Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 9

The situation truly made no sense, Rose realized, somewhat bemused. For though she rode the stallion with Leith, she did not ride in back but rather in front, allowing her little opportunity to hold him astride as he had suggested.

The black mare followed behind, seeming besotted by Beinn. The riders sat in silence, finding their way easily up the slope by moonlight.

Leith kept his right arm about Rose's waist, holding her tightly to him as she held the reins. His breath was warm against her cheek and his thighs felt as hard as oaken boughs against the backs of hers.

Their position made her breathing speed and her body grow warm—responses that had little to do with the plaid he'd placed about her shoulders.

She tightened her grip upon his tartan, hiding the torn front of her robes and trying to think of something other than his large, hard body behind her.

"I..." she began weakly, tracing a wrinkle in the plaid and clearing her throat. "I suppose the Lord will forgive my proximity to you ... considering the unusual circumstances."

He said nothing. The high portion of his chest ached, but in truth it was her nearness that occupied his thoughts. She was warm and soft, and as he'd settled his plaid about her shoulders he'd seen the dramatic rise of her breasts above the edge of her linen undergarment. That memory caused the heat in his loins and the tightness of his grip about her tiny waist.

Her hair, set free by the thieves' harsh hands, was like firelight only inches from his face, each strand gleaming in moonstruck tones of burnt reds.

"After... after all," she continued, made nervous by his nearness and silence, "He would hardly wish me to allow you to fall from your steed."

Leith shifted his gaze downward. She'd twisted about slightly, turning her face so that he could see the curve of her cheek, the sweet swelling of her parted lips.

He could kiss her without undue difficulty, he thought. But he'd seen her swoon from a horse before and did not wish to be the cause of her faint. Still, the possibility of making her light-headed did much to improve his mood. "Ye think, then, that the good Lord cares even for barbarians such as meself?" he asked, remembering her derogatory words in the old abbess' parlor.

Rose swallowed once, then sucked in her lower lip and shifted nervously. “It has occurred to me that perhaps I owe you an... ah... apology," she said gracelessly.

A falcon, scared from its resting place on a bare nearby branch, took flight, its splendid wings noiseless in the still night air.

"And ... perhaps an expression of appreciation for... " Rose paused, sucking in her lip again and remembering his kiss from the night before. Hold your tongue, fast, and pray, she reminded herself raggedly. But he sat so damned close that talk seemed amongst the safest of her options. His presence made her hungry. And damned if she could, at the moment, remember a single prayer. “For..." she began again, but just then his grip tightened a bit, causing her to feel the hard length of his manhood pressed against her back.

Hot blood suffused her face. Damn the hold, fast, and pray idea! She should scratch, kick, and run. The problem was—she didn't want to.

"Do ye mean to thank me?" asked Leith smoothly. "For saving yer life?" His lips were very near her ear. "Na to mention yer honor?"

Rose swallowed hard. "Yes," she squeaked, and nodded shallowly. “For that."

"Ye wish to thank me?" he asked again, as if the idea was a bit difficult to believe.

Rose bit her lip hard and felt scared enough to faint dead away, but should she faint she would have to drag her gaze from his lips and she found she could not do that. They were full lips, seductive, lifted slightly with humor—and waiting.

"I—I—" she stuttered. "I just did—thank you."

"Na, lass," he breathed, forgetting his wound as he pressed nearer. "Ye did na."

He was about to kiss her. She knew it and her entire being waited, held in trembling anticipation.

His lips neared. She closed her eyes. Her body shivered.

Nothing happened.

"Lass," he whispered.

"Mmm?" She shouldn't allow him to kiss her, of course, but he was so much larger than she. The Lord could not expect her to hold such a giant of a man at bay.

"We're here, lass," he murmured.

Her eyes snapped open. There, not fifteen feet away, stood Colin.

"Good Lord!" she breathed, not failing to notice the young man's obvious amusement.

"So ..." Colin said, making no effort to control his grin. "Ye are safe."

"Aye, lad," answered Leith, and in outraged dismay Rose realized he too was grinning.

Well, hell!

"I trust the thieves didna die too soon," added Colin, sobering a bit.

"They wouldna have," said Leith, "if it were na for the wee nun's bloodthirsty nature. It seems she could na wait and decided to hurry the death of the last of them."

Rose's jaw fell and she muttered a few incoherent words that well might set any saintly ears to burning, if there had been any saintly ears about.

“Truly?" Colin raised his brows, setting his arms akimbo and canting his head.

"Aye." Leith nodded. "Beneath her homely robes she hides a verra passionate nature."

"And ye are determined to stoke that passion?" quipped Colin.

"Aye," Leith agreed. "That I—"

Rose's elbow caught him just below his lowest rib. It was not a tentative love tap, nor a teasing admonishment, but a full-scale effort to wound.

Leith drew a startled breath and attempted to tighten his grip on her, but her temper was at full tilt and she scrambled from the stallion, arms and legs flailing in all directions.

Her bulky robes, however, snagged beneath his heavy thighs, so that she dangled in midair like a misbegotten puppet.

Hot embarrassment colored her cheeks and she squirmed more violently, legs bare to the thighs where her robes swept across her bottom to hold her aloft.

From the stallion's back, Leith chuckled at her predicament. "Need help, wee lass?" he asked, amused that he could hold her captive without raising a hand.

"Let me go, you black-hearted heathen," she demanded, damning his devil's soul with scalding rage.

"Ye want to go?" Leith questioned innocently, leaning toward her slightly. "All ye need do is ask nicely."

"I hope you die with your guts strewn from here to the Holy Land," she hissed, slapping auburn hair from her face and thumping poor Beinn with her knees.

Leith's smile broadened. "Na exactly what I wished to hear, wee nun," he said finally, "but surely such a creative curse deserves some reward. Ye may go," he said, and, lifting his heavy thigh, released his hold on her robes.

She slipped, and clutched frantically at his arm to keep from falling.

Wincing at the pain in his chest, Leith nevertheless grasped her arm to keep her safe from Beinn’s heavy hooves.

For a moment their eyes met. Heat sparked between them, igniting some tinder-dry place in their hearts, stopping their breath in their throats.

"Wee lass," Leith murmured, feeling the hot pull of her on his senses, "some women might be flattered by me interest in them."

Rose gasped, shocked by his arrogant gall, and found the unearthly spell he had on her was well broken. With rage fully restored, she gathered all her strength, wedged her knees up against Beinn's solid side, and yanked—jerking Leith along with her.

She hit the ground only a moment before Leith did, but while she was afoot in a moment, he remained in a prone position with one clawed hand holding his wound.

Rose skittered away like a frightened hare, then stood at a safe distance to watch him.

His face was ashen, his eyes closed, his teeth gritted.

Pain! It was stamped across his features.

Rose bit her lower lip. Of course he deserved it. But...

Contrition seeped rather slowly into her being. She clasped her hands finally and took a step nearer. After all, he had saved her life. Of course she wouldn't have needed saving if it hadn't been for him. Then again ...

A single moan escaped his lips. In a moment she was on her knees beside him.

"Are... you all right?" she asked, bent like a twisted root to peer into his face.

He didn’t answer. His tight-sinewed fingers shifted slightly over his wound.

Dear God, what if she caused his death?

"Colin," she called, her tone strained, "fetch hot water and my medicine jars. I am sorry," she whispered, never turning her attention from Leith and placing her hands gently to his steel-muscled arm. "Mayhap I do have a bit of a temper."

Leith slowly opened his eyes to squint at her. "Mayhap," he groaned in return.

"But you deserve it," she added speedily, already drawing back. "You're a—"

"Nay." He shook his head as if even that simple movement pained him greatly. "Dunna spear me with yer tongue just now, wee nun," he admonished. "I canna bear to lose more blood."

Rose's face went dead-white as guilt settled heavily upon her. "I am sorry," she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

Though distracted by his irritating pain, Leith saw those tears—those fat diamond drops that displayed her misery. She was truly sorry, he thought in some amazement, and that knowledge made him wish to quiet her fears, to take her in his arms and tell her all was well. It was only a flesh wound, after all, and would heal quickly enough if he were allowed a bit of rest.

And yet... He must not forget that his bargaining power was considerably increased when she felt guilty. Mayhap she could be made to see things in a different light. Mayhap this was his best chance to save his clan from their own senseless annihilation.

"Forgive a foolish Scotsman," he said huskily, letting his eyes fall wearily closed. "Ye canna blame me for wanting a glimpse of heaven afore I die."

"Die?" Rose gripped his shirt with frantic fingers. It was stiff with blood now—both his and others'. "You'll do no such thing."

Leith nobly stifled a gasp of make-believe pain. "I fear tis na yer decision," he rasped.

"Leith!" She leaned close, tears flowing readily down her face now, her eyes round with panic. "Do not die."

Sweet Jesu! Either she truly did care or she was a far better actress than Leith had deduced. He felt a good portion of guilt for his own act as he tried to discern her emotions. "I thought ye wished me guts to be strewn from here to—"

"Shush," she ordered, her eyes wild above tear-streaked cheeks. "Do not say such things."

"Then do ye care for me a wee bit, lass?" Leith asked, forgetting his ploy for a moment as he reached out to touch her wet cheek.

She stared at him in numb silence and he shook his head weakly, realizing this fortress would not be so easily taken. "I admit that I thought I might care for ye ," he whispered, not knowing now whether he acted or spoke the truth. " 'Twas a sin, I suppose, to become enamored of a postulate of the Lord who wanted na part of me." Grimacing again, he let his hand tremble over his wound. "I would hate to beg entrance to heaven with that sin fresh upon me soul."

" Tis not true," she whispered, harshly gripping the woolen fabric of his shirt. "I did want... a part of you."

Leith could not help but wonder exactly what part she referred to, for she was indeed a passionate woman, and certainly not so pious as she wished him to believe.

"Lass," he gasped, gripping her arm. "It is going dark."

"No! Leith! You must not leave me. You must not!"

"One kiss?" He opened his eyes abruptly, noting the utter whiteness of her face. "Before I... go."

God's toenails! He was about to die and it was all her fault. How many Ave Marias were required to clear one's soul of murder?

"Please," he whispered.

There was naught she could do but agree, for he was so wracked with pain.

Leaning forward, she touched her lips to his.

Fire sparked between them, and for one painful second Rose realized what she would miss with his passing. Passion? Yes! And perhaps more. Perhaps much more.

"Yer herbs and water," said Colin, watching the entire exchange and realizing that Leith, that deadly warrior, his honest brother, his solemn laird, was faking impending death to urge a kiss from a wee nun-in-training. It was despicable— without honor. Brilliant! "Is he bad hurt?" he asked with what he hoped sounded like genuine concern. But it would take a full score of large warriors with battle-axes and bad attitudes to lay Leith low. And that made it hard to keep a straight face.

The pair on the ground failed to respond—failed to hear, in fact.

"I said, is he bad hurt," Colin repeated.

"Oh!" Rose drew away with a start. "Yes," she said finally. "I fear he is."

"Who... is here?" asked Leith, his voice barely audible.

"It is your brother," she said gently. "Colin."

A dark scowl settled over Leith's face as he shook his head. "Colin?" he questioned. "What has happened? I canna recall."

"You fell from Beinn," Rose explained, her knuckles white as she gripped his shirt.

"Beinn?" Leith shook his head again, letting worry settle onto his features. "Rose! Dunna let me go. Kiss me." He pulled her quickly to him, meeting her lips as he waved an imperial dismissal behind her back at his brother.

Colin contained his chuckle as best he could. "Well, lass, I see ye have things well in hand here. I will make certain the widow yet sleeps." He turned, shaking his head then paused to turn back. "And Leith, me honored liege," he added in solemn Gaelic, "I would beg that ye dunna play this game too long and anger the lass, for I have dragged enough dead bodies from camp already this night."

With that, Colin's footsteps could be heard pacing away. Leith let his right hand slip lower, over the fine curve of Rose's buttocks. She stiffened against him, drawing her mouth away, and he scowled.

"Rose," he breathed. "Me wife. What troubles ye? Dunna stop me now. For I need ye as never before. I need ye as a man needs his woman, a final reminder of heaven on earth."

Rose was caught in his eyes, in his heated embrace, in his husky tone. He cared for her. He cherished her. He thought she was his wife, for God's sake! She could not deny him. She kissed him again, feeling a delicious, heady desire pour through her. But as her hand slipped from his neck, she felt his blood-soaked shirt and drew away, employing all her strength.

"Leith," she said softly. He opened his eyes. They were as deep as the sea, soft as warm honey. "I must tend to your wound—first."

"First?" he murmured.

God, he was beautiful, his face well-sculpted and rugged, his body as broad and muscular as yon war-horse's. "First," Rose promised breathlessly. "Here." She pressed carefully away from him, letting her fingers open his shirt. It was crusted to the gash, but came away after a moment.

The wound was a frightening sight. It stretched the full length of her hand, she determined quickly, but its depth was uncertain for the flesh had swelled and purpled, and the light was poor.

"Leith," she said weakly, finding her squeamish reaction surprising after all the injuries she had mended in the past. Still, it seemed different with him, for he was her... Her what? Her breath stopped at the thought. What was he to her? To her utter surprise she realized she had no answer and yet, when her gaze lifted to his, that familiar shock remained, that spark of fire that proclaimed him to be somehow very important.

Rose drew a deep breath, calming her nerves and stilling her hands. "It is indeed a wicked-looking wound, my lord."

She was so lovely. Leith could not take his eyes from her. Her face was a small perfect oval, her eyes like sparkling amethysts. Her mouth was a tiny pink bow, puckered with worry and waiting to be kissed. And her hair... He reached up to gently caress the gleaming mass of fire-bright tresses. Surely it was a sin to trap such beautiful hair beneath the weight of that awful woolen sheath she called a wimple.

Perhaps he owed the thieves a word of thanks, for not only had they lost the lass' wimple, they had torn her robes as well, making the garment no longer usable.

His gaze fell to the spot where the high tops of her breasts were just visible above her chemise. He smiled.

Rose watched his face and scowled. He'd lost his mind. She'd seen it happen before. Great pain could cause a person to lose his grip on sanity.

"Leith?" she said tentatively. "I fear you are badly wounded." She swallowed, unable to bear the thought of his pain. "The treatment will hurt, my lord."

He smiled again, lifting his gaze from her breasts to her eyes and letting his hand drift to her cheek. "I like the way ye say 'my lord,' " he admitted quietly. "It sounds verra lovely on yer lips."

"Leith." She closed her eyes, setting a trembling hand to his and turning the palm upward to kiss it. How difficult it was to see his vast strength lost, to know the pain he suffered was so great that he was out of his head. "Do not die,” she whispered, finding her own strength insufficient.

"Sweet Rose," he said, genuinely touched by her emotion, "I trust that if anyone can save me, ye can.”

She stared at him in silence. God's teeth! Had she fallen in love with this man? "Yes." She nodded quickly. "Yes, Leith. You must believe. The Lord and I can save you."

It took only a moment for Rose to tear a wide strip of fabric from her own robes, then, immersing the material in hot water, she opened a cloth bag to rummage through its contents.

She drew out a leather pouch and dumped its herbs into the steaming water. After swirling the rag about, Rose dunked it several times.

A tangy aroma drifted to Leith's nostrils. He breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh scent.

Her gaze rose to his, her face tense. "This will hurt," she warned, but he only nodded.

Perhaps it was best that he was out of his head, she thought. Perhaps then he would not feel the pain. She stared at him in silence, wishing she could spare him.

"Durma worry so, sweet Rose," he sighed. "Methinks I can withstand whatever punishment ye mete out."

He was so brave. So brawny and bold and alluring. She felt lost in his gaze, pulled under by his magnetism. But there was no time to lose. She'd delayed too long already.

Drawing her eyes from his, she wrung the excess water from the rag, then, with only one quick prayer, she set it to his wound.

He did not so much as flinch beneath her touch. His eyes did not leave her face.

"Ye are verra beautiful, me wee lass," he breathed.

Rose's hands stilled their movements, her eyes round. "I am?" she asked, shocked by his words.

Leith chuckled, the sound coming from deep in his throat. "Aye, lass," he said. "Ye are."

She blinked in wonder, then lowered her gaze and scowled. The fall must have injured his brain more than she'd realized. No one called her beautiful, except Uncle Peter once. Though Rose had assumed he was teasing her, her mother had shushed him, seeming overly distraught by his words. But then, her mother had been very plain and Rose had assumed she was too.

She moved the cloth gently over his wound, washing away the crusted blood.

"Ye dunna believe me?" he questioned softly.

"Oh!" She raised her eyes to his, not wishing to hurt his feelings, nor worry him with the sad revelation that he'd lost his mind. "Yes. Of course. If you say it is so."

He laughed again, seeing her doubt. "I do, lass."

Her eyes caught his. He looked quite sane, but...

Rose pulled her gaze away, dipping the rag once again in the water. The wound did not now look so bad as she had feared, hence it must have been the fall from Beinn that had addled his brain.

Her ministrations were somehow soothing, Leith thought dreamily. Perhaps they should hurt, but the girl's gentle touch and clever herbs seemed to cause no pain, only a slight tingle in his chest and shoulder.

She moved away after the cleaning was complete and rummaged once again in her bag. In a moment she drew out a small jar filled with dried grayish-green leaves.

Rose squatted beside him. "I will return shortly." She touched his hand. "Do not fear," she added and was gone.

Leith did not fear. Above him the branches obscured his view of the sky. He could see several stars nevertheless. Lucky stars, he thought vaguely, for things were going very well indeed. Much better than he could have hoped.

He smiled in anticipation. Tonight he would introduce the wee nun to the joys of sheer, ungodly lust.