Lois Greiman (15 page)

She shoved the dreams away, focusing on reality. “Yes,” she said, and yawned.

He gave her a look as he passed her by. The fire had burned down.

She scowled and scrubbed at her face, trying
to wake up, but just then she noticed the pot he carried.

Her hands stopped of their own accord. Her heart might have done the same. “What’s that?”

“This?” He lifted the lid from the kettle, and then she smelled the stew. The scent of it tickled her nostrils, teased her shaky senses. And though it might have been wise to act nonchalant, she was not quite up to the task. “I think I may have underestimated you, Scotsman,” she said.

“Keelan,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Me name.”

She nodded. “So your mother didn’t truly call you Angel.” She drew a deep waft of the stew, feeling faint. “You probably didn’t even have a mother. Were probably spawned—”

“She had eyes as dark as midnight,” he said, but his smile was gone, replaced by a solemn tenderness she could not mock. “And when she laughed…” He held her in his gaze…in his power. “The world was happy.”

“I’m sorry.” She could not stop the words, though she tried, and then he smiled, blessing her with that softest of gifts.

“In truth, she called me Ange
,
” he said, then cleared his throat and looked away. Were there tears in his eyes? But no. ’Twas an act. Surely she
knew a fine performance when she saw one. “I fear ye’ll have to eat out of the pot. The butterer caught a glimpse of me afore I could filch his master’s crockery.”

She glanced away, trying to find her bearings. “Butterer?”

“One who butters,” he explained. “But mayhap he was a cupbearer.”

She must have loved him madly, this woman with the midnight eyes. “You’re telling me you stole this from some fine lord?”

“Hunting party,” he said, and glanced up. “Mayhap ye thought I’ve been out slaving over a hot stove?” He grinned, but the expression was somehow lost in retrospection. “After melting the iron and hammering out the kettle, of course.”

She couldn’t quit watching him.

“There’s na a great deal left, but ’tis still warm.” His voice was gruff. What had happened to her, the mother who loved him? “Sit down.”

She did so.

He handed over the pot. A wooden spoon protruded past the rim. She lifted it and ate, letting the sustenance clear her head. They each had a role to play. The victor would be the one who played his or her part the best.

“My compliments to the butterer,” she said finally.

He was watching her, admiration unhidden in his dark-fringed eyes.

“It’s not polite to stare,” she said, and stifled the shiver that snaked up her spine.

He shrugged. “Some might say it’s na polite to run aboot in the altogether either, as wee Charity so charmingly put it.”

“Does my lack of modesty bother you?” she asked, and tried to scrape out a bit more stew. There seemed to be an infinitesimal amount stuck to the bottom.

“Me? Na a’tall.”

“Good, then I shall remain like this and hope to keep you distracted until I can knock you on the head again.”

He grinned, stealing her foolish breath. “And after I slaved over that fine meal.”

“Don’t forget hammering out the kettle.”

“Me hands be still sore.”

Her mind was working better since the meal, tripping along, trying to determine who he might be. How he figured into the scheme of things. “So who told you about the staff?”

“’Twas a man named Thom,” he said. “We met in a wee pub in Carlisle. He was fond of his drink.”

“He knew Chetfield,” she guessed.

“Said he’d inherited a treasure.”

“Did he?” If so, he was wrong. The staff had not changed hands, not in well over a century.

“Aye.”

“Is this someone I should be concerned with?”

“He didn’t seem to know what the treasure was exactly, just something Chetfield’s father’s father had taken from the deep many long years past. Something beyond precious. Mayhap even magical.” He was studying her. Why? “Still, if the staff were me own to worry on, I would na invite him to tea.”

“The staff isn’t yours,” she reminded him, “and I don’t drink tea.”

He shrugged as if to say she was perfectly safe then, but what was he truly thinking?

“So you traveled all this way from Carlisle on the slim chance that this Thom fellow was correct and that Chetfield still owned the treasure?”

He shrugged. “I am naught but a bold gambler.”

“Then why haven’t you tried to take it from me yet?”

“The staff?” He grinned. “I saw you brain Chetfield, lass. Scared the life out of me.”

Maybe she would have believed that at one time. “I’m beginning to think you don’t scare easily, Highlander.”

“Ye jest,” he said, eyes laughing. “Me knees be shaking even now. But truth be told, I expect ye to be me best defense once the nasty bastards show up.”

“My turn to be flattered. How far behind us do you think they—” she began, but suddenly he held up his hand for silence and jerked toward the mouth of the cave.

“Not far at all,” said Chetfield and stepped into view.

“H
oly—” Keelan rasped, but suddenly he was grabbed from behind and jerked backward. A knife pricked his neck and Charity’s voice hissed near his ear.

“One step closer and I swear to God I’ll kill him.”

Caution or shock kept him perfectly immobile.

For a moment Chetfield stood just as still. Then he spoke. “’Tis a pity, but I fear our little Charity has gone quite mad, Mr. Roland.”

There was a rustling of underbrush and then the bastard stepped into view. Keelan felt the maid’s attention flicker to him. “I’m as sane as Sunday, Chetfield.” The knife felt perfectly steady against his neck. Perhaps he should have thought to take it from her when she’d been repairing her bodice, but he’d been rather distracted.

“Then why, my dear, do you imagine I would care if you killed a wayward Scot who has been nothing but trouble since the day I set eyes on him?”

“He took the staff,” she snarled.

Keelan cranked his eyes toward her. Was she mad? he wondered, but she only tightened her grip in his hair.

Chetfield tilted his head. “Are you telling me that young MacLeod here stole the staff you stole from me?”

She yanked his head back with a growl. It hurt like hell. “’E said ’e loved me.”

Chetfield’s lips smirked up even as he narrowed his eyes. “Did he indeed?”

“We’ve been planning this for months.” Her accent was back. “Him and me. I didn’t want to do it, but he could sweet-talk a toadie. Said all I had to do was make you trust me. Then we’d snatch the thing and hock it in London town. Make us a fortune, live happily ever after. Wouldn’t be no trouble.”

“But…” Chetfield suggested.

“He took it whilst I was sleeping. Put a worthless branch in its place.” She jerked her head toward the back of the cave. “Thinking I wouldn’t look too close, I suspect. Thinking he could buy hisself some time.”

“As much as I’d like to believe you, my dear, that seems a bit far-fetched. Why would he come back if that were the case?”

She laughed. It sounded as crazy as Keelan felt. “Sex, Master Chetfield. One more good bump. I’m damned good at it, you know.” She snarled, her lips close to Keelan’s ear. “Thought you could have me one more time before you took off with the spoils, didn’t you?” she asked, and drew blood at his neck. “Didn’t you?” she repeated.

“Well, lass…” His throat felt dry. His thoughts were buzzing like bumblebees in his head. But it was die trying…or just die. “If ye did na want to be swived, ye should na strut aboot with yer bosoms hanging out and—”

“Me bosoms…” She ground them into his back. “…brought you back though, didn’t they?”

Holy God, he didn’t know the rules to this game. Couldn’t keep up with the twists and turns. “I did na take the staff, Master Chetfield. Dunna believe—”

“He’s lying,” she growled, and urged forth another droplet of blood.

Keelan gritted his teeth. “Verra well then, aye, I took it. But think on it, luv,” he rasped. “I could have run off and left ye to die. Yet I could
na bear to leave you here alone in the midst of nothing.”

“Not with me bosoms hanging out at any rate,” she snarled. “Ye’re no better than the others. No better than a damned rat. I should have knowed—”

“As interesting as this is,” Chetfield interrupted, “I’m wondering what your plans are now, my dear.”

“Me plans?” She darted her gaze from one to the other. “I plan to get out of here alive.”

“But my men, which I’ve felt the need to gather, are likely getting bored holding the hounds at bay. And I fear you hurt Mr. Roland’s feelings when you kneed him in the groin.”

“Well that’s too bad, ain’t it now. I’m leaving,” she hissed, “and I’m taking him…” She pricked Keelan’s neck again. He closed his eyes and hoped to hell this one was a dream. “…with me till I comes to the river.”

“The river?”

“That’s right.” Her tone was taut. “I got me a little vessel there. Once I’m free on the water, you can have the rodent, here. But if you try to rush me, I’ll kill him.”

“She’s lying,” Roland murmured.

But Chetfield shook his head. “A woman scorned,” he said, then: “What about the staff?”

“If you can bang it out of the Scotsman here, it’s all yours. And good riddance to it. I don’t want nothing to do with any of you.”

“But that hardly seems fair after all the work you went to,” Chetfield said. “Why not turn the Scotsman loose now? We’ll convince him to tell us where he hid the thing, and compensate you for your efforts.”

For a second she seemed to hesitate, but then she laughed. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? You think I’m bloody daft. But I ain’t.” She nudged Keelan forward. “We’re going now. Out that way right there.” She nodded toward the opening. “And if you give me a peep of trouble he’s gonna die.”

“But think of it, my dear. If you kill him, you’ll still be here with us.”

The blade trembled against Keelan’s neck, but for the life of him he couldn’t determine if her terror was real or pretend. “He said he loved me,” she sniffled, and once again let his blood flow down his chest. “I’m carrying his baby right now.”

Keelan cranked his eyes toward her. She didn’t even pause.

“Only I just found out he’s married to some tart in Edinburgh. Believe me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll kill him if it makes sense or no.”

They were looking into her eyes. Chetfield nodded. “Very well, my dear. You have a free course to the river.”

“Tell yer animals outside.”

“What’s that?” Chetfield’s tone was melodious.

“Yer bloody big beasts,” she said, her voice grating in his ear. “They’re waiting right round the corner.”

“You’re wrong, my—”

“Call them off,” she rasped.

Anger suffused Chetfield’s face, but he spoke in a moment. “Frankie,” he said, barely raising his voice. “Bear. Miss Charity will be coming out in a moment. You’ll not hurt her.”

“Nor the shit-head here neither,” she added, nudging Keelan. “He’s mine till the river.”

Chetfield’s eerie eyes gleamed dangerously. “Likewise,” he added, “you will give Mr. MacLeod free passage.”

“Tell them to back away,” Charity ordered. “All of them.”

“Step away now.” Chetfield’s voice was grim.

They heard heavy footsteps rustling through the underbrush.

“Way back,” Charity said, “where I can see them.”

He gave the order. Half a dozen men could
be seen in the narrow opening. Frankie held two wolfhounds at bay. They slavered, hackles raised. Charity nudged Keelan forward. He moved on stiff knees. Lambkin trotted after them. Outside it was still drizzling, cold and cheerless.

Horses stood some distance off to their right, hips cocked, half dozing in the misty rain. But Charity was pulling him back along the stony embankment, heading downhill. Chetfield followed them out, moving carefully, but Keelan felt the girl’s attention slip sideways for a moment, then back.

“You’re not going to try to cheat us out of our goods, are you, my dear?” asked the old man.

“You can have him,” she said, “soon as I—” but suddenly the knife disappeared from Keelan’s neck. She bent down and yanked something from the bracken. And then she was running, sprinting past him full-bore.

It took Keelan a moment to realize she was racing toward the horses, longer still to understand she had the staff.

“Run!” she shrieked.

Terror stabbed him like a spur. Lambkin bleated. He leapt forward, snatching her up at a run. Chetfield yelled something indiscernible, but the words mattered little.

A dog bayed.

The nearest horse snorted and plunged at its reins, but Charity was already scrambling aboard. And then she was flying, driving the beast straight toward Keelan. The animal bore down on him. He leapt aside at the last second, rolling wildly. Directly behind him, someone screamed as he was plowed under, but Keelan never identified his pursuer. Charity was thundering away. The three remaining mounts were pulling at their tethers. He grabbed the gray’s reins and jumped for a stirrup just as it broke free. But something grabbed his leg as he threw himself into the saddle.

He cursed and kicked. Someone growled back. The bay broke loose and slammed into the gray, who lurched left. Keelan held on. His attacker fell with a yelp, and then he was flying, racing after the girl, Lambkin’s ears blown back in the force of the wind.

Branches whipped past Keelan’s face. They careened up a hill, then down, heading for the river. Charity was nowhere in sight, but Keelan let the gray have its head. They hit the water full tilt. On the far side, hoofprints charged through the mud and up the incline. He pushed his mount in that direction as water rushed around the animal’s hocks, but something snagged his mind. A damned premonition maybe, but he had no
time to deny it. Yanking one rein tight, he pulled the gray to a halt. And there, a furlong or two downstream, he saw a fleeting glimpse of something. Whirling the gelding toward it, he pushed it back into a gallop. Rocks slipped beneath the animal’s plowing hooves, but Keelan dare not look down. She had been here. His scalp tingled with the knowledge. But where was she now? And what should he do? Leave the horse and search on foot? Move on or—

“It’s about damned time,” she said, and stepped out from behind a boulder.

Keelan wrestled the steed to a jolting halt and stared at her. She was covered in mud. Her face was speckled with it, the sweet curves of her breasts freckled. But she held the staff firmly in her hand.