Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (25 page)

There was a pause before the throng's next roar, but Leith's hand remained up, his palm facing them.

"Fiona Rose MacAulay, Laird Ian MacAulay's only progeny!" From his sporran, Leith pulled the rolled parchment stamped with the old laird's seal. "Fiona Rose MacAulay, handfasted to me by the auld laird himself."

Dead silence fell on the place. Men, poised to cheer, lost their voices at the news.

"Tis a new age for the Forbes," Leith called, shaking the hall with the force of his feeling and lifting the parchment high. "There is a new king in Scotland. A king for the Highlander. A king who speaks the Gaelic!" Leith shouted. "King James wants peace for his people. And with this union..." He lifted Rose's hand again, his voice booming. "With this union between yer laird and Ian's daughter, we will put the past to rest and forge a new and wondrous future for ourselves and for our children. With this union," he roared, "there shall be peace and prosperity for all the people of Glen Creag."

Rose stood frozen in silence, not understanding the words spoken in a language that was strange to her, not understanding the unprecedented twist of fate that had brought her to this foreign place. Not understanding her own muddled emotions.

Her gaze skimmed the hall, noting the lifted faces below her.

Utter silence held the place.

"Ye will accept her," ordered Leith, exercising his authority. "Just as ye accept me."

Someone raised a mug to her, and a few called her name, but most remained silent.

"Ye
will
accept her!" roared Leith, and now a few more voices were raised in greeting. But still the tension remained.

Beside her, Leith lowered and squeezed Rose's hand, transmitting his feelings to her as surely as if she had seen into his soul.

She turned, catching his gaze with her own, seeing his emotions like visible entities.

Where was his confidence? His arrogance? Uncertainty and concern replaced his assurance, she realized suddenly.

These were Leith's people.

That weighty truth settled upon Rose for the first time. These were not merely his servants or his countrymen, but his family. His blood kin. And he loved them.

No—more than loved. Cherished.

Her heart did a strange little trip in her chest.

Leith Forbes, laird of the Forbes, cherished these people enough to search all of England to find the means to protect them.

And Rose Gunther? She was only the means. Nothing more. She was not his family. In fact—she was no one's family.

Loneliness as empty as death besieged her. Not loneliness for her homeland, but loneliness for someone who was hers. Someone who would care. Someone like ...

For a moment his soul was in his eyes, and for a moment she was lost there, wandering aimlessly, aching to hold him.

Five hours later Rose sat alone in the center of Leith's velvet-draped bed.

Pulling up her knees, she rested her chin on the plaid blankets that covered them. Her hair had been uncoiled and brushed until it glistened about her shoulders and breasts, and lay finally in a crimson pool on the bedcovers.

She wore a voluminous white linen gown, cuffed at her wrists and laced at her throat, and waited now like a bride for her groom.

Only she was not a bride and Leith was not a groom. It was all a hoax. A ploy. A sin!

She closed her eyes and wondered how long it had been since she had belonged, for surely she did not belong here. And the people knew. Only Leith's aunt Mabel, and perhaps young Hannah McCain, made her feel more welcome than a fox in a chicken house. Oh, they had tolerated her. Some had even managed a smile or two. But none, save the children, had accepted her.

The door swung open. The single, nearby candle flickered in the billowing draft, then straightened to shine its misty light on the towering form of Leith Forbes.

Rose watched as he closed the door behind him. He paused, his gaze going to her, noting the burnt-red glory of her hair, the flawless oval of her delicate face.

"So ye are here," he breathed.

Her expression was absolutely solemn. "Where else would I be, my laird?"

He shrugged, feeling strangely self-conscious under her deep-violet gaze. She looked small and forlorn and so beautifully innocent that it stung his heart.

"Mayhap I feared ye would fly back to England," he said softly, stepping toward her.

She lifted her jewel-bright gaze to his as he reached the bed.

"I am sorry, lass."

It was the last thing she had expected to hear from him.

"I fear it will take me people some time to become accustomed to the idea of a MacAulay in their midst."

So he had noticed the coolness with which they had greeted her. Rose tried a smile and failed miserably.

The corner of her mouth lifted, Leith noticed. But the expression looked more like a grimace of pain than of humor and that knowledge ripped at his heart, for it was his fault she was there, his fault she was a stranger in a strange land.

"Why am I here?" she whispered desperately.

Sweet Jesu! If he could but hold her. If he would but be allowed that one favor. He settled himself slowly on the edge of the draped bed, drawn there irresistibly. "Because ye are good, lass," he murmured low. "So good. That is why."

"Good?" She seemed to choke on the word. "Good, my laird? So good that I would break my vows to the Lord? So good that I would lie to your people? So good that I would pretend to be that which I am not, to save myself from the humiliation of admitting the truth. That I had escaped the walls of the abbey and lost my cross by the shore of the lake. That I had broken my vows and become a failure in the sight of all."

"Nay." He watched her face, knowing her pain. "Na in the sight of all, lass," he murmured, and with gentle care smoothed a few bright strands of hair behind her small, shell-like ear.

He knew his mistake immediately. Had he not learned the hard way that he could not touch her without losing his head?

The kiss was inevitable. He leaned forward, touching his lips to hers.

She was warm and soft beneath his caress.

Leith's heart sped along at a faster rate, his senses aroused to painful awareness.

She sat silent and unmoving, and then with just the slightest bend of her neck she was kissing him back, cautiously, shyly.

She was kissing him back. Sitting on his bed like a lost, enchanted wood sprite and kissing him back!

His hand trembled slightly as it scooped about the back of her slim neck, pulling her nearer.

Sweet Jesu, she was soft. His breathing raced along at a breakneck course now, followed close behind by the rapid thrum of his heart.

Gilded cinnamon hair caressed his arm and he shifted closer, letting his hand drift down her back, drawing her soft breasts against his chest.

Ice-hot desire hit him.

Beneath the sheet his arm curled about her waist, tiny and taut and moving gently with the rapid pace of her breathing.

She wanted him, he realized with heated elation. Wanted him as badly as he wanted her, perhaps. Sweet Jesu! She was ready. She was hot. She was…

Lonely. The single word slipped unwanted into his mind. But he knew the truth. She was horribly, achingly lonely, and only looked to him now because of that loneliness.

The movement of his hand was arrested, but his loins screamed a protest. He could cure her loneliness. He could, he promised himself.

But how? By increasing her guilt for the desire he could make her feel? Make her hate herself for her own weakness?

"Lass." He leaned away slightly. “I
..
. fear I have little control where ye are concerned. Me... apologies."

Apologies? Vaguely, Rose wondered what that meant, but she had no strength to consider it, for she ached. Ached, down deep in the pit of her stomach. Ached in her heart. In her soul. Ached ... for him.

"I canna trust meself with ye, lass," he continued. "Me servant, Ranald, has made his bed outside our door. I will take his usual spot on the floor beside this bed tonight." It took more willpower to turn away than he thought he possessed, but when he did he found her small hands caught on the lapels of his doublet.

"Please..."

His heart and other parts of his burning anatomy jumped at her plea. He could not be responsible for his actions when she pleaded.

“Please don't leave me, Leith. Not tonight." Her eyes searched his. "I will trust you not to... defile me if you but promise." Her eyes were as wide and dark as the loch at Inverness and Leith felt weakness creep into his soul. "Please," she whispered again, her breath warm against his skin. "The bed is soft and ... large enough for two."

A muscle beside his mouth twitched. His loins ached. Holy Jesu! Everything ached. She trusted him!

But how could she trust him? Trusting him was foolhardy. She must not trust him. He was a barbarian. She'd said so herself. He'd lied to her. Repeatedly. He'd blackmailed her. Sweet Jesu! He'd...

“Please," she whispered again, and he made the fatal mistake of looking into her eyes.

"Aye." The word sounded like the parched tone of a tortured man. "Aye, lass," he agreed, and, not removing a single article of clothing, he stretched out stiffly atop the blankets beside her.

Chapter 18

The hall was filled with people who had come to voice complaints to their newly returned laird. Rose watched him from the corner, her mood morose.

He had not touched her on the previous night, which, of course, did not explain her dejection. It was merely that she felt lonely and out of place. In truth, she should not have asked him to stay in his bed with her, but the thought of being utterly alone had terrified her. She was weak. And Leith? He was not. For he'd been true to his word.

Rose scowled, still watching him.

He sat on a great chair of carved rowan which was placed on a slightly raised dais near the center of the huge room. Suspended behind the chair was an elaborate tapestry, embroidered with a large, dark rock upon which a yellow, striped wildcat stood on its hind feet, claws extended, white teeth bared.

As her gaze swept the length of the hall, she saw the same design on several shields that graced the stone wall above the massive fireplace.

At the far side of the hall a harpist plied gentle notes from his instrument. Was it an intentional attempt to soothe the people as Leith considered their grievances? Rose's gaze moved to him again. His chin rested on a hard fist, his elbow was propped upon the arm of the great chair as he listened to a dispute between two of his kinsmen.

His expression was solemn, his dark brows drawn together. He looked at home there—at the head of his clan, firmly in command. So natural, so self-assured.

Her heart lurched in her chest as the truth came to her again. She did not belong. Not in an abbey. Not in all of England. And certainly not here.

Hannah had helped her dress, choosing one of the many gowns Mabel had ordered sewn for her. Compared to the garment Rose had worn to last night's celebration, today's gown was simple. Still, it was far richer than any Rose had owned in England.

It was the color of Highland heather, a lovely pink-lavender garment that hugged her breasts and waist before falling in soft pleats to her feet. Her hair had been stroked back from her face by Hannah's ministrations with a boar-bristled wood brush, and now flowed over her back and shoulders, unadorned and unfettered.

"Yer bannocks, me lady," Hannah said, slipping the oatmeal flatbread and a bowl of honey before her and frowning as she struggled for the proper English words—a language not unknown but not often used here in the wild Highlands. "Milk?" she asked, but Rose's mind was focused exclusively on the laird of the castle.

He was the most alluring man she had ever seen, but something else drew her to him. Something far deeper. His confidence. His composure. His command of every situation. Or perhaps it was something more intangible still. Mayhap ...

"Me lady?" Hannah questioned a bit louder, causing Rose to start in surprise.

With a quiet gasp Rose guiltily yanked her gaze away. But another visage caught her attention.

Harlow! The young man who had accosted her by the river. His expression was solemn and unreadable, his gaze bearing steadily in her direction. Frightened and skittish, Rose looked up at Hannah once again.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured, her face red with embarrassment, her already shaky composure further upset.

"Milk, me lady?" Hannah repeated. "Or ale?"

Rose drew her thoughts together, trying to concentrate on the young maid's words.

"Ale—for breakfast?" she asked dubiously, the thought making her nose wrinkle in distaste and her already temperamental stomach churn.

" Tis often drunk," Hannah assured her. "Even to break the fast."

"Oh." Rose did not grimace this time for fear of insulting the girl. "I am not much accustomed to the drinking of spirits. Mayhap I had best have the milk."

"Aye, me lady," said Hannah as she turned, then, glancing nervously toward Harlow, hurried to do Rose's bidding.

Rose glanced at the bannocks. It seemed she was the only one who had not yet eaten. The thought made her self-conscious, as if she were being watched.

Harlow was gone. She drew a deep breath, knowing she should feel relieved, but still experiencing that tightness in her chest, as if someone were contemplating her presence there.

Feeling her breath come hard, Rose shifted her gaze, searching for the cause of her discomfort.

Her eyes caught Leith's like the clash of steel against steel. Breath caught in her throat so that she felt as if she'd been struck on the chest with something broad and hard.

From across the hall she could feel the force of his emotion, and yet she could not discern what that emotion was. His body was tense and unmoving, his gaze unwavering and deep.

God's teeth! How was it that he could affect her so powerfully with just a glance? she wondered, her heart thumping wildly.

A richly dressed merchant raised his voice, drawing Leith's attention back to his complaints.