The Heart Queen (18 page)

“I have seen enough, and you do not need me, lass,” he said.

She did need him. She needed parts that he probably did not even realize existed inside him.

She would not beg, so she merely nodded.

“I have business at Braemoor,” he added. “As I said, I will send someone here to help you.”

“I would rather try Angus,” she said. “ ‘Twould be better if I had someone from the property.”

He looked dubious.

“You said I could make my own decisions. Was that the truth, or another lie?”

She was beginning to know that muscle in his jaw. It was the only telltale sign that anything bothered him. He did not have to ask her what lie she meant. He nodded, then said, “I will return in a fortnight.”

“I would not be wishing to keep you from your own affairs.”

“Lochaene is now my affair,” he said. It was an unkind reminder. “If you have but need of me—”

“I will not.”

She was grateful that he was silent at that latest boast. She’d obviously had need of him. He had repaid what he obviously considered a debt. Either that, or he had some nefarious plan in mind. She was not quite sure which she preferred at the moment. She wanted to dislike him, to despise him. It was easier to live with the memory that way.

Still, he did not turn away. She felt the impact of his presence throughout her entire body. How could she still be attracted to him?

But the unfortunate fact was she was, and far greater than even eight years ago. Age, perhaps battle, had written lines in his face. Small wrinkles jutted out from around his eyes, and his jaw was leaner. He had a confidence now when once he had youthful bravado. His eyes were the same dark, deep mystery, and they more than anything had not changed, except they were far more wary. He reminded her a little of a hawk, and the danger that image conveyed stroked treacherous places inside her.

The truth was she did not want him to leave, and that was the worst thought of all.

“Thank you for being kind to the children today,” she said, putting off the leaving just one more moment.

“It was not that difficult, Countess.”

“They have not had much kindness from men.”

Neither have you
. She saw the realization in his eyes. It hurt. She did not want his pity.

His fingers touched her cheek again, brushing away a curl that had fallen from her braid. They hovered there for a moment, then he leaned down and touched her lips with his. Electricity ran through her like lightning through an oak. Heat puddled inside as she instinctively responded to his caress. Gentle yet so maddeningly persuasive, seductive, searching. She tried not to respond, but her body betrayed her. Her arms reached around him.

Her entire body was alive with need. She told herself it was for the tenderness that her husband had never shown. That it was loneliness. Mayhap it was all of them, but she had never been quite so alive. Her lips responded to his, and her mouth opened as his kiss became hungry, demanding. But it still had a tenderness that had never colored Alasdair’s advances. Her husband had just taken. He’d never explored, invited, seduced.

She turned her eyes upward to Braemoor’s. In the moonlight, she saw a pain so strong it ripped her apart. Her fingers tightened against the back of his head.

His kiss deepened, and the tenderness erupted into an explosiveness that echoed in every part of her body. Lips became almost frantic with the need to touch and feel and taste. The need burned straight through her, and nothing else mattered. Not betrayal, or resentment, or fear. Her body melded to his, and her lips opened, allowing his tongue entrance as her hands went up around his neck, tracing her fingers along his back. It was as if she’d been seized by a storm of feeling and tossed around with no will of her own.

She felt his hands moving around her body, and she felt it tense with expectation, with an eagerness new and unexpected. She tried to take a deep breath, to return to sense, but his tongue was devouring her mouth, his hands burning paths everywhere they touched. Her own body had become a natural adjunct to his, bending and yielding, her own hands and mouth as greedy as his.

Magic wrapped itself around them, a magic she’d experienced with him years ago, but this sorcery was even stronger, more demanding, more painful. A sob built deep inside her. How could she need him so?

A month after her husband’s death. A month after the relief she’d felt that no man would again invade her body with no care for her. She felt herself shuddering. How could her body and heart and mind be at such odds.

She wanted to clutch him with all her might, to keep him with her. But he was as much a phantom as the man the Highlands had called the Black Knave. A myth.

With a cry, she pulled away from him. She stood, her body trembling, aching, wanting. She fought back the tears that had been far too close to the surface since he’d arrived. She’d thought she could, never be affected by a man again. And now she felt like a mindless puppet.

He stepped back, looking at her with those dark unfathomable eyes. “I apologize, Madam. I did not mean for that to happen.”

Then why had it? If neither of them had wanted it... why?

Sweet Mother in heaven, but those tears were threatening again.

Braemoor stood there silently for a moment. He looked down at her, and she almost thought she could hear his heartbeat. She wished she could read his eyes, but she could not. They were as barred to her as his heart. She’d been a moment’s fancy. An easy kiss stolen from a love-starved widow. Once he’d proven his prowess, he had little interest. Pain ripped through her. She straightened, lifted her chin. He would never know how much that moment hurt her.

But it was Braemoor who finally turned away. “I am going to walk awhile,” he said.

She was clearly not invited. Nor did she want to be, she told herself. It was better that he left before she did anything foolish. She turned toward the door.

He nodded, “Do not forget. If you have need of me ...”

It would be a good day in hell before she approached him again.

She did not answer him but slid inside the door. She closed it, then leaned against it as if her body could keep him out. Why did she always lose all her senses around him? And why did the good memories push away the bad? Especially when he had just made it obvious that he was only paying back a debt. He evidently had no interest in her as a widow, either. Her estates were not so large. In truth, she had to admit, they were very small indeed compared to his own.

Had he expected more? The Campbells had properties throughout Scotland, most of them stolen, she knew. Had he come here thinking that Lochaene might be a treasure to drain?

That must be it. And now that he had discovered differently, he was leaving as fast as his horse would carry him. She would, most likely, not hear from him again.

Good riddance, she told herself as she finally moved away from the door and started toward the steps. She repeated the words, even as the tears finally fell.

The gunshot came out of nowhere. Then another.

The blows knocked Neil off his horse. He tumbled for several feet, his head hitting a rock. He saw blood coloring his breeches and felt it running down his cheek. He realized it was only a matter of seconds before the pain hit him. He knew, from battle, that there was usually a moment’s numbness.

It came quicker than he thought.

He forced himself to slump and lie absolutely still. Would the assailant venture down to see whether he had succeeded? Or figure that this path was so isolated that no one would find him in time to save him? He prayed for the latter even as his mind worked feverishly. He had taken this path through the Highlands because the route was faster, even though often dangerous.

Bandits roamed these Highlands, as did bands of fugitive Jacobites who hadn’t been able to escape the country even eighteen months after Culloden. They needed money for their escape to France.

He had been a daydreaming fool. The morning mist had cleared and the mountains had been deceptively peaceful with their fields of heather and gorse and tumbling waterfalls. He’d been thinking of Janet and last night’s unwise kiss. How could he ever have permitted himself to commit such a selfish act? But she had been so appealing in the moonlight, her face turned up to his....

He’d regretted it instantly and yet he had not been able to stop himself. He had touched her face, and then. ...

And then ... he should have walked away. But he had not, and now he would remember forever the way she had invaded the deep private part of him he’d tried to keep locked tight. He would always remember the way her lips felt, the way her body had melded to his. She had not wanted to kiss him, but there had been something so instinctive, so irresistible. He had even let himself think for a second that...

But what was a marriage without intimacy, without physical love?

He was visiting that particular hell when the sound of a musket ripped through the air and a ball into him.

Lost in his thoughts, he had forgotten these Highlands could be as hostile and lawless as any place on earth.

The pain struck him now with a fury. He heard voices and he struggled to hold his breath. A kick landed in his ribs and he forced himself not to react.

“E’s not quite dead,” he heard a voice say. “Should I finish ‘im?”

“Search him first. The woman said he would have money. If he does not, we might hold him for ransom.”

Neil forced his body to go limp and his eyes to remain closed as fingers probed his clothing. They found his much-depleted purse of coins, and he heard the disappointment in their voices. Then a grunt. “Tae bloody cards. We was promised more tha‘ this.”

Neil heard the sound of boots approach. Not a steady gait. Damn, but he wished he could open his eyes. There was a moment’s silence. “The queen and knave?” The voice was puzzled. And, to his surprise, obviously educated.

The pain was boiling inside him now, and he felt the loss of blood. He tried to will his assailants to leave.

A foot prodded him again, this time more gently. “If you still live, it will pay you to open your eyes.” The educated voice again. “Otherwise, I will plunge this sword through you.”

Neil believed him. He opened his eyes.

“Dem me, but he was playin‘ dead,” said the other man.

“Who are you?” The man who had prodded him asked. Neil tried to raise up to see his interrogator. The man was dressed in peasant’s clothes, a poor wool of nondescript color. His face, though, was striking. A scar ran down one side, giving it a perpetual smile. His hair was a dark russet color, tied in a queue at his neck. He was probably in his late thirties or so, but it was difficult to determine with the scar. His eyes were a dark blue.

Neil tried to move, but the pain was agonizing. The musket ball, he thought, must still be inside him.

The man over him seemed not to care. “Who are you?” he asked again. “And I might warn you that your life weighs on the answer.”

“Neil Forbes,” he said, afraid it sounded more like a groan than actual words.

“Are you Braemoor?”

“Aye,” Neil said, seeing no advantage in denying it. Those cards, for some reason, had stayed this man’s hand.

“Damn, if this isn’t the devil’s own work,” the man said. He stooped and turned Neil, loosened his cloak, then jacket with far more care than the other man had shown.
Why
?

He took a knife from his belt and quickly cut open Neil’s trouser leg. He muttered something to himself, then looked back at him. “One ball’s still inside the leg.”

“So what?” the second man said. “Why not finish him?”

“I have my reasons, Burke,” the man with the scar said. “Come and help me get him off the path. I doubt whether there will be any more fools coming this way, but you never know.”

If Neil hadn’t felt so damn bad, he might have resented the description of him. He had no idea why his title had apparently changed this man’s murderous impulses, but he was not going to quarrel with it now. He had too many things he wanted to do, and far too many debts to pay before he met his maker.

“Can you stand?” the stranger asked.

Neil tried, but he felt a rush of blood pour from his wound and pain turned into burning agony. He pushed up, though, and the russet-haired man put an arm under his and hoisted him to his feet. “God, but you are a heavy one,” he said. “Burke, help me.”

The other man took the other side and they half carried, half dragged him down out of sight of the road. The fire in his leg spread throughout his body. His head felt as if someone was hammering it. The pain almost blocked out the questions in his mind. Almost, but not quite. One of the men said a woman had set these two on him. And why now was the bandit trying to save the man he’d just tried to kill?

“Get my flagon,” the stranger told the man called Burke, then turned to Neil. “I have to take that bullet out,” he said.

Despite his best efforts to stay upright, Neil dropped to the ground. “Why? You just tried to kill me.”

“I did not know you were Braemoor,” he said. “We were told an English toff with plenty of Scottish gold in his pockets would be riding this way.”

“You shoot without making sure?”

“Better than being shot. Or hung,” the bandit replied with a shrug. “And I find myself in need of scratch.”

“My horse?”

“Unhurt. The blood on him is yours. At least I might salvage a horse in this bloody mess.”

Burke returned with a flagon and musket in his hand.

“Get him something to bite on. I donna want to bring the entire English army down upon us.”

“Who are you?” Neil asked.

“A man trying to survive,” the well-spoken bandit said. “You had the queen and knave. You can think of me as the king.”

“King of bandits?”

The man just shrugged and offered the flagon. “Drink well, Braemoor. This is going to hurt like the furies.”

Neil did so. He knew what was coming. He’d taken a sword thrust once, and some nasty slices while in training. Between waves of stabbing pain, he knew he was losing consciousness. He’d lost a lot of blood. Mayhap too much. The voice of his assailant-turned-benefactor was fading.