Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (20 page)

The archer yelled again. Another arrow flew. With one silent prayer, Roderic propelled himself from the thatch and into the air. Darkness swelled around him. The earth was solid beneath his feet. There was no time to delay.

Ahead the door to the hall waited. It was the last place they would search for him. It creaked open beneath his hand. He drew a deep, steadying breath and slowed his pace.

A man near the dead fire sat up. Roderic could barely make out his dark form in the single, flickering light of the wall sconce. "Did someone yell?” he mumbled. “I thought I heard something."

"A wildcat tried ta dine on our geese." Yawning, Roderic walked into the hall. "He'll na try it again, but it will take the cooks half the day ta roast the stringy bastard."

"Aye," sighed the man, then, wriggling about in the scattered reeds, he lay back down. "’Tis too bad deer dunna long fer goose. 'Tis venison I prefer."

Without halting, Roderic strode through the far door. Once out of sight, he was running again. Down the dark passage. Up the stairs and through an open window. The tartans he had left hanging from the tower roof groaned beneath his weight. Perched atop the castle finally, Roderic's fingers felt numb with tension as he untied the woolens and tossed them inside. Balancing the lead ceiling tile atop his back, he launched himself onto the mattress below, but he had left the chair atop the table when scrambling from the tower.

How he managed to hit all the furniture and Bonny, too, Roderic would never know. The hound yelped, the chair clattered to its side, and the table skittered from the mattress and onto the floor.

In less than a moment, the door burst open.

Bullock stood bleary-eyed in the entrance, holding a torch high and blinking. "What the devil is going on, Forbes?"

"Dear Gawd!" gasped Roderic, letting his eyes go wide. "Me thinks I attacked Bonny with the chair."

Behind Bullock, Gilbert hurried forward, looking little more rested than his partner.

"What's the ruckus about?"

"Attacked the hound with the chair?" asked Bullock, shaking his head. "Have ye taken leave of yer senses, man?"

Roderic managed a chagrined expression. Luckily, his versatile plaids had fallen on the far side of the mattress. They could not be seen from the guards' vantage point. He hoped. "'Tis sorry I be ta disturb ye, lads," he said now. "'Tis me awful dreams!" Swinging his feet to the floor, he called to the hound. She wagged her tail and advanced cautiously. "’Tis a terrible thing to molest me only friend in the world," Roderic said, setting his hands to Bonny's head. "Ahhh," he sighed, looking mournful and hoping against hope that they would not, in their drowsy condition, question why the table, too, had been moved. "I am only grateful that I did my self na real harm."

"Harm?" Bullock looked all but ready to fall over from fatigue. It must have, indeed, been a wearying search they had performed by the burn.

"Dunna concern yerselves, lads. 'Tis fine I be. And so long as I be unhurt, Leith willna seek vengeance. After all…" He grinned. "…abduction be a time-honored tradition for us Scots. Why, I recall once when I was only ten… Or was I nine? I forget now, 'twas so long ago. In fact, it might be that I had only seen eight summers for Frances had just arrived. Ahh, Frances. I remember him fondly. He was—"

"Go ta sleep, Forbes," ordered Bullock, turning away.

"And try na ta kill yerself," mumbled Gilbert, following him.

Darkness settled in. Roderic drew a deep, steadying breath and reached to the far side of the bed to shove his blankets and stolen cap beneath his pallet. His lungs felt as if they would burst from exertion. Who had been in the bailey? Had they recognized him? Would they yet come? He forced himself to lie down.

"Is he safe?"

Roderic heard Flanna's gasped words from the far side of the door, but forced himself to remain as he was.

"Who?" Bullock's question was groggy.

"Forbes!" she snapped. "Is he there?"

"Of course, me lady."

"Let me see."

"We only just checked him."

"Open the door!"

"Aye, me lady."

Sitting up, Roderic blinked into the torchlight. She was dressed in nothing more than her nightgown. It was voluminous and billowing, and yet it seemed he could see every curve of her body.

"Flanna…" He couldn't stop her name from coming to his lips. "Ye shouldna appear such before the likes of..." He managed a hard-won grin. "Us."

"What happened to the furniture?"

Roderic blinked at her, gathering his wits with all due speed. "’Tis an embarrassing tale, lass."

"Why?" Her tone was sharp, her face pale, and her hair a wild mass of flaming curls.

"'Tis bad dreams I have, lass. They make me act—"

"When did ye move them?" she interrupted.

He rose to his feet. Only the great length of his shirt kept him from complete nakedness. "Has something alarmed ye, lass?" he asked softly, approaching.

"When did ye move the table, Forbes?" she breathed.

He shrugged, trying to look confused. "I dunna remember, lady. It must have been done during me sleep. 'Tis true. Ye can ask Bullock there. I be a fitful sleeper at best."

Although she didn't turn toward the guards, Bullock spoke up. "He has startled us in the past, lady."

"And ye checked on him?"

"Aye."

"And he has always been here?"

Both guards looked immediately confused. "But of course, me lady. Where else?"

Lifting her torch slightly higher, Flame scrutinized the walls of the enclosure before skimming her gaze to the ceiling. He saw her attention rivet there and held his breath. Foolishly, he noticed that her throat was very slim and smooth as she stared upward.

But in a moment, her attention turned back to him. "Why?" Her tone was husky and very quiet.

"Yer pardon, me lady," Roderic said, forcing himself to breathe. "I dunna ken what ye—"

"Yer words by the burn," she whispered. "Ye've never seen my hair in the firelight. Unless it be by
my
fire in
my
chambers."

He shrugged. Gawd she was beautiful beyond words. She was clever and resourceful and she needed him, though she did not know it yet. "I fear I still dunna ken—"

"Take out the table," she ordered suddenly. "And the chair."

Chapter 13

“
He
had had the bitch in his hand. How it galled him to fawn over her, to pretend she was truly a leader, that she had the right to that position. For years he had carefully schemed, and he had been so close to victory. Close enough to taste her blood. But the bastard Forbes had moved just in time to take the arrow in his arm. He had planned it so perfectly. She would not have died immediately. Indeed, she was to remain alive until he lifted her head from her body. And Forbes was to watch
—
and die later, by her arrow.

But his plans would yet pay off. Forbes was becoming increasingly infatuated with the bitch. He was taking greater and greater risks. Soon he would go too far, and some MacGowan warrior would take offense at his liberties, for they treated the bitch as if she were a sacred goddess instead of the whore she was. Just as every woman was a whore.

Soon, very soon, she would die. The MacGowans would accuse Forbes and tear him to shreds. After that, blood would spill in earnest
—
both Forbeses' and MacGowans', and he would be there to pick through the bones.

The morning crowd in the hall was noisy and restive as they discussed the events of the previous night. Everyone knew someone or something had been seen clinging to the stone wall of the keep. Old Alexander, who had been wandering outside to answer a call of nature, swore he had seen an unidentified man running across the roof, and had shot arrows at him. Roderic gazed about, keeping his expression innocent.

He had been busy this morning, cautiously questioning his guards and others in an attempt to formulate some guess about who might have attacked them by the bum. Thinking he could perhaps learn something from the arrow Marjory had taken from his arm, he had asked the maidservant to have a look at the bloodied weapon. But it was already gone, tossed from the window into the river. Her cheek sported a purplish bruise that she had said was caused by a fall in the dark. He supposed her restless night was the reason for her distraction. Nevin should take better care of his lady, Roderic thought, and wished with all his heart that he had the opportunity to take his own advice.

He turned his gaze to Flanna, where she sat near the center of the room. She was safe, he assured himself. Bullock was with her, and though he was hot-tempered, he was loyal and stalwart. Wasn't he? God's wrath, he could trust no one and should be beside her himself even now.

In fact... He rose smoothly, unable to stay away.

"Now I understand why you came to the tower last night," he said. "I heard of the disturbance."

She turned slowly toward him, striking him with her jewel-bright gaze. "'Twas nothing to concern yourself with, Forbes."

Truly, she took his breath away. "'Tis na what I heard, Flanna," he murmured. "They say someone may have been attempting to reach yer chambers."

She let the silence stretch between them as she studied him. "'Twas most probably only vermin of some sort."

Did she know it had been he? Had she felt his gaze on her? Did she think of him standing there, watching her in the dark of the night?

She rose abruptly, pushing her heavy chair from the table.

"Where are ye going?" he asked.

Again she smote him with her eyes, but in a moment she turned silently away.

Without hesitation, he strode after her, and she stopped at the door to turn and look at him once more. "Where do ye think ye're going?"

He smiled down into her face. "With ye."

She smiled back. "Nay."

He shrugged, hoping to look disarmingly charming, or at least, harmless. "I am yer guest. 'Twould be a sin ta mistreat me."

"And how would it be to get ye killed by my own carelessness?" she asked abruptly.

Her expression was suddenly sober. Roderic drew a deep breath and sternly forbade himself to touch her. "Na so bad as getting yerself kilt, lass."

He heard her sharp inhalation and wondered what it meant. But in a moment she was her usual self again— controlled, cool. "Bullock," she said, looking past him. “I will be on the green. Make certain Forbes stays safely within the walls of Dun Ard." She turned to go, but Roderic reached out and grasped her elbow in an unplanned movement.

She glanced at his hand, then at his face, and slowly raised her brows.

"Ye willna go without me, lass," he warned.

"Indeed?" Her tone was haughty.

"Indeed."

"Trouble, lass?" rumbled Troy, approaching Roderic from behind.

"Aye." She nodded once. So cool and perfect were her features that they might have been chiseled in purest marble, or in ice. “It would seem Forbes has a wish to die."

Whether she was threatening him or protecting him, Roderic wasn't certain. Nevertheless, he kept his grip steady and his gaze on her face.

"Methinks ye neglect yer duties, Wolfhound, if ye let her leave these walls unescorted. Or could it be ye dunna mind if she dies?" Turning, he looked into Troy's strange, pale eyes.

"I tire of yer accusations, Forbes," he said quietly.

"I asked about ta find out who would gain the reins of control if Flanna died," Roderic said evenly. "It seems ye would be a likely one ta rule, Wolfhound."

The big man nodded slowly. "I be her father's cousin."

"Hence, ye have a great deal ta gain," Roderic said. "And hence, ye are the most likely culprit."

Unidentifiable emotion sparked in Troy's silver gray eyes. "Thus ye have decided ta save the lass from me. But Nevin is her father's nephew. Bullock was fostered by the auld laird himself. Who is ta say who might reign if the Flame was doused? Will ye protect her from all of us, Forbes?"

"If there is a need," Roderic said, and drew his hand from Flanna's arm. "And I believe ... there is a need!"

For an old man, Troy moved with admirable speed. Suddenly, he clenched Roderic's shirt in his huge fist. Behind him, Bonny growled, but Troy ignored the hound and hissed, "Then cease skulking about in the dark like a thieving scoundrel and do somemat!"

With his fists poised for a blow, Roderic tried to decipher Troy's words. "What?" he murmured, hesitating, but Troy merely shoved him away and turned toward Flame.

"Despite Forbes' wish to die, I again vow ta keep him safe, lass, inside these walls and out," the Wolfhound promised. "Be assured he will yet live when night falls upon us."

Flanna rode across the drawbridge on a great black stallion with a mincing gait. Roderic went on foot, followed by Troy, who was followed by thirty or so warriors on horseback.

They gathered on the broad, green sward as Roderic stood to the side and watched. Troy placed his back to a gnarled, lone oak and said nothing. Left to his own devices, Roderic watched Flanna ride and felt that now-familiar lurch of his heart.

Her hair was unbound and blew like windswept fire. Her face was smooth and somber, her hands steady.

Not only did she ride the dark stallion Dubh as if she were a part of him, but she tutored her men at the same time. She seemed to watch every equestrian team, to command and critique every miraculous movement they made. Never in his life had Roderic seen such feats performed on horseback. And it was all orchestrated by Flanna MacGowan.

She didn't seem like a woman who needed protection. And yet, without trying, he could remember how she looked when she slept. He could remember her slim body, curved and soft. He could remember her face, kissed by the firelight, and he knew that whether she wanted protection or not, he would give it, for she stirred something deep inside him.

"Ye'd do well ta think with yer head instead of with yer nether parts," rumbled the Wolfhound.

Roderic drew his gaze slowly from Flanna. "What the devil does that mean?"