Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (9 page)

"Marry! Marry! How can you speak of marriage when you..." He motioned wildly toward the ground upon which they had rolled only minutes before. "When you feel for me what you do?"

She smiled at him with the careful benevolence of an angel. The Lady Saint. Twas a nomenclature that had kept her apart from the general populace for years. "When I feel what
I
do.

Twas
you
who said you loved
me,
Liam."

"Any bloody bastard could tell you that. It hardly means you should—"

"So you admit it, then?"

"What?"

"You admit that you said you love me?"

He tried to form a word. It didn't come. She forced a laugh and hoped it sounded frivolous.

"You are right, I suppose. I should not succumb to every lad who whispers sweet nothings."

"Every..."

"But they always seem so earnest and so besotted."

"Always?"

"And I will be wed soon." She shrugged. "Tis my last chance to sample the fare."

"Sample the fare!" He grabbed her arms, his hands like talons. "Are you saying others have seen you like this? That you have given yourself to—" He sputtered to a halt, breathing hard. "Nay."

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "You are not that sort."

"Not what sort?" she whispered innocently.

He stared at her. A tremor passed through him, shaking her with its violence. "Bloody hell, Rachel! Cover yourself," he ordered. But there was nothing to cover herself with. So he whipped the cape from about his own hips and swirled it around her back.

The frigid wind from the garment caused goose bumps to rise on her arms and her nipples to pucker like budding roses. But she paid them no mind.

Liam, however, seemed momentarily transfixed, before he plucked the cape together, hiding her nipples and her breasts and Dragonheart all in one fell swoop.

"What sort of woman am I not?" she asked again. "Like the sort of woman in the village?"

He remained silent for a moment, watching her face from inches away.

"That's right," he said. "You're not that sort atall."

Nay. Not the sort who would truly attract him. Oh, yes, he had lost his head for a moment.

Maybe it was the horror of being so close to death that had made him think that even
she
would be preferable to being alone. He had changed his mind quickly enough.

Twas not so for her. Never had she felt her own needs with such consuming ferocity. Always, in the past, she had worried for the needs of others, her clan, her family, her country. Twas how she was raised to be.

But there was no one here to judge her actions, to weigh her against her mother's perfection or her cousins' beauty or her father's courage. To judge her as they had judged her from birth. She had only her own life to care for now.

There was a certain freedom in that. Enough freedom so she could let the cape fall open as she stepped toward the fire. A glimpse of leg showed, and a curve of breast. She reached her hands toward the warmth of the flame.

"I think it's time you explained why you attacked my guard, Liam."

He had snatched his tunic from the floor and wrapped it about his bare hips. "I did not attack your guards," he said, and offered no more for a moment.

"Truly? He certainly looked like Davin to me."

Liam turned his dark gaze on her and snorted. "And there are those who say you have the gift."

"I know my guards, Liam. They saw me safely from London, and they saw me safely aboard the ferry."

"You're thinking with your head, Rachel."

"Some of us do," she said, skimming her gaze to his nether regions and back.

He gritted his teeth, "Think with your soul!" he growled. "Did you not feel the evil?"

Goose bumps again, spreading beneath the cape. But they were not goose bumps from the cold now, but from the emotions his words conjured up. For a moment, she almost believed him. But the truth was, he had told a thousand wild stories in the past. And in the past she had believed him and regretted it.

"So tell me, Liam, whose angry husband is after you this time?"

She watched his jaw clench. "Tis no angry husband."

"Truly? Who then?"

He stared at her for one taut moment then finally shrugged. Mayhap he tried to make the expression look casual, but she could see the tension in the set of his bare shoulders. '"Tis no one to concern yourself with, your ladyship. Just a crazed wizard who lusts for immortality and my head on a spit."

She laughed, though the goose bumps were so crisp now that they hurt. "A wizard?"

"Not just a wizard." His gaze was level and deadly serious.
"The
wizard."

The night went silent.

Rachel longed to believe she didn't know who he meant. But there was no hope of that. Fear crept with chilly fingers up her spine. "Warwick is dead," she whispered.

Liam's jaw clenched. "Not dead enough," he countered.

Liam sat in silent thought, watching Rachel. Despite everything, the still damp clothes she'd insisted on wearing, the terror of their position, the rock-hard floor of the cave, she slept.

As for himself, he sat awake and stared at her.

Ragged uncertainties chased around and around in his head. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was insane. After all, what Rachel said was true; Warwick was dead.

Warwick, the ancient wizard who had nearly destroyed Sara in his quest to take Dragonheart from her. Warwick, who had almost killed Shona when she had worn the amulet. Warwick, who had plunged into a blazing inferno in an attempt to retrieve the dragon.

Liam himself had seen the wizard disappear into the fire. Liam himself had made certain Warwick had not come out.

And yet...

He couldn't have been mistaken about the feelings that had overwhelmed him on the ferry. He'd felt the dark wizard's evil aura enough times to distinguish it. Those past experiences had felt just as it had on the river.

All had seemed well. But suddenly it had been as if a dark cloud was blown from his mind, and he had recognized the evil, just as he had recognized the source. It had emanated from Davin—one of Warwick's men.

Terror had caught Liam in a grip of steel. For one terrified instant, he had wanted nothing more than to throw himself from the ferry and die rather than fall into Warwick's hands. But then he had glanced at Rachel...

Liam scooped his fingers through his hair in aching frustration. Maybe he
should
have leapt from the boat. He was no warrior. Hardly that. He was a thief, a magician, an acrobat. Not someone to impress the likes of her.

A fat lot of good he'd done her thus far. She'd nearly been killed. Indeed, twas beyond miraculous that they'd survived the falls.

And now she thought him insane. Glancing at her sleeping form, he snorted.

He wasn't the one who was insane. She was. What the hell had she been thinking—kissing him like that? She was...

His hands began to sweat. He curled them into fists and tried to breathe normally. She was not for him. She was not, and she knew it.

True, long ago in her innocence, she hadn't understood the ways of the world, had not known that a wealthy laird's beloved daughter could never belong to a bastard.

Liam remembered that now. Remembered how she had come to him in naught but her night rail, her gossamer hair loose, her eyes uncertain. Aye, he remembered it all, her scent, her shyness, her mind-numbing declaration of love.

But he had never been afforded the luxury of naivete. He knew then the consequences of touching a laird's daughter just as he did now. Still, even knowing the consequences, only a bastard or a hero could have turned her away, and he was no hero.

Aye. She had been innocent and sweet once. But no more. Now she was...

What? What was she? She'd all but begged him to take her. Rachel, the Lady Saint! Why would she do that unless she cared for him. Maybe— But no. He was acting the fool. She'd implied that she'd offered herself to others. Indeed, she'd implied more than that.

Liam tightened his fists and struggled for control. But it was no use. He was exhausted.

Exhausted from terror and travel and years without her.

God yes, he wanted her in his bed. Had always wanted that. And why would he not? She was everything he could never have—breeding, refinement, goodness. But he had controlled himself. And why? Certainly not because she deserved someone better.

Nay, twas not that at all. Twas simply because he had no wish to die at the hands of her outraged father. True, Laird Leith had been kind to him in the past, but there was a great chasm of difference between the flicker of pity he felt for a homeless bastard and the enduring love he felt for his only daughter. If Leith thought an Irish bastard had compromised his lass in any way, the laird would have that Irishman leisurely dismembered and fed to the crows. Of that much Liam was certain.

Still, she had seemed, for a moment, to want him.

But apparently she had wanted others. Had taken them to her bed. Had let them touch her satin skin and... The thoughts stormed through Liam's system like potent wine. He jerked himself to his feet, prepared to shake her awake, to interrogate her. But once he squatted beside her, he stopped all movement.

She was lying on her side, facing the door of the cave. Dawn was just breaking in the world outside, and the first glimmer of morn shone on her.

Her gown was torn and filthy. Her hair, usually pulled up and hidden beneath some ornate coif, lay dark as silt, tangled and twisted behind her. Her feet were bare and the back of one hand had been scraped raw. The great lady brought low, he told himself. But even as he thought it, his gaze skimmed her alabaster skin, her downy lashes, her devilish raspberry lips, slightly parted as she breathed between them. And suddenly he knew that nothing would bring her to his level.

No matter what she had done, no matter if she had lain with a hundred men, she was still not for the likes of him.

Scowling, he prepared to rise, but in that moment, she awoke.

"Where..." She propped herself on an elbow without a second's notice, her eyes as wide and eerie as Loch Ness. Then she drew a shuddering breath and let her gaze skim the narrow walls of their shelter. "I remember."

He watched her, watched the fear, the fortitude, and suddenly was tempted almost beyond control to take her into his arms and promise her all would be well.

He squelched those foolish emotions with tight resolve and rose to his feet. He would not play the fool for her again. He would be clever and reserved, just as she was.

"There'll be no breakfast in bed this morn, lass." She rose slowly to her feet. "You mean to say you've failed to secure me a meal?"

It was that haughty tone that always made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Never mind that the curve of her sulky bottom lip drew him in like a trout on a hook. "I'm not your manservant," he reminded her.

"I've noticed," she said, and turned away.

"Not everyone can be as well-endowed as I."

There was absolute silence for a moment. So he had shocked her. Good.

"Actually," she said, her tone cool as morning dew, "my manservant is hung like a horse. But he's not so rude."

"You've seen him naked?" Liam rasped.

She didn't turn toward him.

He strode across the cave, seized her arm, and swung her toward him. "You've seen him?" he growled. But he realized suddenly that her face was flushed with a color that had nothing to do with the rising sun. Flushed with the embarrassment of innocence.

He calmed himself with an effort.

"You've not been with a man," he said softly.

She didn't respond.

"Admit it, Rachel."

"Tis not true," she said, but her face was even brighter.

He made no effort to stop his laughter.

She raised her chin in that way he remembered from a hundred times before. "I would condemn you for your rudeness, Liam," she said stiffly. "But I suppose tis caused by naught but your unrequited love for me."

He prepared to snarl back a rejoinder, but she was already sweeping past him, the hem of her gown caught in one hand as if she were a princess on her way to an audience with the king.

"Come along," she said. "I've no time to wait for you." But when she stepped into the rain-drenched woods, she stopped. He watched her turn in the direction of the river.

Liam tightened his fists, ready to beg her not to return to her guards, but in a moment, she turned and strode off along the face of the cliff.

"Stop," Liam said, and reached for Rachel's arm.

"What is it?" She turned toward him. Her face was taut with fatigue and a pink line marred her cheek where a thorn had scratched her, but her expression looked no less haughty than it had three hours before.

"You cannot walk forever like this. Sit down."

"I've no time to spare."

"Sit down," he repeated. "I'll fashion you some shoes."

"I've been barefoot before," she said, but he'd had too many hours to think of her with other men to leave him with any patience. Thumping her on the shoulder, he knocked her onto the log behind her.

She sat with a muffled groan, and he wondered if she were, perhaps, as achy and tired as he.

Where the hell was she going in such a hurry?

But asking her would do little good. He knew her well enough to realize that.

"So you finally believe me," he said, kneeling down to lift one narrow foot onto his knee. It was small and fragile, the arch as delicate as a sparrow's wing.

"I do not believe you," she countered, glaring at his hands.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about." He tried to work up some righteous anger. After all, he had saved her life. But even her ankle distracted him. It was gently curved and impossibly narrow, sweeping up to the devilishly soft curve of her calf.

"It matters little," she said. "I disbelieve
everything
you say."

He wrenched his gaze from her-mesmerizing leg. "You believe it was the wizard who was waiting at the shore. Else you would be heading back to the river instead of traveling north."