Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 18

The hall was filled with people who had come to voice complaints to their newly returned laird. Rose watched him from the corner, her mood morose.

He had not touched her on the previous night, which, of course, did not explain her dejection. It was merely that she felt lonely and out of place. In truth, she should not have asked him to stay in his bed with her, but the thought of being utterly alone had terrified her. She was weak. And Leith? He was not. For he'd been true to his word.

Rose scowled, still watching him.

He sat on a great chair of carved rowan which was placed on a slightly raised dais near the center of the huge room. Suspended behind the chair was an elaborate tapestry, embroidered with a large, dark rock upon which a yellow, striped wildcat stood on its hind feet, claws extended, white teeth bared.

As her gaze swept the length of the hall, she saw the same design on several shields that graced the stone wall above the massive fireplace.

At the far side of the hall a harpist plied gentle notes from his instrument. Was it an intentional attempt to soothe the people as Leith considered their grievances? Rose's gaze moved to him again. His chin rested on a hard fist, his elbow was propped upon the arm of the great chair as he listened to a dispute between two of his kinsmen.

His expression was solemn, his dark brows drawn together. He looked at home there—at the head of his clan, firmly in command. So natural, so self-assured.

Her heart lurched in her chest as the truth came to her again. She did not belong. Not in an abbey. Not in all of England. And certainly not here.

Hannah had helped her dress, choosing one of the many gowns Mabel had ordered sewn for her. Compared to the garment Rose had worn to last night's celebration, today's gown was simple. Still, it was far richer than any Rose had owned in England.

It was the color of Highland heather, a lovely pink-lavender garment that hugged her breasts and waist before falling in soft pleats to her feet. Her hair had been stroked back from her face by Hannah's ministrations with a boar-bristled wood brush, and now flowed over her back and shoulders, unadorned and unfettered.

"Yer bannocks, me lady," Hannah said, slipping the oatmeal flatbread and a bowl of honey before her and frowning as she struggled for the proper English words—a language not unknown but not often used here in the wild Highlands. "Milk?" she asked, but Rose's mind was focused exclusively on the laird of the castle.

He was the most alluring man she had ever seen, but something else drew her to him. Something far deeper. His confidence. His composure. His command of every situation. Or perhaps it was something more intangible still. Mayhap ...

"Me lady?" Hannah questioned a bit louder, causing Rose to start in surprise.

With a quiet gasp Rose guiltily yanked her gaze away. But another visage caught her attention.

Harlow! The young man who had accosted her by the river. His expression was solemn and unreadable, his gaze bearing steadily in her direction. Frightened and skittish, Rose looked up at Hannah once again.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured, her face red with embarrassment, her already shaky composure further upset.

"Milk, me lady?" Hannah repeated. "Or ale?"

Rose drew her thoughts together, trying to concentrate on the young maid's words.

"Ale—for breakfast?" she asked dubiously, the thought making her nose wrinkle in distaste and her already temperamental stomach churn.

" Tis often drunk," Hannah assured her. "Even to break the fast."

"Oh." Rose did not grimace this time for fear of insulting the girl. "I am not much accustomed to the drinking of spirits. Mayhap I had best have the milk."

"Aye, me lady," said Hannah as she turned, then, glancing nervously toward Harlow, hurried to do Rose's bidding.

Rose glanced at the bannocks. It seemed she was the only one who had not yet eaten. The thought made her self-conscious, as if she were being watched.

Harlow was gone. She drew a deep breath, knowing she should feel relieved, but still experiencing that tightness in her chest, as if someone were contemplating her presence there.

Feeling her breath come hard, Rose shifted her gaze, searching for the cause of her discomfort.

Her eyes caught Leith's like the clash of steel against steel. Breath caught in her throat so that she felt as if she'd been struck on the chest with something broad and hard.

From across the hall she could feel the force of his emotion, and yet she could not discern what that emotion was. His body was tense and unmoving, his gaze unwavering and deep.

God's teeth! How was it that he could affect her so powerfully with just a glance? she wondered, her heart thumping wildly.

A richly dressed merchant raised his voice, drawing Leith's attention back to his complaints.

Feeling shaken, Rose dropped her gaze to her breakfast. Dear God, she had to get a grip on herself, had to learn to be as unmoved by Leith's presence as he was by hers.

But how would she ever become accustomed to his presence when she could not even breathe when he was near?

Several days later, the hall was once again filled, but now most of the occupants were the soldiers of Glen Creag, many of whom she recognized from other meals, although those who lived and served in the castle ate there also.

There was a camaraderie in the hall, an easy feeling of belonging that Rose did not share.

To her left, Leith chuckled at a companion's jest, intensifying her sense of isolation.

Each night he came late to their velvet-draped bed, but he neither undressed nor spoke, seeming instead to wish to avoid her.

For a moment she glanced at his profile. He was a handsome man. Also a good man, for he was fair, wise, and absolutely loyal to his clansmen. In the few days since their arrival he had solved all manner of problems—from petty theft to the humiliation of a broken betrothal. The people liked him. What was more, they respected him. He was set above them, and yet he was one of them—an admirable position for a laird, Rose supposed, but a position that left her alone, for he had many duties to occupy his time.

She didn't long for his company, she told herself, but if only there was someone to talk to, someone who trusted her.

It wasn't as if the people hated her. Indeed, they were polite enough. But they did not like her, and Leith's command that they accept her could not force them to care for her. It was as clear as the color of their plaids. They did not want her in their midst.

Sitting quietly, Rose pushed her cooked lobster about with a knife, realizing she was not hungry. She was feeling sorry for herself and she knew it. But the lies were already beginning to wear on her nerves, even though she'd had to answer very few questions regarding her past.

Beside her, Leith leaned forward, spearing a bit of venison with the tip of his knife. His thigh pressed against hers.

Their breaths caught in unison, and before either of them could glance at the other, he jerked his leg away.

Damn. Leith forced himself not to grit his teeth and ate fast. Don't touch! Don't think! And no matter what, don't look, he ordered himself, for he knew every detail of her. She was dressed in a blue gown that accentuated her beauty—the depth of her eyes, the softness of her figure. And her hair... It was down again. Full and bright, and so long it caressed her buttocks. There should be a law against her wearing her hair loose, because ... well... it caressed her buttocks.

Sweet Jesu! Her buttocks... He had felt them, had cupped his hands over them, had cradled them in his palms to pull her warm ...

Good God! She was doing it again. She was making him insane. Every day he struggled to go about his business. Every night he tried to sleep. But damn it to unholy hell. How could he sleep when she was right mere beside him? When she trusted him? Who had ever asked her to trust him? Certainly not he. He knew he wasn't trustworthy where she was concerned.

And that was another thing. She didn't seem concerned. Not in the least. Didn't she know that his palms sweated every time she was near? That he longed to take her into his arms, to kiss her until her eyes shone with that violet passion that was so distinctively hers? Didn't she know how close to the edge of control he was? That he lay awake with his back to her and stared at the wall until exhaustion finally afforded him a few hours of tortured sleep? Didn't she know he was made of flesh and blood, for God's sake?

Didn't she feel anything?

He had promised himself he would woo her. But how could he woo her when he could not allow himself to talk to her? In order to talk to her he had to look at her. And if he looked at her... Well, all would be lost, for she was, without a doubt, the most sexually alluring woman on the face of God's earth.

Every man knew it. They all looked. But they could afford to look, for they thought she was the laird's woman, and therefore were not tempted to take her. Or were they? Suspicion and jealousy nagged at him. And when he spied a man glancing her way, it was all he could do not to shake him till his brains rattled.

Yes. He was losing his mind. Leith gritted his teeth and clasped his knees tightly together to keep his legs from accidentally touching hers. Touching was even worse than looking. Touching was purgatory.

Behind him the door swung open and Leith turned, eager for any diversion.

"Ho."

Rose turned too, her attention drawn to the familiar voice from the doorway.

Colin? Or—

"Roderic," a soldier shouted. "Returned from wenching and wining."

The young man, tall, fair-haired, and the spitting image of Leith's other brother, stood with fists on his hips and a smile on his devilishly handsome face. "Returned from hard labor and a wearisome journey," he corrected dramatically. "Where's me meal?"

There was laughter and clever rejoinders as Roderic's gaze flitted over familiar faces and landed with a jolt on Rose's.

"Jesu!" He said the word with flat finality but quiet fell over the hall as he lowered his fists and strode toward her.

Rose could not take her eyes from his face, for it was as if she looked into the double of the young man they had left in England.

He stood before her, his square face lowered slightly, his sky-blue eyes fixed on hers.

"Mother of God," he whispered.

Beside Rose, Leith drew his brows into a dark scowl. Sweet Jesu! All he needed was Roderic's return to the castle. As if his life wasn't difficult enough without his woman-charming brother to confuse matters.

"Roderic," he greeted, low-voiced. "Welcome."

Roderic failed to answer, for his attention was riveted on Rose's upturned face.

"Be ye a bean-sith?" he murmured in husky Gaelic.

Leith gritted his teeth, counted backward from two, and swore he would not kill him—unless he touched her.

Rose shook her head with a shrug, painfully embarrassed by the man's attention. "I don't speak—"

"Of course." Roderic dropped smoothly to one knee, gripping her hand suddenly as he changed his words to English. "The princess of the fairy people would na speak as we."

He was touching her, Leith noted, fists clenched and waiting. "Brother." His voice was admirably steady as he contemplated the other's imminent death. "Meet me lady—to whom I am handfasted," he said bluntly.

Roderic drew back as if slapped, but in a moment he leaned forward again, pulling her hand closer to his chest. “Tell me 'tis na true," he entreated boldly. "Ye would na bind yerself to another without giving me a chance to win yer heart."

Rose's mouth opened soundlessly. Never had she been the object of such blatant flirtation and she was ill-prepared to handle it now.

“Tell me, lass," he continued, ignoring his brother, who steamed in rigid jealousy beside her. " ‘Tis na true."

"Brother," Leith repeated, "she is indeed bound to me and well bedded, and if ye dunna take yer hand from her, I shall be forced to wrest it from yer arm."

Roderic drew his gaze upward as if from a trance. "Me liege," he said solemnly, "I didna see ye there."

There were enough chuckles to dissuade Leith from committing any crimes he might regret for an eternity.

"I am returned, lad," he grumbled low. "With me lady. Fiona Rose MacAulay."

"Fiona?" Roderic breathed the name and leaned forward as if to study her beauty. "But, aye. Of course. The lady Elizabeth's renowned comeliness, born again in the lass. Where did he find ye, Fiona?"

"I... I..." Rose stuttered, feeling caught between Leith's granite glare and Roderic's hard charm, "I was not aware of my heritage until your... brother found me," she said, trying to subdue her breathing while chanting her memorized lines.

"Ah, lass, but ye couldna have committed yerself to him so soon," he argued. “For surely—"

"She did!" growled Leith, barely keeping himself from catapulting the boy from the nearest window. "And she is mine. Now find yerself a seat and shove some food into yer foolish mouth."

Roderic raised his brows before drawing Rose's hand close to his chest again and laughing aloud. "Me regrets, lady, but I must leave before I am short one arm." He stood, still watching her face. "But if ye have need of me, I will be just yonder." Lifting her hand, he kissed the back and stood. "Dreaming of yer beauty."

Rose watched him stride away and wondered foggily if fathers regularly locked up their daughters when he rode past.

Beside her, Leith dared lean a wee bit closer and whispered, "Shut yer mouth, lass, or I will kiss ye here and now."

Rose's teeth met with a snap.

In a moment Roderic was seated and was soon surrounded by an avid crowd of listeners, for he was well-known for his storytelling.

Rose sat in silence beside a scowling Leith.

Anger emanated from him. But why? She had not denied that they were bound by a mutual agreement. She had not denied anything. Of course, she had hardly spoken at all, but Roderic was the kind of man who was apt to rob a woman of her tongue. Even now he was surrounded by women. Did Leith dislike his younger brother or was it Rose's presence he could not tolerate?

Perhaps he now regretted bringing her there. Perhaps Roderic's words had made Leith realize that she would always be the butt of jokes, that she would never fit in.

Depression settled over Rose like a heavy cloud. She sat unmoving, her hands crossed upon her lap and her shoulders slightly hunched as she watched the camaraderie of those around her.

Roderic's tale must be warming up. Though she could not understand his Gaelic words, she could see the rapt interest on the faces of his listeners. Her attention wandered.

The hall was brimming with Scots. Rose's gaze skimmed the faces, some young and fair, some old and scarred. At the end of a bench sat a young man, his eyes round as he listened to Roderic's tale, which came to an abrupt and apparently hilarious ending.

The hall burst into roars and peals of laughter as each man present seemed to talk at once, giving his own accounting of the tale, praising Roderic for his skill at weaving a story, slapping companions on sturdy backs.

All but the man with the round eyes, who sat nearly immobile, his hand raised to his throat. Beside him...

Hand to his throat?

Rose's attention drew back to Round Eyes. Something was wrong, though he was ignored by the others, momentarily forgotten by his boisterous friends.

She could hear no noise from him, could not discern the problem, and for a short time he was hidden behind a trio of men. She craned her neck, trying to see, and in a moment he stumbled into her view, clutching his throat, his face a strange tinge of... blue!

God's whiskers! He was choking! She was penned in on all sides by burly bodies but there was no time to waste. Sheer instinct grabbed hold.

Like a loosed goat she scrambled onto the table and ran down its length. Ale splashed upon her shoes. A trencher of venison clattered to the floor but her eyes were fixed on the choking man.

He hit the floor with a groping crash. Heads turned. Silence descended.

Rose launched herself over the last trestle and flew to his side. No respiration! He was blue as a harebell. Sweet Jesus! He was dying! Something must be lodged in his throat. She struggled to raise him to a sitting position, but he was far too heavy.

"Forbes!" Her voice fairly shook the hall. "Forbes!" she screamed. "Come here!"

Jaws dropped. People gasped. Eyes grew round in surprise as Leith, the great, intimidating laird of the Forbes, charged through the throng to her side.

"Sit him up. Sit him up!" she snapped, and he did so, pulling the soldier up by his arms. "There. Hold him steady," Rose ordered, and, drawing her arm back, she smacked the downed man sharply between the shoulder blades. Nothing happened. "Damn it to hell!" she raged, and, drawing back again, thumped him twice more.

The wad of venison flew out like a loosed arrow, barely missing Leith's face. But still the victim failed to breathe.

"Lay him back down," she cried, and, after sucking in her lip for one uncertain moment, she leaned over, placed her mouth to the soldier's—and breathed.

The hall was silent as a tomb. Every eye was trained on her in incredulous awe.

It seemed like an eternity before he breathed on his own, and even longer before he opened his eyes.

His skin was mottled now, his eyes wide and blue as they stared into hers. "Be ye a fairy?" he croaked.

Rose pushed her hair back with a trembling hand and shook her head.

"Na a fairy?" he asked incredulously and promptly turned over to spew the contents of his stomach into the rushes.