The Highlander's Forbidden Bride (9 page)

I
n four days, Ronan felt better. He had rested and eaten well and spoken little to Carissa. And he wasn’t surprised that she had kept her distance from him. He had caught her in her lies, revealed her ruse, and sealed her fate.

He could try to convince himself that he was wrong, that Hope truly had existed, but the more thought he gave it, the more it was obvious that Carissa had played him for a fool, and like a fool, he had fallen right into her trap.

She and her father must have had a good laugh over him, the young, blind Highlander who was stupid enough to trust while in enemy hands. He had shared stories of his childhood with her, and in turn she had learned about his brothers, about his family, about his own hopes and dreams.

Whatever had made him confide in the slave?

She was a complete stranger to him, but she had also been the only one who had shown him any help or kindness. Being blind had been challenging in itself, but being wounded as well made it that
much more difficult. She was a ray of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation.

Oddly, though, he felt safe with her, and that was what he didn’t understand. How could he have so badly misjudged his own gut instinct? He had always prided himself on being a good judge of a person’s nature. And though he had no visual to go by with the slave, it had been her caring way and her consistent encouragement that had his gut believing she was a good, honest person.

His musing was interrupted when he noticed Carissa reach for her cloak on the peg. He waited and watched as she turned and grabbed hold of the small cauldron.

“Don’t be long,” he ordered.

It surprised him that she didn’t respond but simply walked out the door.

That the last couple of days had been a strain on them both was obvious. The truth had to be told, this matter settled. He needed to know for certain. He needed his pride to heal, and his heart.

She returned, and after shedding her cloak and setting the cauldron in the hearth, she sat on the chair to stare at the flames. He had expected her to retire to the table to chop or mix, or do whatever it was she did when preparing a meal.

“Say what you have to say to me and be done with it,” she said solemnly.

“I want the truth,” he said.

She laughed and shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“The truth speaks louder than lies.”

“Truly?” she asked.

He nodded. “If you speak the truth, I will hear it.”

She folded her hands across her chest and with a firm tilt of her chin she said, “Good, then I will tell you the truth.”

He sat forward eager to listen.

“I am not what you think, and when I met you, I felt safe to be who I truly—”

“Stop,” he shouted, annoyed, and rose to brace his hand on the mantel. “I hear no truth in your words.”

She jumped up, and although her height by no means matched his, her annoyance did. “Then you are deaf.”

“I hear well enough, and what I hear is you thinking you can make a fool of me yet again.” He shook his head. “That will not happen.”

“Of course not,” she argued. “Once a fool always a fool.”

“Now I hear the truth.”

“You know nothing of the truth,” she said, her voice growing loud. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it stared you in the face.”

“Now that I’m not blind, I can see your lies clearly.”

“You saw better when you were blind,” she said, giving a frustrated groan and turning away from him.

“How you must have laughed at me,” he said with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

She swiveled around, her long blond hair
bouncing wildly to fall in riotous waves around her face. “Hope would never laugh at you.”

“Stop!” he yelled again. “There is no Hope. There never has been.”

She held her head high. “You’re right; there’s never been any hope.”

“Finally, you speak the truth.”

She turned away from him again; though this time she went to the table and began preparations for a stew.

“We’re not finished discussing this,” he said.

“I am.”

“I want to know more,” he insisted.

“There’s no more to tell.” She continued cutting wild onions and potatoes. “Besides, it changes nothing. My fate had already been sealed just by being Mordrac’s daughter.”

“This makes your fate all the more justifiable.”

She laughed. “So you tell me that I am to die because I lied?”

He glared at her. “You’ve done much more.”

“What have I done?” she demanded.

Her query set hard over him. What did she actually do? She had not accompanied her father into battle, and she had raised no sword against the Sinclares. Were her crimes, as she said, being the daughter of Mordrac and lying about Hope?

He didn’t care for what such a conclusion meant. She couldn’t very well be put to death for minor matters, and his brother Cavan would agree. She should be punished, though was it his pride that called for justice?

“We will let the Sinclare laird decide your fate,” he said, knowing it was the only reasonable decision to make though he didn’t feel like being reasonable.

“I saw only hate for me in your brother’s eyes,” she said.

“Perhaps, but Cavan will judge fairly. You have my word.”

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

“What choice do you have?”

She nodded slowly. “And if Cavan judges me innocent, I will be free to leave, free of the Sinclares?”

“Yes, you’ll be free.”

“Then I will go willingly with you,” she said. “The snow has stopped over a full day now, and the skies are clearing. If this continues, we should be able to leave in a few days. So you had best rest.”

He answered by going to the bed and stretching out. He had grieved once when he had learned of Hope’s death, but he refused to grieve over a love that was never real. He much preferred anger. It churned in his gut, and he knew that, by the time it reached his heart, he would again hate Carissa as much as he had loved Hope.

When Carissa heard a light snore coming from the bed, she quietly slipped her cloak on and sneaked out the door. She made her way through the snow, the air feeling more chilled than it had that morning.

Dykar had made his arrival known to her yesterday when she had gone outside to retrieve ice from the water barrel. She had heard him approach, though most people probably would not have detected his light step. She, however, could always tell when he was about. It was almost as if she sensed him, and she had turned with a flourish to greet him.

He had come to rescue her and grown annoyed and frustrated when she refused to leave until Ronan was well. He had made it clear he believed the Highlander didn’t need her concern or care. He certainly wouldn’t give it back to her.

Dykar was not going to be happy when he learned of the recent turn of events, but knowing him as well as she did, she assumed he would understand.

It wasn’t long before she came upon a makeshift lean-to with a campfire roaring in front of it. She signaled to the two men to remain where they sat, and when she was close, she hunched down and warmed her outstretched hands by the fire.

“Are you ready to leave?”

Carissa smiled at Dykar. “Ever so patient.”

“You know me well,” he said, and stood.

He was an inch or so taller than Ronan, with long auburn hair and dark eyes that almost matched his hair. He was broad and heavy with muscles, and his stern expression made him appear more formidable, when actually he truly was a thoughtful and good-natured man.

Though the man who remained seated was more strikingly handsome than most men, Septi
mus was an enigma to Carissa. He appeared too handsome, too knowledgeable, and too aristocratic to have joined the mercenaries.

But he had, and she still wondered why.

“You are like a brother,” she said, staring up at Dykar. “And a sister would know her brother.”

“And a brother knows his sister just as well,” he said, and rubbed his chin before letting his frustration lose. “Damn it, Rissa, you’re not leaving with us, are you?”

That brought Septimus to his feet. “That’s not a wise idea.”

“Let me explain,” she said, standing though feeling small in front of the two men. Strange that she didn’t feel that way with Ronan, though he was similar in size.

“Will it matter?” Dykar asked, annoyed.

“I think it will,” she said, and continued, “Ronan has learned the truth about Hope.”

Both men shook their heads.

Dykar turned to Septimus. “We need to get her out of here.”

“I think not,” she said sternly. “I have a chance to clear myself and be free of the Sinclares.”

Both men looked at her with raised brows.

She recounted her discussion with Ronan.

“What if Cavan decides to imprison you?” Dykar asked.

“I have done nothing to justify imprisonment other than being Mordrac’s daughter.”

“Some would believe that crime enough,” Septimus suggested.

“A chance I must take to be free.”

“I don’t like this,” Dykar said.

“I didn’t expect you would, though I knew you would understand it.”

Dykar nodded. “I know how badly you yearn to be free.”

“Then you know I must try.”

“We will keep close eyes on you,” Dykar said like a stern parent. “If things don’t go as you hoped—”

“I’m not counting on hope,” she said sadly. “I’m counting on Cavan’s seeing the truth of the situation, being fair, and releasing me.”

“But will he see it that way?” Septimus asked.

“There’s only one way to find out,” she said. “And now you both must go. The air has chilled since morning. If you leave now, you could possibly reach the village Black just after nightfall and have warm shelter and hot food.”

While Septimus started extinguishing the campfire, Dykar took her arm and walked a distance away with her.

“You take a dangerous chance entering enemy territory,” Dykar said. “It could be a trap.”

“A chance I’m willing to take. Just think how wonderful it would be to not have to look over my shoulder to see if the Sinclares chase me.”

“They aren’t the only ones who cry for your blood.”

“But if the Sinclares free me, the others will surely think it’s not worth coming after me.”

“As you say, it’s a chance you must take. Though I don’t favor it, I do understand,” Dykar said, taking her hand. “You helped me to be free, and I would never want to live any other way. Besides, there’s no stopping you, but you will at least listen to some reason.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Hagen stays for a time at a croft on Sinclare land. He fancies Addie, the late laird’s widow.”

“Does she fancy him?” Carissa asked with a smile.

“She seems to, though I think them both foolish and too old for such nonsense. Her sons would never allow such a match.” Dykar shook his head. “Enough of that; if things should not go as you hoped, then you must alert Hagen so that we can get you out of there before it’s too late. We have a large contingent of warriors, but not enough to combat the Sinclare clan and the friendly clans they would surely call upon for help.”

“I know,” she said with a nod. “I will keep in touch with Hagen and let you know of an escape plan I will ready in case things go wrong.”

She shivered.

“You’re cold. You must go back to the cottage.”

“I’m more worn-out than anything. A good night’s sleep should see me fit,” she said, and gave him a hug, then turned to Septimus. “Take care of him for me.”

“I always do,” he said. “And you take care of yourself.”

“I always have, and I always will,” she said, and after a quick kiss on Dykar’s cheek, she took her leave.

She was gone longer than she intended and prayed that Ronan had remained asleep. She quietly opened the door and cringed when it creaked. She peeked in before entering and when she heard him snoring louder than before, she sighed softly with relief.

She shivered as she hung her cloak on the peg and went to sit by the hearth to get warm. She took off her wet boots and realized her stockings were wet, so she stripped them off and placed them near the fire to dry.

She held out her feet to the fire to get warm, but she shivered again and decided to tuck them beneath her instead. A double yawn attacked her. She felt sluggish and so tired, not only in body but of mind. She told herself to be angry with him. How could he so easily disregard his love for Hope? How could he think all that she had said to him was nothing but lies? How could he not have faith in their love?

The answer was relatively simple though she didn’t care to think of it. Ronan’s hatred for Carissa ran deeper than his love for Hope. Otherwise, he just might be able to see the truth.

She glanced over at him, sleeping soundly and safely. It was strange that he didn’t realize that there was a part of him that trusted Carissa, or else he wouldn’t have been able to sleep so peacefully in her presence just as she did in his.

She believed that somewhere deep inside of him, his love for Hope survived. Given time, would he realize it, or was she once again clinging to an impossible hope?

She silently chastised herself for her foolishness and settled her attention on the flames. The stew would be finished soon, Ronan would wake, and they would eat supper. She should rest instead of dwelling on her troubles.

She rubbed at the ache in her head and thought her brow too warm, but then she sat close to the flames. What did she expect?

She was soon asleep.

R
onan woke with a slow stretch and was relieved that no pain throbbed in his head. He assumed that the stitches would be removed soon enough. The sleep had served him well, and he was starving. And recalling his conversation with Carissa, there now was a good chance they’d be leaving the cottage soon. He’d finally be going home, and this matter would be brought to justice.

He didn’t need to look far to find her. She was asleep in the rocking chair, her head lolled to the side, her feet tucked under her and her hands limp in her lap. Her cheeks were flushed, and she appeared fast asleep.

He stared at her, unable to stop himself from wondering. Could Hope possibly reside within her? Was there a chance that the woman he loved actually lived? The idea sent a spark of yearning shooting through him. Then, as if emerging from a dream, he realized the foolishness of his thought. Carissa was who she was. There never had been a Hope, there never would be.

He sat up, swinging his long legs off the bed and
accidentally hit the rung of her chair, sending it rocking.

She jumped, startled, and glared at him, her eyes like wide, round saucers. “Are you all right?”

“Better than I was,” he admitted, “and hungry.”

She rubbed the back of her neck as she slowly stood and found her footing. “The stew should be ready.”

Ronan watched her as she moved across the room, her hand reaching out as if she required support. Then she stopped, turned to face him, and he watched as all color drained from her face.

Her hand went out to him, and she barely got his name out before her body slowly slumped.

He shot off the bed and caught her in his arms before she hit the floor. He lifted her. She weighed hardly anything, less than a sack of grain. He sat on the edge of the bed cradling her. Her face was as white as the freshly fallen snow, and he could feel the heat drifting off her body. He hesitated to touch her brow, fearful of what he would find.

Sure enough, her body was raging with fever.

She struggled to say his name. “Ronan.”

“You’re burning with fever,” he said, unable to ignore how very much she sounded like Hope, but he reminded himself yet again that there was no Hope.

“You must”—she paused for a breath—“cool me down”—Another pause.

“How?” he asked anxiously.

“The snow.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You must,” she said, her voice growing weaker. “Or would you prefer I die?”

“No,” he said stubbornly. He would not allow that to happen and realized he didn’t want her to die. The thought startled him, and he grumbled.

“Just get me outside, I’ll do–”

“Quiet,” he said, annoyed that she assumed he wouldn’t take care of her. She had rescued him, which made him beholden to her. Even if he weren’t, he couldn’t just sit by and not help her.

He stood and again was amazed by how small and vulnerable she felt in his arms, how he felt the overwhelming need to protect her. He almost laughed. Carissa needing protection? That made no sense. But then nothing of late made sense to him. All that he had believed had disappeared in an instant, and he wasn’t sure now what to believe or whom to trust.

She snuggled her face against his chest, and, feeling as if he had been branded by a hot iron, he feared her fever had worsened in the brief time since they had been talking.

He didn’t bother to retrieve his cloak, but simply yanked opened the door, walked out, and deposited her in a bank of snow that almost covered her.

She shivered. “My face.”

He scooped up a handful and gently rubbed the icy snow over her feverish brow and cheeks. He grew concerned when her lips began to tremble.

“Enough,” he said, and was ready to scoop her up.

“Not yet,” she argued.

He saw that she dug her hands and her bare feet into the snow. As helpless as she was, she still managed to attempt to do for herself. She was stubborn, or was she courageous? One described Carissa, the other Hope, but they were one woman.

“No more,” she said shivering.

He lifted her up and held her close as he hurried into the cottage and shoved the door shut with his foot. It was only then he realized that his own feet were bare and damn cold.

He ignored the icy sting and rushed her to the bed. He didn’t need to be told to undress her, but she continued instructing him.

“Take my clothes off.”

“This one time I will oblige you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I always loved your humorous nature.”

Her remark surprised him, and he warned himself to ignore it. It meant nothing; after all, her ruse had merely been a game. He concentrated on getting her out of her clothes, which didn’t take long.

She shivered the whole time he undressed her, her flesh cool in spots and warm in others. If he had been disrobing her for a far different reason, he would have taken his time and been more attentive to every inch of her tempting body. Damn she was tempting. And damn him for even thinking it.

He finished quickly and lifted her in one swoop, gently depositing her on the bed and tucking the blankets around her.

“What now?” he asked.

“Warm your feet before
you
come down with a fever.”

He couldn’t believe she had noticed that he was barefoot or that she was concerned for his welfare when she was the one ill.

“I’ll see to it, but first what else can I do for you?”

“I need you to prepare a special brew”—Her eyes began to close, and she shook her head to keep alert. “I’ll explain how to do it, and if I grow hot again, rub my face and neck with snow.”

“You sound as if you are leaving instructions for me while you go somewhere,” he said with concern.

“I will sleep, and you may not be able to wake me.”

He could see that her eyes had already grown heavy, and no doubt she would be asleep soon. He had to know all he could before she slumbered.

“What do I do?”

“What I told you.”

He was astonished how hard she fought to remain awake even though her body seemed of a different mind.

Through pauses and shakes of her head, she instructed him how to prepare the brew and to make certain he gave it to her, even if he just dribbled some in her mouth.

“I’ll take care of you,” he assured her.

“Care for Hope,” she whispered, her eyes closing. “You love her.”

Ronan sat on the edge of the bed, in no hurry
to leave her. He simply stared at her. Was there even the remote possibility that she could possess a thoughtful nature like Hope’s rather than a hellion nature like Carissa’s?

He shook his head as he stood and walked over to the table to mix the brew and set it to simmer as she had instructed. It wasn’t until he sat in the rocker warming his icy feet that he allowed his thoughts to return to Hope.

He grumbled, “There is no Hope.”

He recalled what his mother had told him when he was young and feeling hopeless over what now he would consider a trivial matter, but to a young lad had been a life-or-death situation.

His mother had told him that hope resided in the heart, and you only needed to trust and believe for its magic to work.

Did he dare trust and believe?

He shook his head. Carissa was a mean-spirited woman. How could he ever trust or believe she was anything other than what she was? But if he was to find out the truth, at least a truth that fully satisfied him about Hope, wouldn’t he have to do just that? Trust and believe?

He certainly would have the chance to discover more by taking Carissa home with him. But she would only remain there until Cavan passed judgment on her. Cavan wasn’t one to take long in making a decision, especially an important one. Would that give Ronan sufficient time?

He turned to look at Carissa. Her cheeks weren’t burning red any longer, though she remained
pale. And he couldn’t understand how suddenly she appeared so vulnerable to him. He had never imagined Carissa weak. She was the epitome of strength, mean-spirited as can be, but nonetheless she was brave. She seemed to let nothing stand in her way.

Yet suddenly she needed protecting, much as he had when Hope had come into his life. And oddly enough, he felt the need to protect her. Was it simply inherent in a man to want to protect a woman? Or did he feel the need to keep her safe for a far different reason?

He grew tired of all the conjecture, all the questions, all the doubts.

He stood and stirred the simmering brew. He spotted the cauldron of stew and moved it off the flames. It smelled delicious, and no doubt would taste the same. Carissa had a remarkable way with food, and there hadn’t been anything that she had cooked that he hadn’t enjoyed.

He went to the table to grab a plate when he noticed that a puddle of water sat beneath Carissa’s cloak. He walked over and was surprised to find the hem, not damp, but wet to his touch.

It took him a moment to realize that she had gone out while he had been sleeping. And it wasn’t a brief excursion; the puddle was evidence of that, as was the fact that her cloak had yet to dry.

Where had she gone?

Why had she been gone so long?

He walked back to the bed and stared down at her.

“What are you hiding from me?” he asked.

She moaned and twisted fitfully, as if uncomfortable with his query.

He hunched down beside the bed. “Who are you truly?”

She moaned softly, and what spilled in a whisper from her lips shocked him.

“Ronan, help me.”

He almost lost his footing and fell backward. That was Hope’s voice and it stung at his heart.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

Her hands had reached out from beneath the blanket as if searching for his, and he didn’t hesitate, he grabbed hold of them.

“Stay,” she pleaded.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured her, though he wasn’t sure that she could hear him. Nonetheless, he had to tell her just in case she could hear him.

She twisted fitfully once again in her sleep, then suddenly sprang up in bed and grabbed tightly to Ronan’s arm.

“Don’t let him kill him. Please, he is so tiny, don’t let him kill him.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me,” she pleaded frantically. “Protect him. Promise me.”

“I give you my word. No harm will come to him.”

Her head fell to his shoulder and rested in the crook of his neck. He realized that her fever had spiked. He tried to lay her back in the bed, but she
refused to relinquish her hold on him, so he sat there holding and reassuring her.

When he was finally able to tuck her comfortably in bed, he saw that her cheeks once again flamed red. He pulled on his boots and grabbed the empty bucket as he passed the table and headed outside.

He scooped up snow and noticed that gray clouds had grown heavy overhead. He dreaded more snow, especially now, with Carissa needing care. If the weather remained clear, he could at least get her to Bethane.

He hurried inside and sat on the bed beside her. He rubbed small handfuls of snow across her brow and over her cheeks. He did the same to her neck until he was satisfied that she had sufficiently cooled down, He even rubbed a little snow along her hot arms.

The blankets remained off her until he noticed her shiver; only then did he cover her with the lightest blanket. Satisfied she rested comfortably; he took the bucket outside, added more snow to it, and left it just outside the door for future use.

Before heading back inside, he took a moment to survey the area. He couldn’t help but wonder if they weren’t alone. Had Carissa gone to speak with someone? And if so, who?

He went inside and finally helped himself to a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread. He sat in the rocker so that he could keep an eye on Carissa while he ate.

As he enjoyed the flavorful stew, he recalled
Carissa’s plea about protecting a tiny…who or what?

He wondered if it had been the fever that made her speak nonsense, or had she recalled a painful memory. Whom had she been trying to protect?

There were far too many unanswered questions concerning Carissa as far as he was concerned. It seemed the more he discovered about her, the more there was to discover.

In all the time he had searched for Carissa, he had only wanted one thing…revenge. He wanted to make her pay and dearly for the suffering she had put him through. Now he wondered if she was truly responsible for his suffering?

He looked over at her in the bed. She slept peacefully and he couldn’t help but wonder yet again who she truly was.