Highland Promise (30 page)

        "Faith, I did promise Alera I'd wed you if I could find you." He tipped up her chin. His eyes were so possessive, yet so remarkably tender, that she wanted to dive into the cobalt depths and revel in being his. "I didn't lie though. I did want to marry you."

        His words seeded hope in her heart. She ordered herself to guard against his charms. She tugged back and looked away so she could gather her wandering wits and focus on their conversation. "You told me a Sutherland never breaks his word. You were honor bound to marry me whether you wished it or not."

        "We keep our vows or die trying," he agreed in a husky burr that sent erotic tingles along her spine. "But what started as a duty turned into a pleasure."

        "Then you truly wanted to marry me?"

        "Aye." He cocked a mocking brow. "Though you exasperate the hell out of me at times. Like now when you make me repeat myself. And just so you will know, I do not like being called your penance."

        Her cheeks blazed as she recalled her earlier joy and his foul mood. He was right. She wouldn't like being called a penance either. "I am sorry. I was rather glad to learn I did not have to suffer eternal perdition."

        "One more thing. From now on, when you are angry, you will tell me why."

        Who was angry? She was sinfully lustful. The heat of his body pressed against hers beckoned her wanton nature and was making her daft. She slipped her arms around him, and her hand brushed across a lump under his plaid. His grimace was like a bucket of icy water dousing her fire. The man had an arrow in his backside, for heaven's sake, and she was the one who had put it there.

        She pulled back and pushed against his chest, but he maintained his hold. "All right, I will tell you when I am angry. Do you want me to remove the arrow now?"

        "Not until you remove your plaid."

        His words were so unexpected they jolted her world. Her eyes flew back to his and read the mirth there. She realized her fingers were moving in caressing circles over his chest. From his wicked grin, she could tell he knew she was aroused, and he gloated over it. She shoved away and glowered.

        "Do not be ridiculous." She smoothed her hands over the folds of her plaid. "Alera worked hard to make my pleats perfect."

        "I will fix them later. I want your gown off too." He tugged on her plaid until her pleats fell.

        "Are you daft?" She slapped at his hand and grabbed her plaid to keep it off the floor. Then she took a few steps back.

        He stalked her like a lusty lion. "Nay, I'm carnally aroused and like the notion of a naked wench tending my wound."

        His hot gaze made her womb quicken. He would make her as decadent as he was if she didn't put a stop to this. She clutched her plaid and backed away until she came up against the wall. "I'll not do it."

        He placed a hand on the wall on both sides of her and nuzzled her neck. "But you said it was your duty to tend me."

        Now she was on fire. She ducked under his arm and dashed across the chamber to put distance between them. "But not without clothing. 'Tis daylight, for heaven's sake. If you want to...couple..." And Lord, her cheeks blazed from this sinful subject. "Well then, you will have to wait until dark like decent people."

        Brendan released a long sigh. "I would rather not be decent, but I'll give into your whim this time."

        Her barbaric husband tossed off his plaid and tunic. Standing naked before her, he placed his hands on his hips. "Where do you want me?"

        On top of me, she thought, but she would never tell him that. She averted her gaze, hoping to stop the flutters batting around in her stomach. "Lie down on the bed please."

        Bands of iron muscle rippled under sleek bronzed flesh as he stretched out face down on the bed. Faith's womb quivered at the sight. The man was tanned all over! She tried to ignore how he must have accomplished that and put her lustful feelings aside, but the Good Lord couldn't have made a more perfect man if He had tried...at least not physically.

        She forced herself to focus on his injury. Her chest ached at the sight. Though not too deep, the arrow was embedded in his left hip. Blood oozed around the angry wound. A tear trickled down her cheek.

        "I am sorry, Brendan." She couldn't keep her words from trembling. "I truly did not do this on purpose."

        "I know, sweet." He held out a hand. "Why the tears?"

        She clasped his hand to her chest. "I could have killed you."

        "You are in love with me." A smug twinkle lit his eyes.

        She released his hand and placed her fists on her hips. "Must you gloat? I did not fall in love with you on purpose. Think I want an arrogant, domineering, pig-headed, oafish—"

        He cut her off with an arrogant grunt. "Why don't you save your compliments for after you take out the arrow?"

        Lord, the man had figured it out and gotten her to admit it. Frustration rippled through her that she should be so easy for him to read when she was so confused by him.

        "Well?" she demanded.

        "Well, what?"

        "I admitted my love for you. Have you nothing to say?"

        "Your love pleases me."

        "Is that all? Do you not wish to say you love me too?"

        "Do you want me to?"

        "Only if you mean it." And if he didn't, she would rather crawl into a cave with a bear for the winter than crawl into a bed next to him.

        "Warriors do not love. We are protectors, and love makes us lose our edge. You should be happy that I do not love you."

        His words sliced through her heart like a dagger. She called on anger to prevent more tears. "I should wiggle the cursed arrow and make it hurt worse."

        "You won't," he replied. "Just as I would never harm you on purpose, you would never harm me."

        Faith exhaled a long breath. He was right. He couldn't help it if he was an arrogant man with no tender feelings. He still needed to be put in his place though. "You are more penance than even I deserve."

~ * ~

        Brendan barely felt the sting as the arrow came out. He was too busy smiling inside because his wife loved him. He hadn't realized how much her words would mean to him until she spoke them. He shouldn't let her get away with acting like a shrew, but he had such a warm glow in his chest that he couldn't be angry with her now if he tried.

        She was gentle in her ministrations as she cleaned the wound with fresh water. Her delicate touch sizzled through him in a sensual maelstrom, wringing a groan from his lips.

        Faith stilled. Her brow tugged with worry. "Did I hurt you too much?"

        "Nay." His voice sounded husky in his ears. His gentle wife had the ability to break his control. At the moment the only thing that ached was his cock with an intense need to be inside her. "Are you finished?"

        "I have only to sweeten the wound with honey and apply a plaster."

        "For the love of..." Damn, she was exasperating. "Honey will draw flies to the injury."

        "It will not. The plaster will keep them away, and the wound will heal more quickly."

        "I do not—"

        "Brendan, I promise I will not tell you how to fight if you will promise not to tell me how to heal. Are you not brave enough to try this miracle I offer?"

        Brendan clenched his jaw. The cunning minx was trying to goad him into compliance. Her scent was so damned distracting that it was working. "If I attract flies, I will think of a dire punishment for you," he threatened. "And save some honey for later."

        "Why do you wish me to save some honey?"

        Brendan proceeded to tell his wife in graphic detail all the lusty uses he could think of for honey. She punched his shoulder and demanded he shut his mouth.

        She applied the plaster over the honey, draped a linen over his backside, and stood back. "I am done now. The plaster will be dry enough for you to get up shortly. I shall meet you downstairs after you dress."

        She lifted the tray from the table, grabbed her drooping plaid, and fled the room.

        Brendan sat up and scratched his chest, thoroughly pleased with his wife because she had given her heart to him. He barely noticed the twinge in his hip as his eyes landed on the tabletop. Then he grinned.

        His wife had left the crock of honey behind.

Nineteen

         Power surged. The force of his ecstasy nearly overwhelmed him. His strength was rejuvenated.

He smiled in appreciation as he looked upon the lusty wench who had restored his might. Clear, gray eyes gazed sightlessly beyond him as rivulets of crimson poured across ivory flesh. 'Twas too bad his power could only be reborn by death, for he would have liked to enjoy her for a while longer. Her zeal came close to matching his, and she could have made a worthy mate. But power was everything, and he had needed hers.

          His craving for flesh was naught but a craving for power. He enjoyed dominating his victims as much as absorbing their life forces. Laughter rumbled in his chest. Ultimate power would come when he drew the strength from his rival. He would be unstoppable. A deity in his own right. Aye, ultimate power would be his soon.

Twenty

        Exhaustion crept through Faith's weary bones until she thought she could sleep for a year. She wouldn't allow anyone to see her weakness though. She was the wife of a Highland laird and must act in a manner sure to make her husband proud, even if the lout didn't love her. She knew her duty, and she would try to get along with him. Mayhap she could change his thinking and make him love her. Aye, she would have to ponder this. Surely a plan would come to her.

        Faith descended to the hall and sought Moreen's assistance to pleat her plaid. Michael met her there and insisted she await her husband before going outside. She ignored his suggestion and swept past him. In the typical highhanded manner she had come to associate with Highlanders, he refused to allow her to leave the keep unescorted.

        As she and Michael stepped outside onto the landing, she gasped. Highlanders truly knew how to celebrate. The entire mountain had transformed into a festival while she tended Brendan. The mouth-watering aromas of roasting mutton and pork swirled about, drawing water to her mouth. Tables appeared near collapse from overloading with pies, crocks, pots, and jars. Merry music danced on the breeze from a small group playing bagpipes and a harp-like instrument that Michael told her was called a tiompan. Another man blew into a long, thin instrument she learned was a cuisle. The delightful wind and string tones harmonized about the mountain and lifted her spirits.

        She marveled at some warriors who tossed trees about as if they were kindling. Other men and women mingled amid a chorus of chatter. A young Ranald clansman tried to impress the maidens by juggling, but earned an audience of youngsters instead. Other children bobbed for apples and dashed about playing a rousing game of "Got-you." A huge pile of bundled branches stood proudly in the center of the archery range. Michael informed her that the bonfire would burn well into the night so that the festivities may continue till morn.

        Amidst the chaos, someone called her name. She spotted Alera waving to her from across the crowd.

        Faith returned the gesture, then turned to Michael. "I shall pass the while with my friend until Brendan arrives, so you may go enjoy yourself."

        Michael cocked an amused brow. "You will not be rid of me until the laird arrives, so you may as well not try. You shall be thankful for my presence soon enough."

        She glanced anxiously about. "Do you think me in danger amid the Ranalds?"

        "Nay, milady. Calm your fears. The Ranalds respect our laird too much to lay a hand on you. My meaning will be clear soon enough."

        "Escort me then, but you do try my patience with the way you always speak in riddles rather than answer a simple question."

        Michael accompanied Faith through the throng. She quickly understood what he meant. Gibberish buzzed around her as people called out friendly greetings.

        She tried to appear jovial, but anxiety knotted in her belly. Brendan and his warriors spoke their own twisted form of English, and she could follow most of their conversations with relative ease. She hadn't considered their Highland Gaelic would be so different. Even with gestures, she didn't know what was said around her.

        "Are you unwell, milady?" Michael asked, his brown brows drawn together with concern.

        She glanced up at him and realized she had huddled close to his side, seeking the familiar in her nervousness. Clearing her throat, she stepped back and wrung her hands. "I do not understand anyone, Michael. They speak in gibberish."

        "They speak Gaelic," he replied in a tone laced with humor. His face softened, and he winked at her. "You'll learn our language soon enough with your quick wits."

        The compliment so stunned Faith that she gaped at the man. "You think me quick-witted?"

        "Aye," he answered. Then the mirth returned to his gaze. "And with the evil wart gone, you are a fitting lady for our laird—even if you were English."

        Her cheeks heated as Jamie, Luthias, and Cleit joined them, and closed in about her.

        "Is she unwell, Michael?" Luthias asked. "She is flushed. Mayhap she has had too much sun."

        "She is overwhelmed," Michael replied, folding his arms across his chest.

        "What is her problem?" Jamie asked.

        "Gaelic," Michael answered.

        "I suppose we should continue speaking English," Luthias conceded as if the notion pained him.

        Faith glared at the inconsiderate brutes. "You can speak anything you like as long as you do not speak of me as if I am not present."