Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 16

Images of years past drifted gently through Rose's sleep-fogged mind. Sunlit days. Laughter. Pleasant jaunts with Silken by her side. The low nickers of the draft horses as they waited for their barley.

These were the things of her childhood—the simple experiences that had made life worth living.

Memories of the abbey slipped in. Prayer. Cold feet. The unrelenting but unspoken questioning of her purpose there. Her mother's final words.

Loneliness. Rose felt it like a draft of cold air.

Then the images changed, shifting mistily till finally a deep, gravelly voice came, low and husky. Dark hair with narrow braids beside a strong jaw. Long fingers, calloused but gentle, playing softly against her skin. A reluctant smile that lifted only one corner of a seductive mouth. And then the fingers again, warm and languid, brushing her skin like golden rays of sunlight.

She moaned in her sleep, arching slightly toward those imaginary fingers. Life had been so cold and lonely with no promise of warmth or friendship. But now, deep within the comfort of this dream, she found heat forged with an intense interest in life. Here she felt alive and needed. If only she could sleep forever.

The fingers slipped like silk over her lips, then curved downward, cresting her chin and falling water-soft down her throat. She shivered as they caressed the tops of her breasts. But it was the press of a warm kiss to the base of her neck that urged her arms to move heavily, as if searching for her misty dream-lover.

Instead of feeling air, however, her sensitive fingers touched warm flesh. Rose's senses reeled, fighting to find the safe folds of sleep again. But now the scent of him filled her head. That masculine scent of horse and leather. That scent of...

Her eyes opened.

"Leith!" she whispered breathlessly, and found she was staring directly into the warm, honeyed depths of his eyes.

"Aye, lass," he murmured, raising his brows at her surprise. "Did ye think there might be another dallying here?"

He wore no shirt, she realized with bedazzled wonder, and noted too that her humble little cross lay with shameless carelessness against his left nipple.

That fact bombarded Rose's already trembling senses like a broadside to a sea-tossed ship. She let her lips part slightly as she frantically sought something intelligent to say.

"Ye didna answer me, lass," Leith murmured, his fingers taking up their momentarily abandoned course along her collarbone. "Who were ye expecting?"

Who indeed? she wondered dizzily. For all she knew, there might not be another man in the world, for she had never met one who made her body ache for release and her palms sweat.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Methinks ye are avoiding me question," scolded Leith, his fingers blazing a new trail down a naked ...

Naked!

The truth of her nudity hit Rose like cold water in the face, causing her hands to fumble for a sheet to cover herself.

"A ... oh ... please!" She pushed his hand aside with an elbow. "Where are my clothes?" That last and singularly coherent sentence was delivered with narrow-eyed suspicion, but met with nothing more than Leith's devastating grin.

"I was wondering the same, lassie," admitted Leith lazily. "Has some scoundrel been here afore me?"

Her jaw dropped, her brows rose, and her pert pink mouth formed a silly oval of amazement. "No." She shook her head so that each strand of firelight hair tossed with the movement. "You're the only one."

He could only assume she meant he was a scoundrel, but took some solace in the fact that he was, at least, the only scoundrel in her bedchamber. "It seems ye survived the day well enough without me," he observed. His fingertips trailed smoothly down her arm again, which was bent now to pull the sheet tightly to her chin.

She shivered when he reached the sharp bend in her arm, and he canted his head, wondering at her reaction.

"Day... without you?" she said witlessly, gripping the sheet even harder and trying to do the same with her scattered senses.

"Aye," he said, but his attention was diverted now as he grasped her wrist in a gentle attempt to pry her hand from the sheet.

She held on like a terrier to a rat.

"Truly, lass," he cajoled, his tone deep with amusement, "ye are so tense. Ye must relax."

"I'm not tense." She said the words through gritted teeth, and he laughed aloud, finally succeeding in wrenching her hand from the linen.

"There now." He held her arm in one hand while massaging it gently with the other. "Tell me of yer day, and I will ease the ache from yer muscles."

"My muscles do not ache," she said stubbornly, but winced slightly as his clever fingers found a particularly sore spot.

"They dunna?"

"No," she lied, but he was working his way gently up her forearm, causing her entire body to begin to go limp and forcing her eyes to fall momentarily closed. "I've never felt better."

'Truly?" he asked, noticing how her other hand's grip on the sheet had already slackened a wee bit. "Ye are indeed the strong one, then, for in truth..." He leaned closer, letting his kneading fingers slide sensuously up her arm. "I ache."

Some area of Rose's numbed brain noticed that he did not mention what part of his anatomy was aching, and against her will her gaze fell lower.

She saw that he wore, blessedly, his usual tartan to cover his abject nakedness, but his chuckle made her realize rather belatedly that her relief did little to prevent him from relishing her line of thought.

Immediately her face flamed with embarrassment. She did her honest best to wrestle her arm from his grasp, but he held on with gentle strength until she ceased her struggles.

"Nay, lass," he crooned softly, and bending, placed light kisses on her wrist. "Dunna be ashamed of yer curiosity. For in truth I find it to be quite... uplifting."

Again she did her level best to jerk away before her face burned to ashes, but he would not let go.

"Tell me about yer day, lass," he urged again. "Try to distract me." He stared at her in silence before adding with a grin, " 'Twould be the godly thing to do."

This time he kissed her midway between wrist and elbow. Rose jerked at the spark of pleasure.

"My day," she said quickly, trying to ignore the thrilling shiver his touch sent through her. "It was fine." His kisses were continuing, as was his heavenly massage of her arm.

"Your aunt..." She tried to conduct a normal conversation, but now his lips touched the crease of her elbow and she jerked involuntarily.

"Ye have the most sensitive arm, lass," he murmured, remaining bent over that trembling limb. "I wonder how receptive the rest of yer bonny person might be."

"Please!" She could not bear such sweet torture. "Please..."

"Ye were telling me of yer day," he reminded her.

"Oh!" She wasn't sure what prompted the strange sound that came from her throat. But perhaps it was the fact that both his hands and his mouth had moved to her fingers. Who would have thought the simple massage of them would feel so luscious?

"Yer day," he reminded her again, glancing up at her wide violet eyes as he turned her palm upward. "Ye can remember, can ye na?"

"Of course I can," she said, and though she had intended to snap the words at him, she found the sentence came out on a breathy moan of pleasure, for he was now rotating his thumb in the center of her palm. He made her feel like melting ice, like a frozen pond in the midst of a spring thaw. Her head tilted back as she opened her eyes just in time to see him touch his tongue to that same tender spot on her palm.

There was no use trying to pull away now, though Rose supposed it would be good to try.

But she had never been very good at being good.

"Mayhap ye could begin by telling me who took yer clothes," urged Leith as he nibbled his way down her quivering pinky and gently sucked the tip.

She sighed, forgetting to feel guilty.

"Clothes," he reminded her, moving on to her next ringer.

"Clothes ... yes," she echoed. "Pray tell, what has happened..." She gasped as he sucked her middle finger into his mouth, but failed yet again to try to pull away. "What has happened to your clothes?"

He drew her hand nearer so that her palm finally rested against the tight slope of his bare chest, just beside the dangling cross. His bandage was gone now, exposing the reddened, healing wound near his shoulder. "'Tis good of ye to notice that I am na fully dressed."

Oh, God, yes. She had noticed. Beneath her hand he felt as taut and rugged as a hunting animal, and when she raised her eyes to his, she found they reflected that same predatory sharpness.

She slipped her hand sideways so that her fingers brushed across his smooth nipple. They moaned in unison.

"Me sweet lass," he crooned, drawing nearer so that her hand slid along the slant of his lean ribs to his back. "I could remove me plaid also that I wouldna have ye at a disadvantage."

Disadvantage? The truth was, she was hopelessly disadvantaged for she ached to feel him stretched against her skin, naked and hot and hard. But she was supposed to be the strong one, to hold him at bay, to fast and to pray.

While in truth—they'd all be lucky if she didn't eat him alive.

His lips found hers and suddenly she was pressed up against him like butter on bread. Through the sheet and his plaid she could feel the hot length of his manhood, and knew that if she but slipped her hand lower she could reach beneath his simple garment and grasp the length of his throbbing need.

The thought should have shocked her, she was certain. In fact, she tried to be shocked, but all she could manage was breathless anticipation. It seemed she was beyond embarrassment now and all she knew was her own ravishing desire.

Too long had she been untouched.

Somehow the sheet fell away and his arms encircled her. She felt the hard press of his chest against her bosom and arched, pressing herself more firmly to him.

"Sweet lass," he rasped again, feeling such an aching need that he found it hard to speak. "Let me be rid of these—"

A quick knock sounded upon the door. "Yer bath, me laird."

On the bed the two froze together like ragged miscreants caught in a crime. Leith's heated body screamed for justice, for some ease from the fever in his loins. All he need do was send the woman away, his reason declared, but one glance at the violet eyes below him said otherwise.

Cold, hard, good sense had flooded back to Rose's expression, and in her eyes he saw she realized what they had almost done.

"Get up!" she ordered.

"Lass, I—" he began.

"I'll scream," she warned. "I swear I will."

His first thought was Scream away, lass. After all, who was there to stop him? He was laird here, for Jesu's sake. But common decency and an inherent sense of fairness prevailed, making him release her with gritted teeth.

When he stood, Rose could not help but notice that his plaid stuck out at a strange angle near his hip. His eyes followed hers before he turned his back with a scowl.

"Come in," he called, and in a moment the door cracked open.

"Me laird?" questioned Hannah timidly, making Leith realize he had barked the words. "Shall I return later?"

Later? Leith scowled. Later would be no better. The girl could wait with his bathwater till hell froze over, but Rose Gunther would not see it in her heart to be less difficult. "Nay." He did his best to temper his tone. "Bring it now."

Two young men carried the wooden vat that served as a bathing tub, and it was with renewed embarrassment that Rose recognized one of them as the lad who had seized her clothes during her bath by the river.

His eyes flicked over her and though it was but a momentary glance, it was enough to send rage flaring through Leith's overheated body.

"Harlow!" he bellowed. Every person in the room jerked at the sound.

The lad halted mid-stride, his posture tense. "Aye, me laird?"

“I will see ye and yer two cohorts by the north wall."

"Aye." The lad's back was as straight as a lance, though his face was pale.

"Now!" growled Leith and the lad flinched before hurrying from the room.

Leith's gaze shifted to Rose's lowered face. "Ye may bathe first," he said, forgetting to smooth his gruff tone before he exited behind the boy.

Striding down the hall, Leith felt the lingering effects of his rampant desire. He'd created himself a hell on earth.

The lass was his. Yet she was not truly his.

She shared his bed. Yet she did not share his bed.

She was Fiona MacAulay. Yet she was not.

His hands curled and he wished with the logic of pure frustration, that he could hit something hard and solid. She tempted him with her every move. Sweet Jesu, she tempted with her very presence. It took no more than the sight of her face in slumber to stoke his desire to raging proportions. And as if that were not enough, now it seemed he needed to deal with the desires of every half-grown whelp with the first growth of moss fuzz upon his jaw.

He should have left her in England. He should have taken one look at her innocent doe eyes and run like hell.

Or he should have ravaged her then married her in earnest. For God's sake, she wanted him! She ached for him. He knew it. He could feel the hot excitement in her each time he touched her velvet skin, her silken hair. And yet she would not admit it. She had not admitted to a weakness of any kind.

She was driving him mad, constantly occupying his thoughts, causing him to forgot all the things he had kept sacred his entire life—all the things he had sworn to protect when he took his vows as laird of the Forbes.

When he'd entered his chamber he'd had no thought of ravishing her. In fact, his body had ached with fatigue and he'd thought only of a warm bath and some rest.

But there she'd been, naked but for a single linen sheet, and his primal instincts had taken control. They'd been so close to consummating their relationship. And he'd never even gotten past her arm, Holy Jesu! What if he got a chance to actually touch her knee? What if he was able to lay a hand on the steep curve of her waist or feel her heart beat like a running steed's beneath his cheek?

Dear God. He must find his wits, he thought, striding through the bustling hall and outside.

Passing under the rowan trees that grew in the courtyard, Leith bent down and grasped a branch that fit nicely into his sweating palm. There were few options now, he realized. He'd set his course and he would follow it to the end. Peace needed to be wrought between his clan and the MacAulays. Further bloodshed must be prevented. He had brought Rose Gunther with him for that purpose and for that, purpose alone.

He had a year. And since that might not be enough, he would woo and caress her. He would pull down her defenses one by one until she could do naught but admit her desire. Nay... her love.

Yes. He filled his lungs with fresh air—like a stallion testing the scent of his range. She would love him. He swung the branch again.

And he... He would care for her as he cared for his clan. But she would not touch his heart. A Scottish laird had no place for softness.

Leith lifted his gaze, noticing the trio of lads that waited near the north wall. They winced slightly each time he swung the stick, he noticed, but he found no pity for their obvious fear, for they surely deserved to be punished.

Thinking of the incident by the lochan, Leith swung the tree limb into his other hand. Bracing his legs like a warrior awaiting a battle, he stared at the three from less than a full stride away.

"So..." His voice was a gravelly growl. "The three of ye are interested in me woman."

"Nay," the three lads stuttered at once. "Nay, laird. Nay!" they echoed.

"It seemed otherwise last eventide," he said, and the three backed away a step, bumping into each other and against the stone wall behind them, but finding no escape.

"Why?" he asked, his voice like midnight.

Two lads mouthed noiseless responses while the third stood unmoving and silent.

"I'll have an answer," Leith stepped forward, and suddenly his ears were assaulted by a cacophony of rushed and garbled apologies.

Leith listened for less than two heartbeats before he raised his hand and lowered his brows in anger. "Cease yer prattle," he demanded, noticing that Harlow had not entered into the frenzied explanation. "I but ask ye this. Whose idea was it to accost the lass by the river?"

There was utter silence. Each young man watched him in breathless horror, none wanting to condemn himself or a friend. But in a moment Harlow stepped forward. His back was straight, his face pale, and in that moment Leith realized the boy's courage.

In truth, he thought, the lad had become a man in that last, short year.

"It was me idea, laird," he said stiffly, his clenched jaw held high.

Leith studied him. Harlow had been orphaned at an early age and raised by Nicol Fordyce—a good crofter but a harsh man, with little patience or softness. There had been trouble between the elder man and Harlow, he knew, for the Highlands of Scotland was a small place where everyone knew the business of all. It was also known that young Harlow had been the source of petty troubles for a number of years—from the theft of old Evander MacCain's apples to numerous fights with other lads.

"Why?" Leith asked again, the question heavy on the air.

"What, me laird?" asked Harlow, gripping his hands into fists and standing his ground with stubborn pride.

“I asked why," Leith rumbled and now the two behind Harlow stuttered into jumbled explanations.

Leith gritted his teeth and counted backward from two. He had never been a patient man. "Harlow!" he raged, his voice low. "I want to hear it from Harlow."

"Me laird," said the lad, drawing his back even straighter, "we were but hunting when we saw the lass by the lochan. We..." He swallowed. "We watched for a time, sir, and saw that she wore the plaid of the MacAulays. We thought she was one of them—on Forbes' land."

"And so ye thought to rape the girl?" thundered Leith, anger searing through his senses at the thought of his Rose being so mauled.

"Nay!" Harlow denied, shock stamped across his rugged features. “I swear we considered na such thing. We planned but to scare her. To teach her to stay on her own land."

Mayhap it was true. Leith loosened his grip on the tree branch he held and tried to breathe more easily. Mayhap the lads had meant no real harm, and yet who could say how circumstances might have proceeded had he not been close to hand?

Eyeing the three, he could well remember his own steaming desires in his adolescence. Hell, his desires had not cooled yet, he thought, remembering the auburn-haired lass who graced his bed.

What if Harlow's desires had gotten the best of him? What if Rose had been an innocent MacAulay lass whom they had taken against her will? Why should such injustice be allowed to exist just because of the difference in their surnames?

"Hear me. And hear me well," Leith said, his tone low and deadly earnest. “For the sake of me lady I willna punish ye. For to do so would but draw attention to yer deeds and cause her greater shame. But I tell ye this..." He stepped forward, the branch held again in both hands. "Should I find any of ye accosting another maid, be she MacAulay or otherwise, I will take the strap to yer backs with me own hand. And I willna care if ye draw yer last breaths on the whipping post."

The lads stood silent, their eyes round with fear.

"As for me lady," continued Leith, his tone more gentle now. " Tis said that it does na hurt to look, is it na?" he asked.

The boys nodded eagerly, their faces losing some of their strain.

"Well 'tis na true!" roared Leith. "It will indeed hurt to look. And it will hurt most fierce. So keep yer eyes to yerself. She is mine and mine alone, and ye shall surely feel me wrath if I find ye near her again until ye have regained me trust. Do ye ken me meaning?"

The nods were quick again and Leith drew a deep breath. “That is well, for I willna tolerate yer pressing yer randy attentions on an innocent lass, be she mine or some other's."

"Aye. Aye, me laird," they said, shuffling their feet in relieved anticipation to be off.

"Ye lads may go now," Leith said, nodding to the other two. "I will have a word alone with Harlow."

They could not have exited faster had they had wings, and now Harlow stood alone, silent and pale and seemingly aware of his vulnerability.

"How is it that ye are gone from auld Nicol's home?" Leith asked finally, his gaze hard on the boy.

"He na longer wanted me there, me laird."

Leith only raised his brows and waited.

"He said I ate more than I was worth and sent me on me way."

Leith curled his fist tighter around the tree limb and cursed himself for his own short sightedness. He should not have placed the lad with Nicol, for they were too much alike—too stubborn, too ... Scottish. At the least he should have corrected the situation before now—at the first sign of trouble— at that first stolen apple. 'Twas his fault.

"I have need of more soldiers," he said abruptly, stamping the end of the staff into the ground before him. "Could it be ye have the makings of a warrior?"

Surprise shone on the lad's face. "Me?"

"Aye," Leith said, hoping he was not wrong in believing the lad could be forged into a worthy soldier. "Do ye think yerself up to the challenge, lad?"

"Aye." It did not seem possible that the boy could draw his back any straighter. "Aye, me laird."

"It is good," Leith said simply, nodding. "Then ye shall report to Alpin, captain of the guard, on the morrow."

"Aye." The boy did not smile, but held himself very still. "Is that all, me laird?"

Leith watched him for a short time. "Dunna forget what I have said." His voice was low again. "For ye shall dearly pay for yer next mistake."