The Enchantress (8 page)

Though common sense told him he was a fool, the woman aroused him. When he looked at her, when he felt the softness of her skin, his loins stirred with desire. Even the memory of her hands about him as they rode, and last night, the scent of lavender in her hair as she lay sleeping, was enough to set his blood on fire.

By God, he thought, even her sharp tongue, with those unceasing demands for a plan to do this and a plan to do that, served to stir life within him.

The stinging wind hammered him as he rode down onto the beach. The sea and sky--what he could see of either--were a fierce gray-green color, and he shook his head, feeling himself growing angry at the direction his thoughts were going.

William had left in the morning to avoid this. He’d left her sound asleep, a heap of cloak and blanket, because he knew he needed to get away. Distance--that’s what was called for--before she awakened and he fell further under her spell. She was a damned enchantress.

Aye, distance was the answer. His own past--a past that still gnawed at him--had taught him that this was only one way to deal with the likes of her. True, she was not Mildred, but the woman came from the same privileged life and upbringing.

Reaching up, he felt the lumps and the clotted blood beneath his tam. Then again, for a wee thing she could swing a rock as well as any Scottish lass.

“By Duthac’s Shirt,” he swore out loud. He’d been away from women too long! That was it. That was the whole problem. “Dread, we’re going to pay a visit to Molly at the Three Cups once we’re free of this arrogant court chit.”

Aye, he nodded, turning the steed toward the hut. That was all he needed to forget Laura Percy.

Leaping from the horse, William quickly brushed the worst of the snow off Dread and shook himself. Looking up, he realized the snow was falling even heavier than before.

The Highlander pushed open the door flap and began to lead the horse in. But Dread was only halfway inside the hut when William realized that Laura Percy was not there.

He called out to her, but the sharp whistle of the wind was his only answer. Pushing the horse back out the door, he called again. Nothing.

Searching the ground, the Highlander could see now the soft impressions in the snow. A single track of footprints showed that she had indeed left the hut on her own.

Following the tracks back down onto the beach, the Ross laird looked about in frustration. The waves were crashing high on the beach, and the spray filled the air. He could see nothing. As soon as he was beyond the protection of the bluffs, the footprints disappeared, obliterated by the snow and wind. She had not passed him on the beach, and the bluffs would not have offered an easy climb in the best of conditions. Her only route led to the north.

“Damn the woman!” William swore, running back to the hut and leaping onto his waiting steed.

Laura stood in stunned disbelief beside the broad gray-green river and stared at the churning, wind-whipped froth of white on its surface.

No longer even aware of the shudders that were wracking her body, she lifted her gaze gloomily to the towers of Rumster Castle rising in the distance beyond the impassable stretch of water.

Seeing the river jolted her for only a moment out of the numbing weariness that had crept into her body. She vaguely recalled being cold, but now she could not even feel that. As her disappointment dissipated, she realized she simply wanted to lie down on the soft white ground and sleep.

Nay, a nagging voice called out. Follow the river until you find a place to cross. There must be a place to cross. There must be a place.

But Laura’s body was growing too numb to respond immediately to the commands from her brain. She stood, her body slumped and shaking, her eyes hardly even able to focus on the great stone edifice across the water.

After leaving the hut, she had stubbornly pushed on through the storm, always keeping her destination in mind, always certain that the castle would suddenly appear. But as she trudged on with increasing fatigue, the wetness of the snow and ice had gradually seeped into her clothes, chilling her until her thoughts began to grow fuzzy, until the world around her began to take on a vague, distorted, dreamlike quality. Until it slowly registered in her brain that she no longer could feel the body encasing her soul.

And then she had found the river, nearly stumbling into it before drawing herself back.

Laura turned her back to the river and stared blankly at the stretch of beach she’d just covered. She did not recognize it. Everything appeared strangely tilted, unnatural. She tried to focus her eyes on the track of dark footprints snaking away from her in a long meandering trail, but she could not even do that.

Then, suddenly, she was looking across a moor in Yorkshire. The snow that covered the ground would soon disappear in the lightly falling rain. Her sister’s tracks led just over that hill. Laura could hear the sounds of their voices calling her.

Her mother had begged her to leave the house, to escape with her sisters. But as the three had run across the courtyard, Laura’s hand had pulled out of Catherine’s. She’d stopped. She couldn’t help herself. She could hear the screams of the serving folk as the king’s men cut them down. They were taking her parents away. They were killing any who raised a hand.

They were killing them, but there was nothing she could do to fight the evil.

Nay, Laura realized vaguely, that was past. She knew she was not in Yorkshire. There was no moor. The smell of salt from the sea penetrated the vision, and she turned her head slightly to look at the wind-whipped froth. She shivered and her gaze turned downward. Her feet were planted in the snow, but they seemed to belong to someone else. She could not move them.

Her mind wandered again. She could see the crenelated towers of their home above the crest of the moor. Was it spring already? Laura could smell the lilacs on the soft breeze.

She would stay here until her sisters came for her. Only vaguely could she feel the warmth of tears on her face.

“Laura!” Her sister’s frantic call reached her ears, but she remained still.

Oh, Virgin Mother, she prayed. Protect them. All of them.

“Laura!”

She slowly brought her hands to her ears to block out the distant sound of her name. They were dying in the household. The monsters were cutting them down!

“Laura!”

She shook her head. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t leave them behind. If it was her parents’ fate to die, then she would die, as well.

“Laura!”

She opened her eyes and saw him.

Out of the mist he came. So huge on his charger. His long, dark hair streaming in the wind.

“Nay!” she tried to scream. “Leave me to die.”

But she knew the sound was only in her head. The cold had robbed her of her voice.

*****

William Ross leaned down on the side of his horse and hauled the soaked body of the woman onto his lap. Like a frozen branch floating on an endless sea, there was no fight in her when he tucked her closely against his chest. Her bare hands were colder than ice--her exposed face red with the weather. He saw her lips move, but the words never broke through.

He didn’t pause more than an instant before yanking his horse around and charging down the beach. This was the last thing he needed right now--her dying of the cold.

With the wind at his back, it was not long before they reached the hut. Laura Percy’s life, though, seemed to have slipped from her body as he carried her inside. He knew there was still a very real danger of them being found if he was to start a fire inside the hut. The wind would carry the smell of smoke a long way. But laying her unmoving form on the packed dirt, he suddenly didn’t care.

After leading Dread in and closing the door against the invading wind, William quickly built a small fire from the driftwood. Once the blue flames were crackling in the center of the hut, he moved to Laura and went down on one knee beside her.

“Och, only a madwoman would have done what you did this morn.”

William continued talking to keep his mind off the chore he knew he must do. The cloak and blanket still half wrapped around her were stiff with ice. Carefully, he peeled both of them from her still body, hanging them over the rawhide cord he quickly strung up beneath the thatched roof. He placed her stockings and shoes beside the fire.

Her eyes were shut. Her chest barely moved as she breathed. At least, she was alive.

“As I said before, your kind think only of yourselves.”

William used the inside of his tartan to squeeze some of the water out of her streaming black hair. It had come completely free of the braid. The long shining waves gleamed like the wing of a raven. Looking away, he remembered the old shirt he carried in his saddlebag and got up to fetch it. He then pulled her into his lap. Her body draped over his arm, as limp as the wet woolen dress that clothed her.

“I’m telling you now, lass...I hate doing this.” He pulled her close to his chest and reached for the laces on the back of her dress. Her face rolled on his shoulder slightly as he swept the long ebony locks out of the way. The laces gave way slowly. As the soaked wool parted, his fingers came in contact with a linen shift. It, too, was soaked through. With a low curse, William started pulling the wool dress forward, off her shoulders.

“I do not like you,” he lied through clenched teeth. “And I do not like any of your kind. In fact, I’ll take a fistful of needles in my eyes and a dirk in my back before ever conceding that this gave me one whit of pleasure.”

He averted his eyes from the dark circles of her nipples showing through the transparent undergarment. Putting his old wool shirt quickly over her head, he relied on his sense of touch to push the wet shift down her arms. Holding her by one arm, he pulled the gray dress and the shift off her legs, and worked her arms into the sleeve of the dry shirt.

The woman made an incoherent sound deep in her throat. As he watched, her hands fisted, suddenly clutching his tartan and shirt. He pulled her more tightly to him, laying her head against his chest. As he held her, he gently rubbed one hand over her arms and back, warming her skin. Slowly, he felt her begin to relax.

By St. Andrew, he thought, he’d asked for distance and here she was, naked as a bairn beneath his shirt. He tried not to think of how soft her skin felt beneath his fingers or how full and round her breasts had looked. He tried to not remember the gentle curve of her hip and backside where he’d touched her just a moment ago. He felt the heat again stirring in his loins and took a deep breath. Her hair smelled of lavender, just as it had last night.

“By Duthac’s Shirt, woman! Have I told you how much I hate you?” He pulled her knees up and covered the exposed skin with the soft wool shirt. “As soon as this damnable weather lets up, I am taking you straight to the church and dropping you at the gates of the place. Gilbert can do whatever he wants with you. I’ll have no part of it!”

He felt her hand again clutch his tartan tightly, and she stiffened momentarily. As she did, her cheek accidentally brushed against his neck, and he felt the wetness on her face. He pulled back slightly and saw the tears. The silent tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Just as they had the night before.

“Laura!” he called gently, wiping away the wetness. “You’re safe, lass.”

Tears continued to fall as her features shifted, the muscles moving beneath the skin, a display of anguish and hurt that showed clearly even in the flickering firelight. The point of some invisible blade slipped between his ribs, and he breathed in sharply as the point touched something deep within him.

William edged closer to the fire and stretched, placing another piece of driftwood on the flames. She continued to cling to him. In a strange way, he realized that he was beginning to take comfort in that. It was true that she represented everything that he didn’t want in a woman. And yet, thrown together as a result of the storm and the danger around them, he would be a foul, unfeeling fiend not to give the simple aid that she needed.

*****

A few hours later Laura came fully awake.

As the clouds began to part, she tried to focus on her surroundings. A thatched hut. A small fire crackling a few feet in front of her. Certain she was still dreaming, she gazed for a moment at the strong hand wrapped protectively around her shoulder. A woolen cloth of red and black plaid appeared to be draped around her. In one ear she could hear the comforting sound of a heart beating strong and steady.

It took her a few moments to comprehend fully where she was and in whose lap she lay curled up. She lifted her head slowly and looked into his face. His eyes came open, and he stared into her face.

They were so close. So intimate. She felt the warmth against her fingers and realized her hand was tucked inside his shirt, resting against the warmth of his bare skin. She held her breath, unable to move, her own heart beginning to pound out a wild rhythm.

His eyes were as dark as a moonless night. And yet, reflected in their depths, a private battle was brewing. Perhaps because she was still floating somewhere in the space between dreams and reality, she couldn’t focus on the great danger that lurked so close at hand. The danger of lying half dressed in the arms of this reckless Highlander. The danger of finding herself attracted to something very real--to something forbidden.

Her eyes roamed his face for a long moment. She studied the dark slant of his brows--the eyelashes that were longer and more beautiful than any she’d ever seen on a man. Her eyes lingered on the scar by his chin, and then her gaze came to rest on the firm set of his lips. She felt a knot form in her throat just as a tingling heat began to surge through her belly.

Perhaps it was the tightening of his chest muscles beneath the tips of her fingers, or perhaps the hardness she felt pressing against her hip. Whatever it was, Laura found herself scurrying off his lap in a wink of an eye.

Springing to her feet, it took her another long moment before she realized he was regarding her with an almost amused expression. Looking down, Laura was horrified to discover she was wearing nothing more than a man’s shirt--a thing that came only to her mid-thigh, a thing riddled with more holes than a tinker’s promise.