Highland Promise (37 page)

        Faith crossed her arms under her breasts, giving him an enticing view of ripe cleavage. Then she nodded. "All right, I will stay away from the north mountain. My thanks for explaining the reason for your order. 'Tis not unreasonable after all."

        "I am a reasonable man," he muttered.

        "Huh!" She stomped over to the bed and knelt upon the center of the mattress, the very picture of a temptress. "If you were reasonable, you would know I am not fragile and need only to adapt to this climate."

        She was so enticing, he didn't know which ached worse, his head or his loins. "Faith—"

        "You would also come sit on the bed."

        He snorted over that suggestion. Sitting was the last thing he would

do if he went near that bed. "So you can sneeze on me again?"

        "So I can rid you of your headache." Her gaze turned contrite. "I do not wish your head to ache because of me."

        "My head aches for many reasons." Brendan hesitated. He could do it. He could grit his teeth and restrain his lust. He sat on the side of the bed and allowed her to rub his neck and shoulders with firm magical strokes. A satisfied moan poured from him as the tension eased.

        Several moments later, her lips brushed his neck. "Brendan, you are an able leader with keen foresight and excellent warriors. I wish you would not worry so over what cannot be predicted or prevented."

        He leaned his face into a hand and massaged the bridge of his nose. "It is my duty to worry over such."

        "Then share your worries with me." Her hands halted on his shoulders. "'Tis a wife's duty to worry with her husband, and mayhap it will lessen your burden."

        "They are a laird's worries, and a husband should not encumber his wife with them."

        She moved around to sit on his lap and cupped his face with both hands. "I can tell you will not relent on this stubborn opinion, so I will make you a promise. I will follow all the orders you just gave me if you will promise to cease your worries over me. My heart aches to think I cause your pain."

        Brendan looked into her eyes and read the sincerity of her words. "I do not wish to confine you, but the thought of losing you grieves me."

        "Then cease to fret." She kissed his lips in a feather-light caress. "I do not intend to be lost."

        The conviction of her words held a promise for many tomorrows, and his chest tightened with possessiveness. Even knowing he had failed his sister, she held such faith in him. He almost felt invincible when she gazed at him as she did now. He didn't know what good deed he had accomplished in his life that the Almighty had gifted him with such a treasure, but he vowed her faith would not be in vain.

Twenty Three

        The hunger was upon him.

        He was ravenous.

        Thirsting for strength.

        The need had come sooner this time, almost as if his body knew the winter months would make prey scarce.

        Duty was forgotten.

        'Twas time to prowl.

Twenty Four

        His potential for perfection was slipping.

        A long, wet tongue flicked over her face. Faith woke sputtering and jerked away from Dog. "Off the bed now!"

        Musical laughter tinkled about the chamber. Faith spotted Heather lying on her side at the foot of the bed. Impish delight played in her big, blue eyes while moon-white hair danced around her head in a riotous mess.

        "Good morn, sister. Bren said to bring Dog to keep you warm while you rest."

        "I am finished resting." Faith sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and sneezed. "Where is your brother?"

        "Giving Michael instructions before he leaves."

        Faith thought she might suffocate from her racing heart. It was too soon for him to leave her here alone. The man hadn't even introduced her to his clan. She swallowed hard and got hold of her unsettled emotions. She was a grown woman and could take care of herself. She would miss Brendan, but couldn't allow him to think she was a clinging female. She couldn't converse with the people around her, though. Loneliness would surely claim her.

        Faith exhaled a heavy breath. She should be happy to face the day and meet her clan. One of Brendan's men would be with her after all. She also had a new sister to get to know.

        Her husband should have bid her farewell though. Aye, it was his duty to kiss her goodbye. She ought to be downright furious. She looked back at Heather. "Where is he going?"

        "To make peace with Laird MacInnes." The lass emitted a disgruntled snort. "He says 'tis all my fault for spoiling a perfectly good feud. He will be back before the first snowfall."

        Faith tossed aside the pelts, sprang from the bed, and flipped her blue kirtle over her head with nothing underneath. Her husband needed a lesson on doing his duty. Dog barked and danced circles around her.

        "Quick, Heather." She sat on the side of the bed to pull on her stockings and lace up her short boots. "Hand me my plaid and tell me how to say 'have a safe journey and hurry home, laird' in Gaelic."

       "Why?"

        Faith rolled her eyes. At eight years old, Heather was at the age where she demanded to know everything whether it was any of her business or not. She shouldn't give in to the child, but didn't want to miss Brendan. "I wish to give my husband a proper farewell and remind him of an important duty he neglected."

        "You think to instruct Bren on his duty?"

        "I most certainly do."

        Heather flashed an impish grin and handed over the plaid. Then she spoke the phrase in Gaelic. Faith wrapped her plaid about her while repeating the difficult words three times just to be sure she had them right. Heather declared she had spoken them perfectly.

        "Which way to the stables?" Faith asked, tying on her belt to hold her plaid in place.

        "Out the rear of the keep and to the left." Heather rushed past her to the door. "I will take you, but do you know your plaid is a jumbled mess?"

        "Well, this is the best I can do right now." Faith hastily combed her fingers through her hair and tugged open the door. "Besides, if I do not hurry, I shall miss Brendan."

        They rushed from the chamber with Dog on their heels and found their way blocked by Michael. Faith tried to push past him, knowing his presence meant Brendan might already be gone. The need to reach him before he left was growing into panic, though she wasn't sure why. Lord, help her, was she angry or worried?

        "Let me pass, Michael."

        The warrior crossed his arms over his chest. "The laird said you were to rest."

        "But I must see him off," she insisted. "'Tis a wife's duty."

        "Aye, Michael," Heather chimed in. "She wishes to bid him farewell in Gaelic." She tugged on Faith's hand and pushed the big warrior's belly.

        Michael rolled his eyes and stepped to the side of the corridor, gesturing with a wave of his arm for them to pass. "This I have to hear."

        Faith rushed down the steps and outside the keep with Heather, Dog, and Michael behind her. When she arrived at the stables, Brendan was riding his black stallion toward a forest trail accompanied by Roland, Tormey, Douglas, and Cleit. Luthias walked toward her from the direction of the stable. She thought her husband's appearance odd for some reason, then realized he wore a plaid of muted green, brown, and amber. She liked his other colors better, but didn't have time to ponder why he had changed. He was getting away.

        "Brendan, wait!" She lifted her hem and ran toward him.

        He drew rein and glanced her way. A frown thundered across his brow. "Why are you not resting?"

        "'Tis my duty to see you off, and you wound my heart by not telling me you are leaving." She halted beside him just as a sneeze burst from her. She searched her sleeve for the linen square normally tucked there, then realized she had forgotten it in her haste, so she sniffed.

        "Your heart will heal." He tipped up her chin, and she got a good view of his intimidating glare. "Your most important duty is to get well."

        "Quit acting surly or you will spoil my surprise." She grabbed his hand and held it between both of hers. She couldn't suppress a grin. He was going to be so proud of her.

        "What surprise?" he asked suspiciously.

        Faith laced her fingers through his and rested her other hand on his thigh. Then she slowly struggled over each syllable of her Gaelic farewell. A pained expression crossed his face. She assumed her burr was in need of work. "I shall improve, Brendan."

        He shook his head and appeared incredulous. She thought he must be shocked by her determination to learn his language so soon. Silence settled about them, and she noticed his warriors appeared appalled.

        She returned her gaze to Brendan. "Why do you not say anything? I know I need to work on my burr, but I did practice—"

        "Faith, do you know what you just said to me?"

        "Have a safe journey and hurry home, laird?" she asked and heard the worry in her own tone.

        Brendan shook his head. Giggles slipped from the young lass behind her. Lord, help her, Heather must have told her the wrong words as a prank.

        "That is what I meant to say," she whispered.

        Heather burst into laughter. "You should have seen your face, Bren."

        "You can expect to discuss this when I return," he warned.

        Heather shrugged, obviously not worried over retribution that was days away.

        Faith groaned. "What did I say?"

        "You told me not to rut any ewes while I am gone."

        "Oh Lord." Faith buried her face against his leg.

        He chuckled and caressed her cheek. "Do not fash so, Faith. I know it was Heather's mischief. I am proud of you for trying, though your accent rather murders the melodious tones of our fine language."

        "I will learn Gaelic, so I can fit in here and be a good wife to you." She shot a frown at Heather. "But I shall learn it from someone else."

        "I know you will." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze then released her fingers. "Now move back, so I can be off."

        She couldn't believe he was leaving without doing his duty. "One moment more, Brendan."

        "Why?" he asked impatiently.

        The man had obviously forgotten his duty. She decided to keep him talking until he remembered it. "Why do you wear that plaid? 'Tis different."

        "It blends with the forest," he replied. "We plan to do some hunting,

and this plaid allows us to sneak up on prey more easily."

        "Oh." She tapped her fingers against his thigh, wondering if she should mention his lapse or if he would consider the reminder an insult. "There is another Gaelic phrase I know, though it may be a curse. My sister only said it when she was riled or about to kill someone."

        "And just what is this Gaelic curse?" he asked, cocking a curious brow.

      Faith raked her finger along Brendan's muscular thigh and casually said, "Bi eagat ort roimh claidheamh Airt. Or if she was really angry, she just said Claidheamh Airt, and lopped off the head of the person who incited her rage."

        "What did you say?" Michael bellowed behind her.

        Faith would have jumped right into her husband's lap for protection if his fingers weren't digging pits into her upper arm.

        "Where did you hear that, wife?"

        "I told you, from my sister. You are hurting me, Brendan. What does it mean to cause such a reaction?"

        Brendan released his grip. "It means Fear the sword of Arthur, and it is the battle cry of Michael's clan."

        "I thought Michael was a Sutherland."

        "Leave it alone, Bren," Michael said, a testy edge to his words.

        "She obviously heard it from your wife," Brendan said calmly. "I'd like to hear more."

        "And I wouldn't," Michael persisted.

        "Oh, she couldn't be Michael's wife," Faith said with certainty. "She's English. My sister is Arturian, though she is wed to a Highlander too. She says the words in Latin as often as Gaelic. She is of the House of Arturius, and their battle cry is the same. Of course when she leads her Roman legion she uses their cry, which is Misericordia non. Her uncle is the Holy Father, and he is rather perturbed that one of his Holy Roman legions uses No mercy as a battle cry."

        "I'm beginning to like your sister." Brendan smiled at Michael. "I guess she didn't hear it from a timid English lass after all. Do you happen to have kin in Arturia?"

        "None that I know of." Michael finally grinned. "Though if there is a lass leading an army there, she could have MacArthur blood."

        "She has balls," Faith said without thinking, then caught her husband's glare at her vulgar language. "She has to have them. Her husband is an imbecile and doesn't have the ba... I mean the gumption to protect her. Her grandfather gave them to her so she'd remember she can take care of herself. They are made of solid gold and she keeps them in a chansil-lined box when she's not carrying them."