, and for a moment, as he stared into her angel eyes, he could not speak, for they had not changed since the first moment he had seen her. They were just as brilliant, just as mesmerizing, and the sight of them brought back a thousand vintage memories. Rachel with her cousins, with the sick, with him...quietly tormenting him with her distance.

He could not let her die. He could not.

"Rachel..."

"Shh," she said and raising a finger to his lips, refused to let him speak. "It has all been said already, Liam," she murmured. "This is where I stay."

Warwick was not mentioned, nor pain, nor the possibility of never seeing their loved ones again. Instead, they settled in beside the fire. Night was coming on and its warm crackle felt kind and homey. Rachel covered him with his cape.

"I must go check my nets," Rachel said, straightening on her knees.

"And leave me here alone when I am in such pain?" Liam asked.

"I thought you were healed."

"That was when I thought it advantageous to be so," he said. "Now I see that you were only toying with me, and have no intention of propositioning me atall."

Their gazes met. Silence as warm as the fire stretched between them.

"Come lie with me," he urged.

She did, and although that fact still seemed the most miraculous of events, it also seemed so right. Her weight against his hale arm should have sent spasms of pain through his tattered chest, but instead it only thrummed a soft blur of pleasure through him. Never before had anything felt so perfect. They fell asleep together, with their bodies close and their minds in synch.