The Highlander's Forbidden Bride (5 page)

“My thoughts remain my own, no matter how tight the quarters,” he insisted.

“Then don’t wear them so blatantly on your face for me to see.”

“Ignore them,” he ordered.

“How can I ignore a sour expression?”

“Don’t look at me.”

“I like looking at you,” she said, staring directly at him. “You are a handsome man.”

Ronan glared at her, his mouth set tight.

“This is where you return the compliment,” she said with a chuckle.

“You’re an ugly, coldhearted—”

“Watch what comes out of your mouth, Highlander,” Carissa warned, “or I’ll make certain I cut out your tongue before I leave you for dead.”

Ronan jumped up, sending the empty rock
ing chair rocking as he approached her. “Is that what you did to Hope? You warned her enough times that she spoke too much. Did you cut out her tongue?”

He stopped mere inches in front of her, his green eyes glaring with anger.

“Answer me,” he demanded.

“No, I took mercy on the poor fool and killed her swiftly.”

R
onan reacted without thinking, his hands went straight to Carissa’s neck, though they fell away quickly enough when he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar scent. He stumbled, bumping the table as he shook his head.

Apples. Hope had forever smelled of apples.

Her fruity scent had always followed her. It was how he knew when she had entered the stable pen where he had been held. It had always been a welcome relief from the constant stench.

He glanced down and saw the dried apples in the bowl. Her scent brought back a rush of memories that pained his heart even more. And he wondered if somehow she had reached out in death and reminded him of a promise she had asked of him.

Late at night, when all slept and the world seemed at peace, Hope would sneak into the stables and visit with him. She would bring him food to help him grow strong, though Mordrac had ordered the captors to be given but one meal
a day. They would whisper, so as not to be heard by anyone.

One night Hope had asked him to promise her something that he had had a difficult time doing, but she had pleaded with him and he, out of love, relented. She had asked that he not hold anger or hatred in his heart if fate should keep them from being together. After he promised, he did, however, teasingly tell her that he would hunt down fate and demand an explanation.

She had laughed and snuggled beside him, and the scent of apples had filled his nostrils just as it did now.

“Apples,” he whispered, and looked to see that Carissa was staring at him, and what he saw puzzled him. Fear was evident in her wide eyes and pale face, and never had he known her to fear anything.

She seemed to regain her composure after a quick shake of her head, color flooding back into her cheeks, her blue eyes intent. “I’m making apple buns.”

He noticed that her hands trembled slightly as she scooped up dried apples to chop into smaller pieces. She had been upset as much as he had, but then, the possibility of being choked to death would do that to anyone.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he snapped, more annoyed with himself for losing his temper and reacting as he had. He wanted her punished, but it would be a fair and fitting one.

“I’ll manage.”

His stomach grumbled.

“It sounds like you’ll eat no matter the taste,” she said.

“I’ve eaten slop to survive before; I can do it again,” he said, knowing she understood that it was she herself who had served it to him.

“Then it will be like old times, won’t it?”

“Not quite,” he reminded. “This time you’re my prisoner.”

Ronan finally sat at the table having waited almost an hour for the food to be done. He didn’t care what it tasted like. He was starving, not having eaten since early yesterday morning.

Carissa sat, leaving him to serve himself. He didn’t waste a minute. He spooned a good portion of creamy porridge into his bowl and helped himself to the largest apple bun drizzled with a honey-colored liquid. He poured himself cider that she had heated in the hearth and reminded himself that no matter the taste, he had to eat it. His strength depended on it.

He took a mouthful of porridge, prepared to swallow in one gulp, until he realized how flavorful it tasted. And then he savored it and was anxious to eat more. After several spoonfuls, he tried the apple bun. It tasted so delicious that he devoured it in seconds. He continued to fill himself until the only food left was one last, small apple bun.

“Finish it if you’d like,” Carissa said.

Ronan grabbed it and with two bites it was gone.
He sat back in the chair with a contented smile. “That was good.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Carissa said.

And he could see that she actually did. Her cheeks were rosy, her smile delightful, and her eyes bright.

But he had to ask the obvious. “How does someone who has slaves doing everything for her learn to cook?”

“I thought it best I be prepared in case circumstances should arise where I needed to tend to my own meals, and obviously it was a wise choice.”

“Can you stitch as well?”

“I am adept with a needle,” she admitted.

“I have a shirt that needs mending,” he said with a grin.

“I stitch flesh better than cloth,” she said bluntly.

“Isn’t tending the wounded another chore for one of your slaves?”

“Not when your father trusts no other hands to tend him.”

“Your hands could not be tending him that long that he had no other to help. How many years are you? Eighteen at the most, and you needed time to learn, so that leaves you tending your father for—”

“I am twenty years, and I have mended my father’s wounds since I’ve been seven.”

Ronan leaned forward in the chair. “How is that possible? You could never be proficient with a needle at seven.”

“If a needle was thrust in your hands when you were five years old, and your father commanded you to learn, you could.”

“Your father did that to you?” he asked, as if such a thing were incomprehensible.

“It was my duty.”

“You were five, your fingers tiny. And stitching cloth is different from stitching flesh,” he said.

“I didn’t learn to stitch on cloth.”

Ronan stared at her. “Are you saying that your father had you learning on wounded warriors?”

“No, he wouldn’t be that cruel to his men,” she said. “He had me practice every day on dead warriors.”

“What?” he asked, and shook his head, not believing what he had just heard. “You were only five.”

“As my father constantly told me, I was not too young to learn. And it taught me another valuable lesson besides learning how to stitch.”

“This I must know,” he said, “for I cannot imagine what a child of five can learn from stitching dead warriors.”

Carissa raised her chin. “It taught me not to be afraid of death, for no one can hurt you anymore after you die.”

She was letting him know that her death would only bring her peace. If she thought of death as an end to her suffering, then he certainly wasn’t punishing her, he was freeing her, and that truly disturbed him.

However, it also disturbed him to learn what Mordrac had done to his five-year-old daughter. The image of her—so very young—stitching dead men was horrifying, and he couldn’t help but wonder what else the evil man had made his daughter endure.

Carissa stood and reached for her cloak, hanging on the peg by the door.

Ronan also stood. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out to collect some snow to clean the plates, then get rainwater from the barrel to start a stock for a hearty soup for later.”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Don’t trust me?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

“You’d have to be a fool to attempt an escape in this weather and with only a wool cloak to protect you.” He walked over to her and captured her chin with his fingers. “And if anything, Carissa, I know you’re no fool.”

He draped his fur-lined cloak over his shoulders, grabbed the bucket near the door, and, taking a tight hold on the door, he opened it and stepped outside, closing it firmly behind him.

Carissa almost sunk to the floor, her legs trembled so badly. He was learning too much about her, and she feared his piecing things together and discovering the truth. What then? Would he hate her even more? Or could he love her?

They were enemies, she reminded herself, and
hadn’t her father warned her time and time again that once an enemy, always an enemy. Could she ever truly trust Ronan?

The door opened, and he hurried in, setting the full bucket on the floor. “Give me what you want filled from the rain barrel.”

Carissa grabbed the larger cauldron near the hearth and gave it to him. He once again disappeared out the door. She sunk down on the chair at the table. How was she ever going to survive her time here with him? She feared revealing too much of herself. She had to remember who she was. Hadn’t her father told her that often enough?

Never forget that you are Carissa, daughter of Mordrac the Barbarian.

And didn’t Ronan remind her the same often enough?

The door opened again, and Carissa stood, quickly gathering the bowls. She didn’t want him to find her sitting there in thought.

“Can you hang it on the hook in the hearth?” she asked him.

He did, then hung his cloak on the peg beside hers.

“The weather worsens,” he said, sitting down in the rocker and holding his hands out to warm them. “The snow grows heavy, and the skies look to promise more. If it keeps up, we will be stuck here for some time.”

She didn’t need to hear her worst fear confirmed though she hadn’t expected any different.

“Is there enough food in the root cellar for us?” he asked.

“More than sufficient,” she assured him. “There is even dried meat.”

“Good, for it would not be easy to hunt in this weather.”

“The sky shows no promise of change?” she asked, seeking a shred of hope.

Ronan shook his head. “The sky is barely visible, the snow falls so heavily, and it feels like the storm brews as if it has yet to reach its peak.”

Carissa nodded, knowing that it wasn’t the only storm out there brewing. The one inside the cottage had yet to gain momentum, and when it peaked, she feared the results.

Y
ou would think that there would be nothing to do but wait out the storm, but there was a matter of survival to consider. Which was why Ronan braved the harsh weather several times during the day to gather as much of the firewood as possible to stack inside the cottage. It needed time to dry in order to burn properly.

Carissa had suggested that they collect certain food staples from the root cellar to keep in the cottage so that they didn’t have to continually open the root cellar and lose the much-needed heat.

She also found two extra blankets in the chest beside the bed. Ronan watched as she took a chair from the table, placed its back to the hearth, and draped one blanket over it. She turned the blanket several times, exposing all sides to the heat. She’d test it with her hand now and again, and when it seemed to please her touch, she moved it to the bed and placed the second blanket over the back of the chair.

He wondered over her domestic actions. He never imagined her capable of anything useful.
To him she was the spoiled and selfish daughter of a barbarian, who demanded and got whatever she wanted, and that included killing people at her whim.

He had a difficult time seeing her as a capable woman, especially one who could cook more than a decent meal and see to keeping a bed warm with little to help her accomplish the task. Least of all, he had not expected her to provide him with a tankard of hot cider every time he had come in out of the cold.

He had to remember who she was and ask himself why she acted so contrary to her nature. The answer was obvious. She was a cunning creature who would do anything to survive, even change her demeanor. He had to be very careful around her. He couldn’t allow her to deceive him. He had to remember always who she was…the person who had killed the woman he loved.

Night had fallen hours ago, and for supper they had enjoyed the hearty soup that had simmered in the cauldron all day. Carissa had baked two loaves of dark bread, saving one loaf for tomorrow. She had also made some type of apple spread to go with it, and Ronan had savored every delicious bite, not leaving a drop of soup or crumb.

Still, no matter how much he enjoyed her cooking, he had to remember she was a deceitful woman and remain on guard.

She sat in the rocking chair after taking a flat pan from the hearth, placing it in the middle of the bed, and pulling the covers over it. A small crock
sat in her lap, and she scooped some salve from it and rubbed it over her hands.

The scent drifted over to him…lavender.

He grew annoyed by the peaceful family scene they shared and stood to rest a hand on the mantel, and to question the woman hiding inside Carissa.

“How did you escape when my brother Cavan attacked your father’s stronghold?”

“I always paid attention to my father’s advice, not that I always agreed,” she said. “He had been abundantly clear about making certain always to have a means of escape wherever one was.” She shook her head and moved the crock from her lap to the floor. “He should have taken his own advice, but then he was so certain all would go his way.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Not in the least,” she admitted. “You don’t declare war on a powerful clan like yours without forethought and a strong strategic plan. My father didn’t have enough of either.”

“Did you express your concerns to him?”

She laughed. “I cherish my tongue, so I kept my opinions to myself.”

He was about to suggest that her father would not harm her in such a brutal way when he was suddenly assaulted with images of her at five years stitching dead warriors and realized that her father was capable of that and more.

“You didn’t believe that your father could conquer my clan?”

“Your clan’s reputation precedes itself, and your friends”—she smiled—“are too many to ignore. A
point my father failed to realize. While his troops may have outnumbered your clansmen, they did not outnumber your allies.”

“So you escaped, leaving your father to deal with his foolish actions.”

“It was the wisest choice,” she said. “There was nothing I could do to save him. Fate already had its hand heavy on his shoulder.”

“But not on yours?”

“Not if I could help it.”

“How did you avoid my brother’s warriors?” he asked.

“When I was young, I would escape into the woods and pretend I was fleeing a horrible monster. Most times I could only hide from him, but one day I discovered a way out, and I revisited it often. In case one day I would need it.”

“And that day came,” he confirmed.

“And I was ready.”

“You shed no tear leaving your father behind, knowing he most certainly would face death when captured?”

“Another lesson I have to thank my father for. I don’t cry. He taught me not to shed a single tear. It is a wasted action, serving no productive purpose.”

“When was the last time you cried?” he asked curious.

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t recall.”

Ronan didn’t believe her. He had a feeling she remembered full well when last she cried. She just didn’t want to tell him. He had time. He’d find out; though why he wanted to know, he couldn’t say.
But he did, and he also wanted to know
why
she had cried.

“Tell me more of what your father taught you,” he said.

“I’m too tired,” she claimed. “I want to go to bed.”

He stepped away from the hearth. “A good night’s sleep will do us both good.”

She stood, slowly unfastening her blouse. “Then you’ll join me in bed?”

His memory of her naked was still strong in his mind, and he knew it was not a wise idea to go to bed with her.

“We can keep each other warm,” she said, and slipped off her blouse.

Her breasts swelled beneath the shift, her nipples growing hard beneath the white linen. And while he would rot in hell before he touched her, he couldn’t say she didn’t tempt him.

“You have the bed warming,” he reminded. “You don’t need me.”

She smiled that damn wicked smile of hers that could probably cause a priest to sin.

“Ahh, but there’s nothing quite like warm bodies pressed against each other to heat you right down to the soul,” she said.

“I didn’t think you had a soul.” He could see that his remark had stung her, and oddly enough, he felt a pang of regret for his hurtful comment though he couldn’t understand why. After what she had done, she deserved no sympathy from him.

“Go to bed,” he ordered, and sat in the rocker, turning it so that his back was to her. He had no desire to look upon her naked body, and he wanted her well aware of that.

He heard the creak of the bed as she climbed into it, but he refused to turn around and look at her. He had no doubt she would continue to attempt to seduce him, hoping to win her freedom. And he intended to make certain that would not happen.

He leaned his head back against the rocker and closed his eyes, thinking how Carissa would never taste freedom again, and the thought brought him a modicum of joy though only for a moment. He recalled with great clarity what she said death had taught her.

No one can hurt you anymore
.

As he dozed off, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the best punishment for Carissa was something other than death.

Carissa snuggled beneath the three blankets and, while she wanted to keep her distance in the bed, in case Ronan decided to join her, there was a chill that drifted off the wall if she got too close.

She was relieved he hadn’t come to bed yet. She feared if he lay beside her, he would detect the rapid beat of her heart and the tremble that rippled through her body. His remark had affected her more than she cared to admit. She had been accused of many things, but never had anyone dared
suggest that she had no soul. She had bravely and under great duress maintained and protected the integrity of her soul. It was the one part of her she never shared until…

She fell in love.

Stop. Stop. Stop,
she silently scolded in her head and continued to berate herself.
For a short time love brought you joy, then it was gone. Why linger on it?

Ula the old slave had told her to embrace joy when it came her way and not to be sad when it left, for it would return and then take its leave once more and that was the way of joy, forever coming and going.

She just wished that joy had remained a bit longer.

A strange sound interrupted her thoughts, and she lay still, listening. It took her a moment to realize that it came from Ronan. He must have fallen asleep in the rocking chair, for he was snoring lightly.

She smiled and stretched out in the bed. It was all hers tonight, and pleased that she didn’t need to worry about keeping to her side, she drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

Ronan woke and rubbed his aching neck. He silently cursed himself for falling asleep in the chair and for not having added more logs to the fire before dozing off. It had dwindled enough for the room to have chilled, and he quickly added more kindling and logs, stoking it until once again the fire roared in the hearth.

He walked over to the bed, shedding all but his leggings as he went. He wasn’t surprised to see Carissa curled in a ball on her side beneath the blankets. He shivered from a sudden chill and realized that cold drifted in through the wall. The bed would have to be moved, though not tonight.

He slipped beneath the blankets before his body lost its warmth, the chilled bedding giving him a shiver, and when he finally stilled, he realized that Carissa’s body trembled. He reached out and rested his hand lightly on her arm and almost cringed, she felt so cold.

He moved closer, but not enough for their bodies to touch, though hopefully enough for his body heat to reach her. He couldn’t help but stare at her. In sleep she looked so vulnerable, especially curled up as she was.

Her trembling continued, and he grew chilled instead of her growing warm. If they were ever to get warm, they would need to embrace, lock themselves around each other, and share their heat. As reluctant as he was at the thought, the idea that they both should suffer the cold when it wasn’t necessary seemed ridiculous.

Her trembling increased, shaking the bed, and he didn’t hesitate. He wrapped himself around her, the front of him melded to the back of her, his arms secure around her, his hand resting over her fisted ones and his legs snuggled over her curled ones.

In mere minutes her trembling began to subside and, soon after, her body began to heat. Before
Ronan knew it, his eyes were closing, and he was fast asleep.

Carissa was so warm and comfortable that she didn’t want to wake up. She preferred to stay as she was in this wonderfully snug cocoon. She was safe here, protected. She had never felt this protected. There was strength to this cocoon that she could not quite understand. She only knew that it was there and that she could count on it. And she didn’t care if it was just remnants of a dream, she would linger and take joy in it.

She cuddled closer, snuggling her face against the hard, though pleasant, surface. She rested her cheek there and before long she detected a sound, a steady rhythmic sound that was quite soothing. Somehow it made her feel all the more safe.

Her ears picked up another noise, a whistle of sorts, and she recalled the storm and realized it was the winter wind whistling a sharp tune. It was then she remembered where she was and it struck her that it was no cocoon she was wrapped in…it was the Highlander’s arms.

Panic almost gripped her, but she quickly chased it away. For a brief time, she had a chance to lie in his arms and pretend that she belonged there. She relished the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his flesh, the safety of his arms wrapped snugly around her. At that moment she felt as if they belonged together, that somehow fate had found a way, against all odds, to make it so.

She tried not to move, fearing she would wake
him and her dream would vanish as quickly as a whiff of smoke in the air. A moment, she wanted a moment more, though she would have preferred much longer.

His body suddenly stiffened, and she knew her cherished moment was over. He had awakened and realized that he embraced his enemy.