Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 11

Rose had given Devona another soothing draught and wrapped her ankle in strips of cloth to protect it from jarring. Though her leg must have hurt a great deal, she seemed in good spirits—considerably better than her own, Rose thought.

"You will be safe," said the widow suddenly.

Rose scowled up into the woman's brown eyes.

"The Forbes is a great warrior," explained Devona. "He will keep you from harm."

"And who will keep me safe from the Forbes?" Rose asked, surprising even herself with her honesty.

Devona laughed. "And why would you want to be safe from him, Rose Gunther?" she asked. "I myself would have set my sights on the elder brother if I did not have a weakness for fair-haired charmers. But no." She lifted her gaze momentarily to watch the two men not far away. "I am an excellent judge of people. And this is as it should be."

Rose's scowl deepened with her perplexity, but before she could question Devona's words, the widow turned the gray's head toward the south with no explanation.

"I will miss yer claymore at my right side," Leith said, resting one hand on the bridle of his brother's horse as he looked up at Colin. "But 'tis our duty to see the widow safely back to her people, for she canna now travel at the pace we will set for the Highlands."

"I will make certain no evil befalls her," Colin assured him. "And see ye soon in the hall of our father."

Leith nodded. “Take care, brother."

"That I will. And ye care for yerself. There are many who would be glad to take the life of the laird of the Forbes."

"That willna happen," Leith said, releasing the bridle to stroke the bay stallion's slick neck. "Remember, I have the wrath of the wee nun to protect me.”

"Farewell then, me liege," Colin said with a grin. "Farewell, Rose Gunther. God be with ye," he called, then set his heels to the stallion's sides to hurry after Devona's retreating form.

The days passed, mile by rugged mile.

Leith spoke little, but seemed ever alert, rarely sleeping, always watchful, now and then pointing out a distant view as the land rose more and more steeply about them.

There was an inexplicable allure to this craggy country. A wild, almost eerie beauty that left Rose stunned and silent.

At times she would see a flash of Silken's golden form as he paralleled their course, but even that sight could not keep her long from thoughts of her future.

How had life changed so for her? Even her clothes. She glanced down, noticing the fine embroidered skirt and mantle she now wore. There seemed to be nothing left of Rose Gunther, postulate of Saint Mary's. And yet, it was difficult to mourn the English girl's passing, for here in the Highlands a new person grew, a free-spirited lass whose hair blew behind her, grazing the black hide of the beautiful mare she rode.

Thunder rumbled through the sky as Rose crested a rocky knoll. The country spread out below in shades of green, broken by jagged ridges of rock and sparse copses of trees. A maverick gust of wind brushed her face with unusual force and she lifted her chin, filling her nostrils with the sweet scents of heather and rain.

Leith felt his heart swell as he watched her. No matter her heritage or place of birth, in her soul she was a Scot. He could see it in her face, in the way her hands held the black mare's reins, in the way her violet eyes swept the land—as if it were hers, handed down to her through countless generations.

He had no reason to feel guilty. What did it matter that she thought he had brought her along to heal the MacAulay? In her heart she had no wish to return to England. She would be happy as his wife. And he...

Leith felt his manhood harden as he thought of her in his bed. Aye. She was meant to be his, meant to be the instrument that brought peace to his clan. And in years to come she would thank him.

"It will rain soon, lass," he said softly from some paces to her left. "We need to find cover."

It took Rose a moment to pull her eyes from the surrounding country. It was a magical place, windswept and crisp, with a chattering stream rolling beside them. A wondrous place—sacred maybe— making her heart ache with its rugged beauty. What it was about this country that touched her, she did not know, and yet she felt its effects like a strong tonic. "I do not mind a little rain, Scotsman," she said finally, her tone almost reverent.

It was the answer Leith had wanted. She was the very embodiment of Scotland, and would make old MacAulay a better daughter than the child he had lost.

Leith watched Rose's face as she reined her mount down the hill. He had been patient, giving her time to think, to accept the changes. But he could wait no longer. Her nearness made him ache. Of course that was not why he would teach her the meaning of desire tonight. Hardly that. Tonight he would stoke her passion to prove the rightness of their union.

Aye. Leith smiled as Beinn followed the girl's mare. Tonight she would agree that she belonged to him forever.

The rain drove hard into their faces, and though it was warm, Rose shivered violently, her heavy, saturated clothes no barrier against the sharp wind.

"Here," Leith called from somewhere ahead and Rose squinted through the dense sheet of rain, pressing Maise carefully down a water-slick decline.

Beinn appeared only a few feet ahead of her, Leith a dark shape atop his back. "Come, lass," he called, gesturing toward her. "I have found us a wee bit of comfort."

A copse of trees stood blown and dark before them. Rose dismounted stiffly, finding her legs cramped and her fingers aching, nearly unable to hold the water-softened leather reins.

"This way," he called, and she stepped into the woods, slipping in a puddle and feeling the mud splash cold and gritty against her face. In the trees, the rain was not so dense but fell in hard, fat drops that coursed down her neck to chill her to her bones.

Ahead, Rose could see the white stallion, his back already bare. She hurried forward, anxious to be out of the rain. But in her haste she failed to see the smooth rock and skidded momentarily on its broad expanse before landing with a squishy thump atop its unforgiving surface.

A few of her father's choice words slipped with devilish verve from her lips.

“There now." Leith appeared from nowhere, a chuckle issuing from deep within his throat as he bent to lift her. "This be na place to rest, lass," he chided.

"I fell," she grumbled irritably, and he chuckled again, pressing her soaked form closer to his chest and saying nothing.

Only a short distance farther on, the trees ended at a rough-hewn cliff of rock. The stone there rose sharply, bending toward them and creating below a miniature cave—a sheltered haven, hidden from the rain and driving wind.

Leith carried her there, several feet into the hollowed rock to a fat log that had been placed beside a black circle of ashes.

"It seems the MacGowans have left us a place by their camp," Leith said, eyeing the half-consumed, charred logs.

"The MacGowans?" Rose echoed shivering.

" 'Tis their land," explained Leith. "But mayhap it was the Lamonts that used this place, for they often raid the MacGowans' herds. Either way, it is good this place is na occupied for neither clan is friendly with the Forbes."

"Why?" she questioned, trembling as she looked up at him.

He shrugged. "Feuds in the Highlands go far back and are honored long after the memory of the original cause."

"So you fight for no reason," she said with some perplexity.

"Na," he objected briskly, still holding her against his soaked chest.

"Then why?"

" ‘Tis because..." He scowled. "Because..."

“They have no cause," she repeated with a fresh shudder. "And so it is silly to fight."

He watched her in silence, wanting to disagree, but wasn't it the feuds that tore the Highland people apart generation after generation? Wasn't it peace that he wished for above all else?

For a moment more he held her—until he could no longer find an excuse to do so. Stepping forward one more stride, he bent and set her on the aged log before drawing back, allowing her to regain her balance.

"How is it that you found this place?" she asked, talking to hide how conscious she was of his touch.

" 'Twas naught but luck, lass," he admitted. "Methinks ye bring a good portion with ye."

Through the open neck of his saffron shirt Rose could see the clinging gray bandage she had used to cover his chest wound. His hair was soaked and dripped in dark, heavy waves past his shoulders. His brow, broad and dark-skinned, bore a small, purplish circle where she feared she had kicked him in her frantic effort to escape his grasp.

Indeed, she thought with sarcastic misery, she had certainly brought him good luck.

"Get ye from those wet clothes. I will search for wood to make a fire," Leith said.

"I... " Her teeth chattered a bit, making it difficult to talk and reminding her of her brave words about not resenting a little rain. “I have no other clothes to w-wear."

"Aye." Leith placed his fists to his hips and nodded. "But I could only guess at yer size when ye wore the humble rags of the abbey, hence ye canna expect me to have purchased more than a few garments from the village. Indeed, ‘tis a pity, but ye will have to do without," he said, and left.

Rose stared after him, watching the spot where he had disappeared. He had not sounded overly sorry for her plight, she thought ruefully, making his comment somewhat suspect.

It was not the first time she had realized how dependent she was on this man, but it felt different now. In the two nights past, the only nights they had spent alone, he had seemed distant, never touching her and barely speaking. But now his mood seemed to have changed.

She shivered again, hugging her chest with shaking arms and thinking this was a poor way to die.

"Canna ye obey a simple order?" Leith was back already, his thick arms miraculously full of dry firewood and his expression rather amused.

Damn him for not shivering as she did.

"I told you," she said grumpily, "I have no other clothes."

Leith dropped the firewood with a muffled clatter, causing her to jump as he placed his hands on his hips again. "And I said it be a pity. Now get yerself naked afore ye catch yer death."

Rose's lips were numb. "I have nothing to wear," she insisted.

"The good Lord did give ye skin, did he na?"

" I must quit kicking you in the head," Rose said irritably. "I fear it has addled your thinking. Of course He gave me skin."

"Then it shall dry quickly and keep ye warmer than what ye now wear."

"You," she declared, "are a raving lunatic."

He spread his legs, looking large and formidable with his arms akimbo and his expression dark. "I have traveled far from home and hearth to find ye, lass, and would be sorely disappointed if ye died on me now."

"As would I," she assured him. "C-cannot you built the f-fire before I am frozen in this position for all eternity?"

"Ye must disrobe."

"No." She shook her head emphatically, giving his statement not a moment's consideration. “I must not."

His gaze caught hers which was lifted stubbornly to his face, and he shrugged. "As ye wish then."

To her surprise he turned away without another word. In a moment he had the firewood arranged to his satisfaction. It took him a bit longer to strike a blaze with his flint and steel, but finally the tinder caught a spark and was blown into a flame.

Rose stretched her hands toward the minute yellow fire, waiting breathlessly for the heat it would create.

"I would share me dry plaid with ye," Leith said from across the fire, "but it would do little good over yer soaked gown."

His tone sounded ever so casual, thought Rose, all her concentration directed toward the first faint flicker of yellow heat. One would think he were discussing the time of day rather than her continued survival—which was most uncertain if she did not warm soon.

"Do..." she began, but when she raised her gaze, her jaw dropped. "Wh-what the devil are you doing?"

Leith grinned before pulling the simple, voluminous shirt over his head. "I am a practical man, Rose," he said, still grinning as his head emerged, his wet hair slightly ruffled while his manner was not. “I am disrobing."

"God's toenails!" she gasped, jerking to her feet to scramble backward over the log on which she'd been sitting. "Not—not completely."

His grin broadened. "But I am completely wet, lass."

To her horror she realized he'd already removed his boots. Her gaze skimmed to the soggy mass of horsehide buskin, then hurried back to his bare feet.

They were broad and powerful, with taut sinews extending from instep to toes. His ankles were as wide as her upper arms, but it was his calves that arrested her attention. They were thick with bunched, rock-hard muscle that blended upward to his exposed knees and the lower regions of heavy thighs beneath his tartan.

She stared openly, not noticing his actions until the plaid shifted and dipped, dropping over one knee. Her gaze shot up to where his hands were just now tugging his wide leather belt free.

She stood transfixed, watching the wet, woolen slide with ridiculous slowness from his rippled abdomen to...

She jerked about at the last moment, covering her eyes as she faced the stone wall. "Good God," she gasped. "Have you no shame?"

His chuckle seemed to come from somewhere deep within his broad-muscled chest. "Nay, lass, I am na ashamed of what God has given me."

"W-well..." She was breathing hard and the hand before her eyes shook visibly. "You are indeed a barbarian. A..." Her free hand circled rather wildly as she searched for words. "A ..."

"A man, sweet lass?" he whispered, his breath suddenly brushing her ear.

She all but screamed, jumping from his startling nearness. "God's t-t-toenails," she rasped, rattled to the core of her being. "Are you n-n-naked?"

"Nay, lass." He chuckled again, the sound so close to her quivering ear that she felt the shivering effects of it course its way through her entire body. “Turn and see."

Her knees quaked as he prodded her stiff body toward him. She moved woodenly, feeling suddenly warmer and rather faint. He grinned as she looked at him, and she found she could not move, could not speak, and certainly could not force her gaze from his irritatingly mesmerizing face.

"Ye tremble, lass," he said softly.

She did not respond, for suddenly she was lost in the midnight-dark depths of his eyes.

"And I ask meself... do ye tremble from the cold ... or some other cause?" he murmured.

She was vaguely aware of the soft plaid that hung from his shoulders, for he gripped her upper arms, allowing her fingers to brush the soft, dry wool as it swept downward.

"It is not decent that you stand before me like ..." Her words, abruptly freed from her stiff lips, tumbled to an abbreviated halt as she flicked her eyes downward for the briefest of seconds. The quick, furtive gaze confirmed her worst suspicions. Beneath the gaping blanket he was naked. She was sure of it, though she had not spared enough time to actually see anything that might cause her to faint dead away. "Like... that!" she croaked breathlessly.

His mouth quirked. "How is it that ye are ashamed of God's handiwork?" he asked softly.

"God's..."

"Ye think that He wasna the One to craft our bodies?" Leith murmured. "Ye think He is shocked by the sight of me thus?"

Her eyes were as wide as the amethyst brooch the abbess had given him. And she looked for all the world as if she might drop to the earth in a dead faint.

"Mayhap Englishmen are different than we Scots," he continued, gripping her arms a bit harder lest she plummet like a rock from sheer shock. "Mayhap English bairns are born fully dressed with tiny broadswords strapped to their wee hips. Aye?" he asked, dark brows raised.

Her expression had not changed in the least, Leith noticed, and he devilishly considered all the things he might do to shock her further still.

The thought broadened his grin and accelerated the already rapid beat of his heart.

"You're insane," she murmured, and he chuckled aloud.

"Nay, lass," he said with a slight shake of his head. "Me mind is quite sound, as is me body. I only ask ye to think and answer. What sin is there in being as our Maker crafted us?"

"You think it best that we all run about bare-naked?"

Their eyes were caught in an unbreakable hold— violet on brown.

"Only when there is a likely purpose, lass," he breathed, leaning closer. "And now is as likely a time as ever there be."

His lips met hers with such shocking heat that the touch of them stunned her senses, sending sparkling bits of reality scrambling into the nether regions of her mind. His right arm reached about her body, igniting flames where he touched her and making her senses reel.

Leith felt the slight dip of her body against his fingertips and knew that the hardships of the journey had been too much for her. Or was it his kiss? He grinned at the thought and bent to lift her into his arms.

"Come, lass." He cradled her against his chest. "I will see thee warmed."

Rose could not fight him, for... she didn't want to. He was too marvelously muscled, too magnetically formed, both in body and spirit.

He laid her down next to the fire. His plaid fell away, exposing the dark, muscled expanse of his chest, crossed by the gray, saturated bandages.

"I must get ye from these wet clothes, lass," he whispered gently. "For I have waited too long to lose ye now."

"Waited?" she breathed, her eyes not leaving his face.

"Aye, lass. I have waited." His fingers reached to the laces below her arm, tugging the wet fabric free. "As the laird of the Forbes, many have thought it me duty to wed, but I have not." He loosed the laces under her other arm. 'Though I knew na what I waited for."

Her chest felt tight with the breath she held and the flesh along her limbs stood in aching bumps that bristled as her sleeves were pulled away.

"But now, sweet, gentle babe," he breathed, pulling the gown down, over her hips and away, "before me lies the cause for me delay. Ye are the reason," he said.

Suddenly she was dressed in nothing but a linen chemise, and although it began low on her chest and fell to her ankles, she felt as if there was nothing between her flesh and his. She shivered, shocked as much by his words as his nearness.

He had waited—for her. This mesmerizing man, this bold, masculine warrior had waited for her. Never in her life had Rose felt such excitement, such exhilaration and breathlessness.

He tugged the chemise away. She was naked now, and even lovelier than he had remembered. Her breasts were proud, high, and full, capped with puckered pink nipples. Below, each rib was visible, slanting down toward the flat, smooth expanse of her belly.

Leith's nostrils flared as his gaze fell lower, over the tiny valley of her navel to where crisp, dark curls were caught in the apex between her slim, flawless legs.

"Sweet lass," he breathed, for a moment too dazzled to do more, "ye are surely God's finest creation."

" 'Tis not right." Rose's words came like a whimper as she drew herself into a self-conscious ball, pulling her legs to her chest. "You must not see me thus," she said, knowing with sudden, aching realization that in some secret, unspeakable way she wanted him to. Wanted to be seen and to see.

Leith did not mistake her fear or her desire. "Sweet Rose," he murmured, but did not reach to touch her. Instead he took the plaid from his shoulders, tugging it from his own body to wrap it gently about hers. "Me God is a practical God," he whispered, close to her ear. "He would na create such a marvelous form such as yers if He did not wish it to be seen—and appreciated." He drew her into his arms now, noticing how the high swell of her breasts was still visible above his woolen plaid. It was that sight that made him ache, that caused his hands to tremble slightly as he reached to pull her wet hair above the warmth of the tartan.

She felt the tremble and found his eyes with hers. He was a big man, a warrior. Wounded and scarred and unafraid. And yet when he touched her, he trembled. The thought stunned her and her lips parted as she searched for a question.

Leith watched her in silence. Her winterberry hair streamed across the plaid. Her high breasts peeked above the top, and her wide-eyed violet gaze was caught on his. Sweetly parted, luscious lips seemed to call to him and he could wait no longer.

The kiss was not unexpected. In fact, if the truth be known, Rose had been waiting for it, and yet the heat of it seemed to torch her senses. She felt his tongue tickle her lips, felt the tight bands of his arms press her against the rugged wall of his chest.

Hold, fast, and pray, a voice said from her conscience, but it seemed distant now, and rather nonsensical.

She opened her mouth and her arms to him. The plaid parted to encompass him. Flesh met flesh, titillating and warm and sensual. He moved closer, until the hard shaft of his desire was pressed against her.

She gasped against his mouth and pulled away, shocked by the sheer maleness of him.

"I m-must n-not," she stuttered, but his hands had slipped behind her, kneading her aching back.

"Dunna be scairt, sweet Rose," he breathed. “I willna hurt ye."

Hurt? It was the last thought on her mind. Rose's eyes fell closed as his large hand slipped lower, sweeping gently over her right buttock.

His touch felt like heaven. She'd been riding for days on end. Every muscle ached.

He heard her moan of pleasure and though he ached for a different reason he was not fool enough to take her before the time was right.

"Sweet lass," he murmured, shifting her slightly so that she straddled him. The brown and green plaid fell lower and he slid onto it while pulling some of its great length high about her shoulders again. They were completely enveloped in the tartan now, warmed by it, the fire, and each other. "I have pushed ye too hard," he continued, letting his fingers massage where they would—her back, her buttocks, the firm, smooth muscles of her thighs. "Ye have ridden rough country at a hard pace." He leaned closer, letting the throbbing length of his manhood press against the moistness of her. His own eyes fell closed as he gritted his teeth against the painful desire to enter her. "Were things different, I would have ye take a more pleasurable ride now."

"Leith." She could not open her eyes, for she knew what she would see. Sin! But if she remained blind she could only feel the wonder of his hands, which worked together now, pressing gently up her back in tandem waves of pleasure, smoothing the ache from it and making her arch nearer the fire of his form.

"What, lass?" He barely managed the question, for the peaks of her breasts were now pressed against the partially bandaged mass of his chest.

"Leith..."

Somehow they had begun a slight rhythm, rocking gently against each other.

"What, love?" he rasped, his hands still moving as he leaned forward, kissing her lovely ivory throat.

Her head fell back. She arched nearer, breathing hard. "I think ... I like this."

"It is right, lass," he breathed. "Ye are a woman, meant for loving."

"It is... " She pushed harder against him so that her mouth fell open slightly as the pleasure mounted with the heat of his shaft. "It is not right."

"Aye, love." His kisses dropped lower, nearing the crest of her breast. "It is."

Her desire was so intense now that it felt like pain, like a fire about to devour her.

His tongue touched her nipple and she gasped, her body jerking involuntarily.

He suckled her! Dear God! He suckled her!

Hold, fast — and pray, her conscience screamed, and so she clutched the blanket about his shoulders, holding him fast to her... and praying, "Please Leith..."

"What, me love?"

"I—I need..."

"Aye?"

"I need something."

"Aye," he growled and, pushing back her crimson hair, kissed her neck. "Ye need to be loved. By me.”

"But..." She gasped as his kisses swept lower again, grazing the crest of one breast before slipping down to blaze a scorching trail across her abdomen. “I am to be a nun."

"Nay," he murmured against the flaming warmth of her flesh. "Ye are meant to be mine. Destined to spend yer life by me side." His lips skimmed upward again, through the valley between her breasts to kiss her tingling ear. "Promised to me. Already promised," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "So surely there is na need to wait. Who will know?" His eyes were dark and intense as they found hers. "Who will know if we share ourselves now?"

By the firelight's glow Rose watched him. Every instinct demanded that she pull him to her, that she fill the void inside and ease the ache. But his words made no sense.

"Promised?" she asked breathlessly.

His gaze held hers. "The MacAulay did vow to give me Fiona as me wife should I bring her back to Scotland."

Silence held the place.

"Fiona is dead," Rose breathed softly. "Resting in the abbey's gravesite."

Leith nodded. "And hence God brought ye to me. To forge peace between the clans," he breathed. "I have waited so long for a means. Ye will be Fiona, for the auld man will na know ye are na his daughter."

Fiona? Rose struggled to find some sanity in his words. What was he talking about? He had waited for a means to forge peace? He had used her? "What?" she asked weakly, pressing away.

"The MacAulay shall believe ye are his own," said Leith, touching the flaming glory of her hair, sure that she must ache for him just as he did for her, and sure that that flaming desire would win his cause. "He will accept ye, for ye are the very spirit of the Scots. Bold. Bonny," he murmured. "Ye will be Fiona and ye will be mine."

"Yours?" she breathed.

"Aye, lass." His fingertips brushed a damp curl from her face. "And I shall pleasure ye for ye are the very tool I have long awaited."

“Tool?" She still straddled him but had pressed far back now. "I am but a tool?"

"Nay! Na but a tool," he corrected, mesmerized by her beauty and thinking of the pride he would find in calling her his wife. "Ye are to be me Fiona."

"Fiona!" She gasped the word at him as she jerked to her feet, straddling him like a warrior ready for the killing blow. "Fiona! You bastard. You lied to me. Said I was needed for a godly mission, to tend to the old lord. While all along you planned to use me, to cause me to break my vows, to defile me!"

"Defile ye?" he questioned softly. She was a magnificent sight, a naked angel, haloed by a glorious mass of hair that flowed in drying rivers of auburn fire, caressing her breasts, brushing her hips, leaving only her nether parts utterly naked to his gaze.

“I would never defile ye, lass," he promised, his bold gaze caught on the apex between her spread legs. "I would ... give ye great pleasure."

"Pleasure!" she gasped, jerking from above him to stand, legs together, at his side. "You would force me to ... to lie with you."

His grin was devilish, his chuckle deep and suggestive. "I willna need to force ye, wee one, for ye are as eager for the joining as I. Ye will come willingly to me bed."

"Never!"

"Ye shall be me bride," he said, rising slowly to his feet, his expression solemn now.

She did not back away but watched his face with sudden arrogance. "You dream..." she began, then gasped, widening her eyes and pointing frantically past his shoulder.

He wheeled like a trained destrier, knees bent, muscles bulging and ready as he raised his claymore to protect her.

But there was nothing to cause alarm. He shifted his gaze, searching the darkness outside for danger. "What did ye see?" he demanded, his tone low and deadly. But his only answer was the rapid patter of bare, retreating feet.