Highland Protector (18 page)

A madness had seized him. It was the only explanation for how he was feeling and the things he was thinking of. Simon knew he had to get some control over himself. He just did not know how; he had never felt such anger before and no skill in caging it.

Perhaps there was more of Henry and their father in him than he had realized. The mere thought that he might carry some of that tainted blood chilled Simon so deeply that, for a brief moment, his anger eased. He shook the thought out of his head, refusing to believe it.

The sound of soft footfalls caught his attention and he braced himself. He knew who was coming down the stairs and walking to his door. The breaking of the mirror must have roused Ilsabeth. His lover who was hiding from false accusations because his brother thought he had a right to be king, he suddenly realized. His own blood had had a hand in bringing her such trouble.

That was the source of at least some of his anger. Because of Henry’s ambitions, Ilsabeth could not go home nor could her family. She had to hide in Simon’s home while her family hid away in the hills around Aigballa. All she had suffered was because of his family, his blood. Simon did not know if he could face her now that he knew the truth.

Her soft rapping at the door stirred him to answer. He wanted to tell her to flee, to just yell it through the closed door, but Simon knew he owed her more than that. He just did not know how to explain that the root of all her troubles was her lover’s brother.

When she stepped into the room in answer to his invitation, he nearly cursed. She looked still warm from their bed. Her hair was uncombed and there was still a sleepy look in her wide blue eyes. His body hardened. She was what he needed. Ilsabeth had the soft touch to soothe his fury, he was certain of it. He would have left her alone tonight if she had stayed in bed. But, she was near, standing by his worktable and looking at him with concern, and every tortured part of him wanted to reach for her.

The sound of breaking glass yanked Ilsabeth from her rest. She reached out for Simon but found only the chilled linen. For several moments she lay still, listening carefully. There was the murmur of voices coming from below and, although she could not hear what was being said, she could hear the sharpness of anger behind some of the words. Then she heard MacBean’s distinctive tread, one that was very nearly a stomp, disappearing into the back of the house. A door slammed and then there was silence.

She closed her eyes and told herself to go back to sleep, but that proved to be impossible. Something had upset Simon. Ilsabeth was certain of it. She had to go to him, she decided, as she climbed out of bed and donned a robe.

It was not until she stood before the door to his ledger room that she hesitated. If he truly needed her or wanted her he would come to her. Simon was such a private man and so proud of his control, he might not wish anyone to see him so out of control now that he was breaking things.

Ilsabeth was just about to turn around and quietly retreat to her bedchamber when her courage returned. Simon might not see it yet but she knew they were destined to be together. She could not keep slinking away for fear that she would breach one of the many walls he kept around his secrets and emotions. Ilsabeth knew that even though she loved Simon, she would never survive a life with him if he kept himself so locked away. She needed to be part of his life, not just the woman who stood beside him. She rapped on the door and, when he called out for her to enter, she did so without any hesitation.

Until she saw him. The door was closing behind her and she had the sudden feeling that she was now trapped in a room with a wolf. This was a Simon she did not know. There was no calm, no restraint in his expression. He was not just angry, he was absolutely enraged.

“Simon?” She tried not to look as timid as she felt as she cautiously stepped closer to him.

“This isnae a good time for ye to come to me, sweet,” he said as he slowly stood up and started to walk around his worktable.

He prowled toward her. It was the only word that truly described the way he moved. Like some large predator on the hunt. Ilsabeth fought the urge to run. She experienced a tickle of fear even though she knew he would never hurt her. Pure lust swamped that unease, however. Ilsabeth could not understand how having a furious man stalk her could make her desire for him rise so swiftly it made her a little light-headed.

“Nay? I heard a crash.” She glanced at the broken mirror before meeting and holding his sharp, heated gaze. “Something troubles ye, Simon. Can ye nay allow me to help ye?”

“Och, aye, ye are about to help me verra much indeed.”

He lunged and Ilsabeth could not fully smother a cry that held an odd blend of fear and excitement. When Simon grasped her around the waist and pulled her hard against him, her feet dangled off the floor and she wrapped her limbs around his lean body. He gave her a kiss so fierce and demanding it bordered on painful. Ilsabeth knew she ought to protest such rough handling but she did not really want to. A Simon not in control of himself, even if it was because of an anger he had not yet explained to her, was proving to be wondrously exciting.

She shifted her position in his arms just enough to press her aching womanhood against the long hard length of him. The way he shuddered excited her even more, giving her a delicious sense of power. Even the noise he made stroked her desire. It was a low growl that reached deep within her and demanded that she meet, and equal, the wild passion he was revealing to her.

Simon moved toward the wall with Ilsabeth curled around him. Each step he took caused her to rub against his throbbing erection. He knew he was caught up in some lust-induced madness, but now that he held her in his arms, could sense her eager welcome, he could not leash it. That small, still sane part of him that fought valiantly against the fury that held him captive began to pray that he did not hurt her.

When he got her securely trapped between his hungry body and the wall, he gritted his teeth against the fierce need to thrust deep into her heat and pound out the fury enslaving him, to release it along with his seed. He wanted to bury himself in her moist fire until it burned away his raging anger. Panting like a dog caught out in the summer sun for too long, Simon kept a death grip on the last tiny shred of sanity he retained and slipped his hand between her slim thighs, determined to at least ready her for the onslaught. He found her already hot, wet, and welcoming.

Cursing softly with impatience, he yanked her nightgown up to her waist, loosed himself from his clothing and thrust home, all within such a short period of time, he knew his sane self would probably be utterly mortified later. This wildness was unlike him but he was sunk too deep in the pleasure to care.

Ilsabeth clung to her lover and allowed him to take her on a savage journey to that sweet bliss only he could give her. The words he growled against her ear, her throat, her mouth, thrilled her and added to the passion already thundering through her veins. He spoke of his need, his passion, his delight. And it was all for her.

Such words could not be taken as words of love and she knew it. Her mother had told her that a woman should never believe that flatteries and declarations of desire could be seen as more than they were. Pretty words, words to warm her, but still only words. The vows a man might utter while caught up in passion’s fury should be taken no more seriously than the vows of a man lost to drink. Not unless you knew he loved you. Her mother had also said that it was safe to accept such pretty words as flatteries she could treasure if she wished. And Ilsabeth did wish to do so. Simon’s words stroked what little vanity she had but, more importantly to her, they gave her the confidence she needed to be Simon’s lover, and to be one that he could not forget or set aside.

Her body tightened and when her passion crested in a wild rush of blood-pounding delight, she cried out Simon’s name. He thrust into her like a man possessed, withdrew and left her almost empty, and then hurled himself back inside her again. Twice. Then his whole body tensed, became as rigid as a stone, and he called out her name in a voice so thick she barely understood him as he poured his seed deep inside her. Despite how weak and unsteady Ilsabeth was, she continued to cling to him as he sagged against her, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her head, his sweat-dampened forehead touching hers.

“Jesu, Ilsabeth,” he muttered when his mind finally began to clear. “I took ye so roughly, like some beast in rut. I am so verra sorry.”

“Oh, I didnae mind.” When he raised his head to look at her, making a careful study of her face, she smiled at him. “I suspicion I wouldnae wish to do it too often though,” she said when he slowly pulled out of her and stepped back, steadying her until she no longer trembled and could stand on her own. “ ‘Tisnae all that kind to a certain part of me.” She grimaced and rubbed her backside.

Simon grinned at her, but it was such a brief flare of good humor she could have missed it if she had blinked. Then all the dark storms that had clouded his eyes before returned in force and she could feel the chill of the fury he was battling as it surged through his body again. Something or someone had torn free the reins of Simon’s anger so completely that he was having a great deal of trouble grasping hold of them again.

Ilsabeth gently stroked his arm. “Simon, ye are so troubled I can almost taste it in the air. Your fury is so completely unrestrained and, I ken I havenae been with ye long, but I am sure this isnae like you. I also cannae e’en begin to guess why.”

“Nay matter what troubles me, I shouldnae have taken ye up against the wall like the lowest of tavern wenches.”

“I truly didnae mind. Do ye think me so meek I would accept any physical abuse from ye silently and without at least trying to pay ye back in kind?”

“Och, I would ne’er call ye weak, lass.”

“Then dinnae mark me as too frail of mind and heart to listen to what troubles ye either, to hear what causes the anger I can see in your eyes, and in the way ye stand.”

“The way I stand?”

“Ye stand as if ye are searching for someone to fight with.”

“I am. Ye have the right of it.” He took a few steps farther away from her when the urge to take her again, right there against the wall, wove seductively through his veins. “Mayhap ye should leave.”

“Nay. Ye are so tangled up, aye, knotted, that I fear for ye. Nay matter what it is, I will listen without flinching away or swooning like some fine lady.”

Simon dragged his hand through his hair and began to pace the room. “I ken who the leader of the traitors is now. S’truth, I kenned it the other day but I did my best to shake aside the truth of what I had heard, denying it and arguing it away in my mind.”

Ilsabeth would have thought that such news would have made Simon happy for it was what he had been searching for so diligently, but there was no joy to be seen in him over the successful end to his work. “Who is it?” she asked, but was dreading the answer.

“My brother.”

“Jesu,” she whispered. “Are ye sure?”

“Aye, I heard David and Hepbourn speak of him when I caught them meeting in the woods. That was the truth I was trying to deny. Weel, there is no denying it now. Morainn had a vision. In it the mon who leads all these fools is one of mine, she said, one of my blood. She said he had a lot of blood on his hands, including mine. Kenning that she saw that then made it impossible to ignore what I heard David and Hepbourn say. My brother Henry, the laird of Lochancorrie, is the one leading the plot to kill the king and take the throne. He will be here in three days.”

“He put those scars on your back, didnae he?”

“Aye. Ye asked how I got them and I have done my best to avoid telling the tale for ‘tis of a young mon’s folly.” He took her by the hand, sat in his chair and tugged her down onto his lap. “I suspicion ye have heard a few of those.”

“Aye, but they didnae usually end with the laddie being scarred for life.”

“Nay, but few deal with my brother Henry and walk away whole. And that is if they are fortunate to walk away at all.” He took a deep breath and told her about Mary.

Ilsabeth listened and heard things Simon did not say. A lonely young man with a strong sense of justice, a natural born protector, seduced and used by his brother and his brother’s wife. Mary had known just how to pull Simon into her net. The woman may not have known it when she started the evil game but she had seen into the heart of the young Simon very quickly.

As for Simon’s brother Henry, Ilsabeth had no words. She pressed closer to Simon and absently patted his chest as she thought of the man who now plotted to be made king. That Simon had emerged from that family with so much honor in him was a miracle and a testament to the strength of his soul.

Simon waited for Ilsabeth to comment on the sordid tale he had just told her, but she remained curled up tightly against him, patting his chest. He did not get the sense that she was outraged over his affair with the woman who had married his brother and laird. In truth, he was more concerned that she saw him as a fool. Then he smiled as he glanced down at the small hand still patting his chest. She was soothing him, he thought, and smiled.

It was at that moment that he realized his anger had eased. It was still there but now it was controllable. He knew he had a right to be so furious but it had troubled him that he could not stop himself from aiming it mindlessly at anyone who crossed his path.

“Ilsabeth, ye can cease petting me,” he said. “I am saner now.”

Ilsabeth peered up at him and knew he was telling the truth. His eyes did not hold the turmoil they had before. He even smiled a little as he put his hand over hers and stopped her stroking of his chest.

“Ye are verra quiet,” he said. “Have ye been shocked speechless then?”

“I was just wondering if there was a good way, one that isnae too offensive, to tell ye that someone should have strangled your brother Henry at birth.”

Simon laughed and hugged her. “The truth is always the best and, aye, someone should have put an end to him a long time ago. Many lives would have been saved.” He kissed the top of her head and frowned. “ ‘Tis odd, but Henry has always had an unerring sense of who just might be thinking of doing exactly that.”