Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 17

Rose's hands felt damp as several women straightened and smoothed her yellow satin gown.

Tonight her presence would be announced to the Forbes clan. Tonight she would stand before them all, claiming to be the daughter of Laird Ian and the handfasted maid of Laird Leith.

Dear God! Rose closed her eyes. Lies. Her entire life was now based on lies, so that she stood arrayed in the finest garments imaginable, pretending to be that which she was not. Pretending to be bound to a man she barely knew.

But in truth, was she not bound to him?

She well remembered Leith's eyes as he had stared into hers only a few hours before. He'd awakened her from dreams of him, had touched her skin. Had he also touched her soul?

Why did her thoughts constantly turn to him? She had vowed to be a nun. And yet that idea seemed so distant now—like another life, while Leith Forbes seemed so real, so warm and close and magnetic.

For just a moment she tried to imagine life without him, and suddenly she could not.

"Ye look lovely," said Hannah. "Our laird will be more smitten than ever."

Smitten? Rose turned her gaze to the pretty servant, trying to make sense of her words. Leith was not smitten with her and never had been. In fact, he had brought her here under false pretenses. He had lied to her. Blackmailed her. Very nearly seduced her. And yet, she now stood ready to pretend to be that which she was not in order to fulfill his wishes. Why? The question echoed in her mind. In order to get back her lost cross and return to England? Or because she loved him?

The thought left her breathless. She did not love Leith Forbes. Could not afford to love him. For surely he did not love her. He only used her and she must not forget that. She did not belong here. It was not her home, and in a year and one day, she would leave.

Leith straightened his doublet, staring for a moment from a window slit of the room two doors down from where the women fussed over the wee nun's gown. The time of reckoning had come. Tonight his people would meet Fiona Rose MacAulay. Worry assailed him. Perhaps he had been a fool to set these events into motion. Perhaps Dugald MacAulay would learn that the girl was not who she claimed to be and the feud would escalate. Perhaps even the Forbes clan would not accept her. There were a hundred worries, and yet... The one that concerned him most was none of these. It was the thought of her leaving that tore at his mind.

Rose did not wish to be there. Indeed, she had promised herself to the Church. He had all but forced her from that sanctuary to this foreign land. She would not forgive him for that, and she would not stay once her commitment had been honored.

Sudden, aching loneliness flooded him. How had she so quickly become the center of his life? Why did she remain at the core of his thoughts even when he told himself his clan's well-being must come first.

Leith scowled at the grounds below where people milled and laughed, waiting for the festivities to begin. They were his tribe, blood of his blood and had always been his first concern. Now would be no different. He would convince Rose to stay— for the good of his people.

With that thought firm in his mind, Leith stepped from the room.

She was there!

Breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. Holy Jesu! Gone was the poor postulate. Gone was the fiery-haired sea fairy.

In their place was a princess.

He drew her in with his eyes, soaking up every detail, every movement, every scent. She was as lovely as springtime. Her uncovered auburn hair was braided into a heavy rope that was pinned around her head like a glistening halo. Her neck was bare, that lovely, graceful neck that made his mouth water. Her gown was made of yellow satin and just capped her shoulders. It covered the sweet curves of her breasts and was bound close underneath with a dark-blue damask girdle that fell down one hip to end in intricately worked metal ends. The sleeves were fitted snugly against her slim arms, and her hands, pale and delicate, were clasped tightly together.

"Your aunt had the gown sewn for me," she said shakily, looking young and painfully beautiful.

Leith did not respond, for indeed, he felt as if he could not. Gone were all his good intentions. Before him stood an ethereal vision. An angel dressed in yellow.

"She..." Rose began, but suddenly she could not remember what she had planned to say, for she had fallen into his eyes. They were deep and warm and as unflinching as Silken's. He wore a midnight-blue doublet that accentuated the width of his shoulders. Beneath that he’d donned a snow-white shirt with a single ruffle at each wide wrist. Gone was his simple sporran, and in its place was one of a more intricate design, displaying supple leather tassels and a large, single jewel at its center. Beneath the handsome sporran was a tartan of bright reds and blues.

"My ceremonial plaid," he explained, then raised his brows. "Are ye satisfied with me appearance?"

Rose lifted her gaze to Leith's. "I'm sorry." She could feel a blush suffuse her face. "I did not mean to stare."

"Ye did na?" he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Then I can only assume ye could na help yerself."

"Please." Rose dropped her gaze to her clasped hands, feeling as if she would die of embarrassment, and remembering the bevy of women she had left in the room behind her. "Do not tease me now."

“Tease ye?" He took a step forward, his gaze not leaving her face. "I was na teasing. I but wondered if ye found me lacking."

For a moment she closed her eyes. Tension made it difficult to swallow, while the heat of his nearness made it impossible to think.

"Answer me, lass. Do ye find me lacking?"

Lacking? The word was so far from Rose's opinion of him that her lips twitched in amusement. But she could barely breathe, much less laugh.

"No, my lord," she said softly, refusing to raise her gaze. "You look quite fit."

"Fit?" he repeated, and though she refused to meet his eyes she could tell he was smiling. "Ye are na overly generous with yer praise, wee one. But I fear I canna be so distant as ye, for ye are far too lovely."

Against her will, Rose again raised her eyes to his.

Heat flooded between them, making her feel weak.

"Ye are as bright as a midnight star, wee Fiona," he whispered. " Tis proud I will be to show ye to me people."

"I'm frightened." The words slipped unbidden from her lips, and though she knew her greatest fear should be the clan's reaction, she was not certain that was so. For the sight of him so near and handsome made her tremble. .

"All will be well, lass," he said softly. "For we labor to do what is right."

His hand reached for hers, warm and strong against her cool palm.

"Let there be peace between us, lass," Leith murmured close to her ear. “For we shall surely need it if we are to see our course through to its end."

Rose nodded, saying nothing. Below, a hundred voices swelled to a crescendo before fading back to a loud rumble. She felt herself pale.

"Remember, lass," Leith whispered soothingly, "ye are MacAulay. And ye are Forbes."

In his eyes Rose saw pride. Pride in himself and in his people. But perhaps there was also pride in her. She straightened her back, believing suddenly that she could change the world, and so they walked together, side by side to the top of the stairs. Once there they paused.

The hall was filled to overflowing, crowded with trestle tables and people milling and shouting and laughing.

Gradually the faces glanced up toward them. The noise subsided. Fingers tugged at others' sleeves and urged silence.

"Me people," Leith called, his voice strong and resonant.

"Laird," they boomed back, lifting mugs of ale that had already been filled and refilled.

"I've called ye here to meet..." He lifted Rose's hand and drew her forward a scant step. "... me lady."

"Lady!" The hall reverberated with their greetings. Flagons clashed in salute.

"Her name. Tell us her name, laird," called a single voice above the others.

Leith drew himself even straighter, looking down at the mob of his kindred. They were a rough and brave lot. Good people and strong. But set in their ways. He had hoped this day would be different. He had hoped to stand before them with Ian MacAulay by his side, for though he was their enemy, he was respected by all. Words of peace from the old laird's mouth would surely have added strength to Leith's own statements. But such was not to be.

His gaze shifted over the crowd, noting the uplifted, expectant faces. These people depended on him. Trusted him. But did they trust him enough?

"Her name?" another prompted, drawing him back to the present.

He raised his hand, stilling the mob and feeling the dull ache of uncertainty deep within his chest. "Her name," he repeated, his tone bold and strong again, "her name is Fiona."

There was a pause before the throng's next roar, but Leith's hand remained up, his palm facing them.

"Fiona Rose MacAulay, Laird Ian MacAulay's only progeny!" From his sporran, Leith pulled the rolled parchment stamped with the old laird's seal. "Fiona Rose MacAulay, handfasted to me by the auld laird himself."

Dead silence fell on the place. Men, poised to cheer, lost their voices at the news.

"Tis a new age for the Forbes," Leith called, shaking the hall with the force of his feeling and lifting the parchment high. "There is a new king in Scotland. A king for the Highlander. A king who speaks the Gaelic!" Leith shouted. "King James wants peace for his people. And with this union..." He lifted Rose's hand again, his voice booming. "With this union between yer laird and Ian's daughter, we will put the past to rest and forge a new and wondrous future for ourselves and for our children. With this union," he roared, "there shall be peace and prosperity for all the people of Glen Creag."

Rose stood frozen in silence, not understanding the words spoken in a language that was strange to her, not understanding the unprecedented twist of fate that had brought her to this foreign place. Not understanding her own muddled emotions.

Her gaze skimmed the hall, noting the lifted faces below her.

Utter silence held the place.

"Ye will accept her," ordered Leith, exercising his authority. "Just as ye accept me."

Someone raised a mug to her, and a few called her name, but most remained silent.

"Ye will accept her!" roared Leith, and now a few more voices were raised in greeting. But still the tension remained.

Beside her, Leith lowered and squeezed Rose's hand, transmitting his feelings to her as surely as if she had seen into his soul.

She turned, catching his gaze with her own, seeing his emotions like visible entities.

Where was his confidence? His arrogance? Uncertainty and concern replaced his assurance, she realized suddenly.

These were Leith's people.

That weighty truth settled upon Rose for the first time. These were not merely his servants or his countrymen, but his family. His blood kin. And he loved them.

No—more than loved. Cherished.

Her heart did a strange little trip in her chest.

Leith Forbes, laird of the Forbes, cherished these people enough to search all of England to find the means to protect them.

And Rose Gunther? She was only the means. Nothing more. She was not his family. In fact—she was no one's family.

Loneliness as empty as death besieged her. Not loneliness for her homeland, but loneliness for someone who was hers. Someone who would care. Someone like ...

For a moment his soul was in his eyes, and for a moment she was lost there, wandering aimlessly, aching to hold him.

Five hours later Rose sat alone in the center of Leith's velvet-draped bed.

Pulling up her knees, she rested her chin on the plaid blankets that covered them. Her hair had been uncoiled and brushed until it glistened about her shoulders and breasts, and lay finally in a crimson pool on the bedcovers.

She wore a voluminous white linen gown, cuffed at her wrists and laced at her throat, and waited now like a bride for her groom.

Only she was not a bride and Leith was not a groom. It was all a hoax. A ploy. A sin!

She closed her eyes and wondered how long it had been since she had belonged, for surely she did not belong here. And the people knew. Only Leith's aunt Mabel, and perhaps young Hannah McCain, made her feel more welcome than a fox in a chicken house. Oh, they had tolerated her. Some had even managed a smile or two. But none, save the children, had accepted her.

The door swung open. The single, nearby candle flickered in the billowing draft, then straightened to shine its misty light on the towering form of Leith Forbes.

Rose watched as he closed the door behind him. He paused, his gaze going to her, noting the burnt-red glory of her hair, the flawless oval of her delicate face.

"So ye are here," he breathed.

Her expression was absolutely solemn. "Where else would I be, my laird?"

He shrugged, feeling strangely self-conscious under her deep-violet gaze. She looked small and forlorn and so beautifully innocent that it stung his heart.

"Mayhap I feared ye would fly back to England," he said softly, stepping toward her.

She lifted her jewel-bright gaze to his as he reached the bed.

"I am sorry, lass."

It was the last thing she had expected to hear from him.

"I fear it will take me people some time to become accustomed to the idea of a MacAulay in their midst."

So he had noticed the coolness with which they had greeted her. Rose tried a smile and failed miserably.

The corner of her mouth lifted, Leith noticed. But the expression looked more like a grimace of pain than of humor and that knowledge ripped at his heart, for it was his fault she was there, his fault she was a stranger in a strange land.

"Why am I here?" she whispered desperately.

Sweet Jesu! If he could but hold her. If he would but be allowed that one favor. He settled himself slowly on the edge of the draped bed, drawn there irresistibly. "Because ye are good, lass," he murmured low. "So good. That is why."

"Good?" She seemed to choke on the word. "Good, my laird? So good that I would break my vows to the Lord? So good that I would lie to your people? So good that I would pretend to be that which I am not, to save myself from the humiliation of admitting the truth. That I had escaped the walls of the abbey and lost my cross by the shore of the lake. That I had broken my vows and become a failure in the sight of all."

"Nay." He watched her face, knowing her pain. "Na in the sight of all, lass," he murmured, and with gentle care smoothed a few bright strands of hair behind her small, shell-like ear.

He knew his mistake immediately. Had he not learned the hard way that he could not touch her without losing his head?

The kiss was inevitable. He leaned forward, touching his lips to hers.

She was warm and soft beneath his caress.

Leith's heart sped along at a faster rate, his senses aroused to painful awareness.

She sat silent and unmoving, and then with just the slightest bend of her neck she was kissing him back, cautiously, shyly.

She was kissing him back. Sitting on his bed like a lost, enchanted wood sprite and kissing him back!

His hand trembled slightly as it scooped about the back of her slim neck, pulling her nearer.

Sweet Jesu, she was soft. His breathing raced along at a breakneck course now, followed close behind by the rapid thrum of his heart.

Gilded cinnamon hair caressed his arm and he shifted closer, letting his hand drift down her back, drawing her soft breasts against his chest.

Ice-hot desire hit him.

Beneath the sheet his arm curled about her waist, tiny and taut and moving gently with the rapid pace of her breathing.

She wanted him, he realized with heated elation. Wanted him as badly as he wanted her, perhaps. Sweet Jesu! She was ready. She was hot. She was…

Lonely. The single word slipped unwanted into his mind. But he knew the truth. She was horribly, achingly lonely, and only looked to him now because of that loneliness.

The movement of his hand was arrested, but his loins screamed a protest. He could cure her loneliness. He could, he promised himself.

But how? By increasing her guilt for the desire he could make her feel? Make her hate herself for her own weakness?

"Lass." He leaned away slightly. “I .. . fear I have little control where ye are concerned. Me... apologies."

Apologies? Vaguely, Rose wondered what that meant, but she had no strength to consider it, for she ached. Ached, down deep in the pit of her stomach. Ached in her heart. In her soul. Ached ... for him.

"I canna trust meself with ye, lass," he continued. "Me servant, Ranald, has made his bed outside our door. I will take his usual spot on the floor beside this bed tonight." It took more willpower to turn away than he thought he possessed, but when he did he found her small hands caught on the lapels of his doublet.

"Please..."

His heart and other parts of his burning anatomy jumped at her plea. He could not be responsible for his actions when she pleaded.

“Please don't leave me, Leith. Not tonight." Her eyes searched his. "I will trust you not to... defile me if you but promise." Her eyes were as wide and dark as the loch at Inverness and Leith felt weakness creep into his soul. "Please," she whispered again, her breath warm against his skin. "The bed is soft and ... large enough for two."

A muscle beside his mouth twitched. His loins ached. Holy Jesu! Everything ached. She trusted him!

But how could she trust him? Trusting him was foolhardy. She must not trust him. He was a barbarian. She'd said so herself. He'd lied to her. Repeatedly. He'd blackmailed her. Sweet Jesu! He'd...

“Please," she whispered again, and he made the fatal mistake of looking into her eyes.

"Aye." The word sounded like the parched tone of a tortured man. "Aye, lass," he agreed, and, not removing a single article of clothing, he stretched out stiffly atop the blankets beside her.