Warrior's Lady (13 page)

"Which is why you risked following those tracks despite the threat of a storm," she responded more to herself than to him.

"Aye."

"Do you still believe I made those footsteps?"

"I am finding it harder to believe. By the look of the fire, whoever inhabited the cottage left only a short time ago."

He lifted his gaze to hers. "It appears as though we will be here for a while." He put out his hand. "Give me your cloak."

"Nay." She took yet another step away from him as all the dark warnings she'd heard from her father about being alone with a man filled her head. She was alone. And stranded in the snow. Oh, why had she been such a fool to get on that horse with him?

"Rhiannon." He spoke her name softly, gently, with reassuring calm. "You are quite safe here with me."

She narrowed her gaze on him. "I will trust you, if you will trust me for once."

He smiled, and she saw the tension in his shoulders relax. "Agreed." He signaled with his hand. "Your cloak. It's wet. There are pegs by the fire to dry it."

She unfastened the heavy cloak and handed it to him. He placed it on one of the pegs, then removed his own cloak, hanging it beside hers. The soft linen of his shirt molded to him, revealing wide shoulders, a lean torso that led to a narrow waist and muscular thighs. "Do you think this is where your spies have been meeting?"

"Since no one else is around, I'd say it's a safe assumption." He turned back toward her and she hurriedly dropped her gaze, although she could not hide the heat that rose to her cheeks. "Want to help me find some clue as to who might have been here?"

She nodded, grateful to do anything that would distract her from the sheer maleness of his body. The cottage was small, with a rickety wooden table and two chairs tucked in the corner near the hearth, a wooden bench placed near the fire. A straw-filled mattress with a dark woolen coverlet took up the far side of the cottage. A small iron stove made up the kitchen.

"There isn't much here to identify anyone," she said, exploring the area near the hearth. Aside from a few candle stubs on the floor near the hearth, she found nothing.

He explored the table, and the three shelves above the iron stove. "The stove is cool, and the shelves look as though they haven't been stocked in ages." He moved a pottery jar aside, as if to prove his point, and a tiny mouse scurried from behind the crock, down the shelf, onto the stove. It leaped for the floor, before scurrying into a small hole at the base of the wallboards.

"Whoever our spy is, he's careful." Camden tossed another log onto the embers of the fire, then reaching for the saddle bag he'd brought in with him from the horse, he sat on the settee.

Rhiannon moved to the shutters at the front of the cottage. Ice clung to the bottom of the casement. She moved to the door and peered outside. Heavy snow continued to fall. Restless, she watched as the delicate flakes hit the accumulating mass on the ground. The storm showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.

She closed the door and glanced toward Camden. Something in his expression made her look away. Yet she could still feel the warmth of his gaze as though it were something physical, almost possessive. She began to quake inside at the intimacy of the moment, once again realizing how truly alone they were.

"Come," he said, his tone as inviting as his gaze had been. "It's much warmer over here by the fire."

She hesitated.

"Can I interest you in a bite to eat?" He held up a small plank of wood that contained a wedge of yellow-gold cheese and a loaf of dark bread.

"Where did you find food? Not here, I hope," she commented as the image of that tiny mouse came to mind.

He smiled, a warm, friendly smile. "I made it a rule that the men are never to ride out anywhere without at least minimal provisions. The grooms are very conscientious about executing those orders. Sit," he patted the seat beside him. "You must be hungry."

"A little." She sat down as far from him as the wooden bench allowed and curled her feet up under her skirt.

His eyes glinted with amusement. He withdrew two mugs and a bladder from his saddle bag, unfastened the closure, then poured each of them an amber-colored beverage from within. He handed her a mug. "This should help to warm you."

She took a sip, then sputtered at the richness of the liquid as it flowed over her tongue. "What is this?" she asked in a raw voice.

"Ale. Using my own special blend of grains." He raised his mug to his lips and took a long, slow sip. "Last year's batch is the best yet."

Rhiannon frowned down into her cup. The bitter liquid would take some getting used to. But in the absence of anything else to drink, and so as not to seem rude, she took another sip. "Interesting."

He offered her a smile that lit up his eyes. Their depths became suddenly mysterious and inviting. She swallowed roughly. When had he stopped treating her as yesterday's pottage?

"Bread?" he asked offering her the tray of bread and cheese.

She accepted the tray and sliced a wedge of bread, then cheese, taking the opportunity to look away from him to gather her composure. She hadn't spent much time around men other than her father and his friends. Over the years, she'd convinced herself that all men were rough and brutish. But in this moment, Camden seemed very distant from her earlier assumptions.

Brutish men did not demand their men leave the stable with some sort of provisions in case something went wrong. They did not care about anyone's comfort but their own. And they certainly didn't risk their own lives for the sake of their people's safety. Suddenly nervous, Rhiannon drank liberally from her mug. The flavor of the brew seemed less bitter now. It was smoother, with hints of spice. "What is the spice in this? Cinnamon?"

"Nutmeg." His gaze became warm, sensual. "You are the first to ever observe that note."

"I've never heard of that spice," she confessed. "Where did you learn of such a thing?"

"A long time ago." Some of the warmth in his voice faded. He took a bite of his bread and cheese. "My father taught me what he knew about ale-making. He's the one who started growing the mixture of grains in our fields at Lee Castle. I think my love of the land and the castle itself is what prompted my brother James to build Lockhart Castle farther north. He didn't want to take the memories of our family from me."

She nibbled on her bread. "It sounds as though James loved you very much."

"He did."

She grew silent as she thought about her own youth. Memories of her mother filled her mind, and she smiled.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You reminded me of a pleasant time from my childhood."

He nestled back against the settee. "Tell me."

"Well," she hesitated.

"Your best memory."

She tucked her feet more firmly beneath her. "There was a time when my father and brothers were away hunting." She frowned at the sudden realization that they hadn't been hunting at all. That's when the raiding had begun, when they'd come home not with game, but with coins, salted pork, and gems — the spoils of their raid.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, his face filled with concern.

"Just remembering." She shook off the horror the memory brought. "I was Violet's age, maybe a little younger. There was snow on the ground, much like there is today. My mother and I were baking oatcakes, but I was bored. I kept asking her if we could do something special, like Father and the boys were doing. I kept after her until she finally relented and tossed her apron aside. She told me to go to my bedchamber and not to come out before she called me."

Rhiannon smiled at the memory of hiding under the bedcovers, shivering with anticipation. "It seemed like forever until she came for me. But I'll never forget the glint in her eyes when she did. She tied a sash over my eyes, put my cloak and my pattens on me, then led me outside."

She drew a shaky breath as tears came to her eyes. "She took the sash off my eyes and all I could see were a hundred candles, casting a rich golden glow over the snowbanks that lined the ice on our pond. She pulled me onto the ice, and we both skated in circles for hours and hours, laughing until our sides hurt. She looked down at me that day with such love in her eyes and I knew true joy."

Rhiannon swiped at one of the tears that trailed down her cheek. "Three days later she died."

"How?" His voice was soft, lulling.

A counter raid, she realized now. Her mother had paid for their raiding with her life. New tears joined the others on her cheeks. She turned her head away, embarrassed by the emotions that she could not control. "She died. That's all I know."

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding sincere. "You really do know how Violet feels, don't you?"

"My apologies," she batted at her tears with the back of her hands. "You asked for a memory and I give you waterworks instead. You must think me terribly ill-bred."

"Quite the contrary. I find you fascinating. I want to know more." The husky sincerity in his deep voice brought a hitch to her breathing. "What is your worst memory?"

She shook her head. "Nay, I can't go there."

A shadow darkened his face. "I'll tell you mine, in exchange for yours."

Tempting. She pressed her lips together. She wanted to learn more about this man, but was what he asked too high a debt to pay? She'd tried to keep her past a secret for fear of him hating her family even more. Or worse yet, feeling sorry for her. But she truly wanted to understand him. Even as confusion wracked her, she nodded her head.

"My worst memory." He squinted his eyes and mouth as though searching his thoughts. A moment later, his face cleared, and resignation reflected in his gaze. "I will have to back track a bit, and tell you how this situation came to be first."

She nodded, listening eagerly.

"When Orrin and I were twelve, we were kidnapped by your father from the shores of Scotland and taken as slaves to the Holy Lands."

Rhiannon gasped. She couldn't hold it back. Her fingers pressed against her chest. "My father?" His hatred suddenly made sense.

He drew a slow, deep breath. "Our Saracen master bound us in service to him for seven years. We had to do whatever he asked, or we would be severely punished."

Rhiannon couldn't speak, just listened as he continued.

"The worst day for me was when Orrin, who had been ordered to kill a woman and her children, refused. He absolutely refused to pick up the sword and cut them down. So one of the other men with us did, right in front of the two of us. Then he and another man took Orrin's arms, and held tight while a third man took a whip to Orrin's back. I could not stand by and let them abuse him. But when I ran to help, two other men stopped me, and forced me to witness Orrin's pain."

Camden's voice sounded distanced, raw. She could imagine how horrifying that would have been for him to stand by helplessly and watch when he could do nothing to help.

Rhiannon nodded to herself. It explained a bit about why he seemed to obsess about protecting his clan.

He shook his head, as though forcing away the memory. "That was mine. Now what of yours?"

He would hate her and her family all the more if she told him a particular time where her family had abused her, so she generalized instead. "I have no particular memory I can site as the worst," she confessed. "My entire youth was filled with moments like that.

His light eyes flared. "The watching or the lashing?"

"The lashing, I'm afraid." She flinched. "Even remembering brings back the pain."

"Who did this to you?" His voice sounded anguished. Because of her?

She shrugged. "My father until my mother died. Then my brothers also took out their aggressions upon me."

"Why?" His eyes grew dark, restless.

"Mostly because I was not born a son. My father had no need for a daughter."

"Daughters have their place."

She shook her head. "Not in his world."

He continued to stare at her with dark, angry eyes. She looked down at the hands she clenched in her lap. "I did not mean to upset you. I felt you wanted honesty..." She trailed off, suddenly wishing she'd concocted a lie instead.

"Rhiannon," he said her name with a note of familiarity. "Look at me."

"Please, don't ask me to," she implored helplessly, knowing that if she saw the compassion she heard in his voice, she would dissolve in a puddle of tears.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it, forcing her to meet his steady gaze.

Compassion registered in the depths of his eyes, and something more. Tears did not come as she'd expected. Instead, her entire body tensed as his lips descended toward hers.

His lips covered hers, tender, almost hesitant at first, then bolder, as he wrapped his arms about her.

Sad memories faded as shivering waves of pleasure took their place. He left her lips to trail a hot path over her cheeks, brushing away the tears with his lips, to her ear. Slowly, he feathered his lips back and forth across her lobe, before he dipped lower, tracing each curve of her neck, her jawline.

The tension drained from her as his arms tightened around her, supporting her while his tongue explored her ear. His hand curled around her nape, sensually stroking it, and he began trailing scorching kisses down her neck, to her shoulder.