Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 22

The days hurried by for Rose, filled with the gathering of herbs and the bandaging of wounds.

On the second day Dora licked Rose's hand. On the third she raised her head to drink a bit of beef broth. Roman stayed by his dog's side like a tick; only his eyes followed Rose as she moved about the hall. It was filled with soldiers who jostled each other along the wooden benches and waited for the evening meal.

Servers hurried down the rows, filling bowls with hearty stew and sliding trenchers of brown bread onto tables.

There was the usual boisterous atmosphere with voices raised and laughter booming. But all was different for Rose now, for though she was not fully accepted, she was certainly becoming so, and she smiled, feeling whole and alive for the first time in a long while.

Sensing Roman's gaze on her, she turned to smile at him. His charm had not been diminished by a bath and a clean set of clothes.

"She is doing well?" Rose called across the din.

"Aye, me lady," answered Roman in Gaelic, for it had become his self-appointed task to teach her the language of the Highlands. A wayward thatch of carrot-bright hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it aside with a quick hand. "She is doing fine."

Behind Rose the door swung open and she turned, seeing a gray-haired man enter. He did not wear the plaid of the Forbes and she puzzled over his identity. But only for a moment.

"Ho, Bernard," shouted a soldier, and the call was taken up around the hall.

"Bernard, auld man, sing us a song," someone called.

"Aye." The bard grinned, his face lighting with a smile. "If it pleases yer laird."

"Aye," said Leith, already seated in his massive chair at the end of a trestle table. "But ye are welcome to eat first."

"Nay," countered the storyteller, and for a moment Rose wondered if she saw a spark of mischief in his eyes, "I would sing first, me laird, so that ye might decide if me tune is worthy of yer meal."

Leith's brows rose slightly, but he lifted his big shoulders and inclined his head. "As ye wish."

The bard nodded and went to pull a seat before the harp. Tilting the big instrument into his lap, he set his fingers to the sinewy strings. Music drifted upward like clouds on a clear summer's day, conjuring images with its sparkling notes.

Voices fell silent and finally Bernard's song lifted from his lips, the sound fair and enchanting. Old battles were remembered, lost loves, childhood dreams, all drawn forth by the beauty of his words, the magic of his melodies. Finally he paused, pushing the harp away to speak.

"I would sing to ye a special song now—at the request of the son of the laird of the clan MacGowan."

Murmurs rose from the crowd.

"Seems he battled with a fierce foe," Bernard continued. "And just when he thought all was lost, a fairy appeared. A fairy so wondrously bonny he could but stare in awe." Bernard's sparkling eyes settled on Rose, who watched him in surprise and some embarrassment as she remembered the night of the young man's rescue. The old bard shifted his gaze and smiled. "I will sing ye this song that ye may decide if she be a fairy or a lass of flesh and blood. And mayhap," he added, "ye may yet believe ye yerselves have been blessed with a visit from that very same bean-sith."

All eyes were trained on the mesmerizing old bard, for the meal was nearly finished and his words were indeed provocative.

His voice floated over the hall like liquid velvet, soft and lush, then rough and crisp. He sang of the miraculous appearance of a fairy queen who ascended from the bowels of night to save young Gregor from a watery death. Her hair, he said, was like living flame, her eyes like amethyst jewels, and at her lovely fingertips was the gift of life.

Large bodies shifted as man after man turned to grin at Rose, who squirmed nervously in her padded chair, avoiding their gazes. These Scots certainly knew how to embarrass a lass.

"But fairy or flesh," sang old Bernard in softly burred English, "young Gregor MacGowan will come to the lass and marry her yet. He'll come to the lass and marry her yet."

Silence filled the room for a split second before the hall erupted in noise.

"Nay!" shouted Alpin, captain of the guard. "The young swain is too late, for the laird of the Forbes has already claimed the fairy's hand."

"Indeed," agreed Roderic, standing to raise his mug. "He has claimed her for the clan Forbes."

"For the Forbes!" yelled the Scotsmen.

"Hail Laird Leith!" chanted the assemblage, and then in a cheer that fairly shook the rafters, "Hail Lady Fiona!"

God's whiskers, thought Rose as tears filled her eyes. Who would have thought she would become so mired in Leith's devilish ploy? And who would have guessed she would grow to love these people so well?

In her bedchamber that night, Rose allowed Hannah to wash her hair with fragrant soap. She had balked at the idea at first, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being waited on. But, sighing now, Rose found she did not regret her decision, for though her own nudity in front of another made her uncomfortable, the girl's gentle hands and thoughtful ministrations felt wonderful. Having applied a chamomile and herb mixture to her hair, Hannah gently tugged at Rose's snarls until they came free.

Finally the dark-cinnamon tresses were carefully rinsed with water still warm from the fire. Rose tilted her head back. Leith had said he would be late to bed, for he had a message to send to the MacGowans.

"One more bucket, me lady, and then Judith will bring yer warm milk," said Hannah and carefully splashed water across her mistress' head and ears.

So it was that Rose failed to hear the door open.

Leith stopped as his gaze became riveted on the woman in his bath. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back. With lush, taut breasts pressed toward the ceiling, Fiona Rose looked like the sea fairies Alpin had described to him as a wee lad.

That fanciful image had stayed with Leith through his adolescence, keeping him awake and fretful more nights than he cared to remember, until manhood came with the death of his father and he was forced to give up his vivid fantasies of luscious water nymphs and the earthy games one might play with them.

Now, however, there was one of the enchanted folk in his own chamber. In his own bath.

Hannah's eyes were wide with surprise, and though she did not stop the slow ebb of water over her mistress' face and hair, her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

Leith managed some sympathy for her, for she was only a maid, but he'd be damned before he would leave the sea nymph's side.

The old bard's song had disturbed him no small whit, reminding him that the lass was not rightfully his and would flee at the year's end if a child was not conceived. Seeing her thus, however, drove away all thoughts but one. Desire. And so he trod carefully across the woolen rug toward the wooden vat.

Taking the bucket from the maid's hands, he continued the rinse while nodding for her to leave.

She did so in a silent rush, closing the door behind her.

He and the sea fairy were alone. With rapt appreciation Leith let his gaze slip across the delicate ridges of her nose and chin. Her neck was smooth, pale, and slightly arched, her shoulders neat hillocks of ivory. But it was her breasts that made his nostrils flare and his breath come hard.

Sweet Jesu, she had beautiful breasts. Firm, full mounds capped with rosebud tips that blushed with the promise of full bloom.

"All done, Hannah?" she asked, eyes still closed in anticipation of more water.

Leith's chest felt constricted. With some surprise he realized he was shirking his job, for the flow of water had stopped, though the bucket was not yet empty. Gently tipping the wooden pail again, he let the last of the rinse water fall over her hair before settling to his knees beside the tub.

Her lips parted slightly as she lifted a hand to smooth water from the crown of her head. "Done?" she asked again.

"Nay, lass. We have na yet begun."

Her eyes flew open. He was near enough for her to smell the warm, male scent of him.

"Where is Hannah?" she asked weakly, feeling her nipples tighten in the air that seemed suddenly charged with tension.

"She had other duties," Leith said. "And I thought meself capable of... this task."

Gently he lifted a ribbon of hair from her breast, not mentioning what other tasks he could think to do. Wet and smooth, the hair slipped with liquid softness over her skin, looking sable-dark and slick with water.

"In truth," he added, carefully placing the tress against the otter-sleek mass of her hair, '1 wouldna have another do... this task."

"My laird," she whispered, still caught in that same pose that had caused Leith's nether parts to spring to life beneath his plaid, "my bath is complete." Regardless of her decision to fully act the part of a handfasted maid, Rose felt painfully embarrassed about her own nudity and Leith's nearness. "You... you may have the tub."

"Is that an invitation, lass?" he murmured, his lips so close to her ear that his words seemed to reverberate down her spine, sending frenzied sparks of excitement through her.

"My laird," she whispered breathlessly, "you must think me a brazen hussy indeed. When in fact..." she began, but just then his lips found hers and played with sensual purpose across them.

"Sweet, gentle lass," he murmured, cupping her delicate neck. "How could ye know just when I would arrive?"

She tried to deny his suggestion, but he'd already tired of words and now slipped his tongue sensuously across her lips. It caused her to tremble to the core of her being, but he had only just begun. His fingertips slid from beneath her hair and blazed a trail across one shoulder and between her breasts.

"Fiona," he whispered. " Tis a just name. Fair one. Daughter of the king of the seals."

She tried to respond, but his hand had dipped beneath the water to lightly skim the dark triangle of hair between her thighs.

A gasp was all the response she could manage.

"Fiona," he said again, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Perched upon a rock in her watery world, awaiting some mere mortal man to corrupt."

"As if any could corrupt you," Rose murmured, but now the flat of his fingers eased over the swollen folds of her womanhood, and this time her gasp was more of a moan, coming from deep in her throat as she pressed against his hand.

"Leith, we mustn't. Truly, 'tis not a good time."

"Aye, love," he crooned throatily, pressing his bare chest closer still. " 'Tis," he insisted, and she arched slightly upward, turning her face so that her cheek was against his hard, smooth chest.

His hand had taken up a rhythmic movement and her body followed of its own accord. Her lips were parted, showing the pearly rows of her teeth, and her eyes were closed, so that the dark forest of her lashes lay softly against her ivory skin.

He kissed her again. Not gently now, but deep and hard, and she answered back, forgetting everything and gripping his plaid where it crossed near his wounded shoulder.

Sweet Jesu, she was as hot as a glowing coal in his hand, as desperate as he for fulfillment. He could wait no longer. He could not. No man should be expected to do so.

Letting his hand continue to ride her, Leith drew his mouth away. She groaned and sought to drag him closer, but he was busy trying to loosen his belt single-handedly. She moaned in frustration. His chest was near and she kissed it, feeling him jerk at the touch of her lips. His obvious excitement only stoked her own and she pulled him closer with considerable force and found his nipple with her mouth.

"Sweet Jesu!" he rasped, jerking his hand from his belt. "Lass, do na—"

But she did!

He could feel her teeth and tongue as she suckled him.

"Please! Fiona!" He groaned and tried again to undo his belt.

She arched upward. Her breasts, wet and smooth, coursed against his belly.

Breath hissed between his teeth. “Jesu!" he gritted in agony and in that moment pulled the belt free. His plaid fell away and he rose quickly, dragging her with him.

She was hot and slippery and he pressed her to his chest with a groan.

Between them his engorged manhood throbbed with urgency. Her hand caught his hair and she pulled him closer, finding his mouth with her own.

"Sweet..." He caught her round buttocks in his spread hands, pulling her from the water, and she bent her legs to wrap them about his waist. "Lass!" he groaned, pressing hard against her.

They were so close—within a heartbeat of ecstasy, but footsteps sounded in the hall.

For one instant he was pressing toward his most earnest desire with desperate urgency, and the next he was grappling to hold her still.

There was a breathy shriek against his ear, a slither of luscious flesh against his, and then she was gone, flying across the room to yank a sheet about her.

"Me lady," Judith called, and in that instant, Leith swiped up a towel to cover his aching private parts.

"Yer milk, me lady." The door swung open and Judith stepped inside.

Her jaw sank like a rock.

Before her stood the laird of the Forbes, seeming to have just exited his bath, and caught in wordless immobility.

"Bless me!" Judith said, shaking so badly the warm milk sloshed over her fingers.

"Don't ye knock, woman?" Leith questioned, his voice low.

“I… Oh!" The elderly woman inched backward, bumping into the half-open door. "I... Forgive me!" she squeaked, and fled the room in panic, slamming the door behind her.

Leith turned with deliberate slowness, his manhood still high and aching behind the towel. "Come here, lass" he ordered.

Rose shook her head, backing away and trying not to laugh as she shook her finger at him. "I told you 'twas not a good time."

"Lass," he warned, "come here."

"Nay." She tripped on the tail of her sheet, only to bump into the bed behind her and finally stumble onto it. " 'Tis very late. And I am..." She faked a yawn and hurried carefully backward across the feather tick. "... so very tired. Could you please ask Judith to bring my milk that I might..."

"I have brought ye sommat better," Leith growled, and, lunging forward, snatched her sheet away.

She fell to the bed with a squeal and a giggle, but both sounds were lost beneath his kiss and the sweet, hot press of his body.

The morning was wind-tickled and ruffled with clouds.

Rose stretched toward the turquoise sky and smiled, remembering the night just past.

Leith had left their bed early. So she had risen too, and stood now, holding Maise's reins and gazing out upon the beauty of Leith's domain. She'd left the castle with the promise of not venturing too far, and though she had earnestly set out in search of medicinal herbs, she'd been too intrigued by the awe-inspiring land around her to remember her promise to remain close to the castle.

As it was, she had gone farther than she'd planned and stood now beside Creag Burn. It was a noisy river that flowed with white-water quickness over the brown boulders it was named for. The chuckling sound of the river seemed to speak to Rose, and she bent to pick a few flowers and meander along the water's serpentine course.

To her left a tawny shadow followed her and she smiled. It had been long indeed since she'd been afforded the freedom to ride with the wild feline at her side. Silken had been seen bedding down in the loft above the stables, and she knew Leith was to be thanked for the animal's protection. Perhaps the Forbes felt a special kinship with wildcats, since their crest boasted that beautiful animal. Or, Rose thought, biting her lip, perhaps it was her own high regard for the cat that caused Leith to protect it.

That thought seemed to make Rose's heart beat a little more rapidly in her chest. Could it be that he cared for her just a little?

He was a laird to respect. A man to look up to. An enemy to fear. And a lover to make a woman's blood race.

Of course he did not love her, he only desired the magic they found together in his bed. But wasn't it possible that she might someday win his love? If she was kind and gentle? If she was soft-spoken and...

But she was not. She cursed like a warlord—by his own admission. She rode like a man. And once she had beat him with a felled branch.

Soft-spoken? Hah! She was lucky to avoid being dangerous when he was near.

From the bushes beside her, Rose heard Silken issue a strange sound from his throat. Turning, she saw him standing in the shade of a bent elder, his pointed ears pitched forward as he peered up the rocky slope from whence the water tumbled.

"What... Oh!" Rose drew a sharp breath.

Had she seen something move? Or was it simply a feeling so intense that a visible image had burned itself across her mind? Fair hair. Plaid.

"Silken?" She whispered the cat’s name, though she knew not why. Dropping the flowers, she walked slowly toward the bottom of the slope.

Ahead, smooth brown rocks led upward in step-like ascent. Purple heather grew in clumps amidst prickly gorse and coarse grasses.

There! At the top. A movement!

Or not?

Rose shook her head, trying to deny the shivery feelings that skimmed up her arms. She should return to Glen Creag immediately. But...

A shadow flitted across her mind and she halted, waiting, breath held, heart thumping.

Nothing. No sound. But something called to her, something she could neither define nor resist.

She climbed despite the branches that grabbed at her skirt and the rocks that slipped beneath her soft-shod feet.

Her breath came hard and fast. Something drew her. Her eyes were trained on the top of the ridge and her heart pounded like a thousand hoof beats in her chest.

Emotions of varying hues washed over her. She was nearly there. Only a few more steps and...

A flash of tartan!

"No!" she screamed, feeling the evil intent like a blow to her chest. "No!" She stumbled back. Terror gripped her heart, and then she was running, scrambling down the slope. Rocks slid and bounced away. From somewhere above Silken snarled, but Rose did not stop. Death! Death was near!

Panic rose like bile, stiffening her legs, and suddenly she was falling.

Her shoulder hit a rock, and then her hip. Plants flashed past. Her arms flailed wildly, searching for a grip, but suddenly the world stilled its careening movement.

Her breath came in painful gasps and she moaned, cradling an elbow in her opposite hand.

There was the sound of boots on rocks. Fresh panic nabbed her and she abandoned her elbow to cover her face with the back of her arm.

"Please," she whimpered, raising her eyes.

Harlow stood not three strides away. His expression was taut and unreadable. Over his shoulder hung a bow.

Her body trembled as chaotic emotions clashed within her. Fear? Relief? Terror?

Her hand slipped lower, her skinned knuckles pressing against her quivering lips.

"Harlow?" she whispered, premonition and logic merging and drowning.

Hoofbeats thundered toward them, and suddenly, like a flash of heat lightning, Leith was there, mounted on the pearly back of his great stallion.

"Leith." She said his name like a prayer.

He slid from Beinn’s back even before the giant hooves were still, and in a moment he was gathering her into his arms, smoothing back her hair. "What happened?" he asked, his voice terse with emotion, his arms tight around her.

She tried to speak, but she could not. There was nothing to explain, for she understood none of what had transpired. Tightening her grip on his shirt, she viewed the evil again in her mind, though it was more misty now and already fading.

He felt her fear nevertheless, and his own body remained like a shield against hers. "Harlow?" he growled, his face a mask of horrible anger. "Did he—"

"Nay!" It took Rose a moment to understand his question, but she raised her eyes quickly. "Nay, Leith," she whispered, consciously relaxing her grip as she viewed his flint-hard expression. "He did not hurt me."

Leith's gaze remained on Rose's face, but his jaw was clenched and in his eyes Rose saw hot rage.

"Leith." She said his name softly, and reaching up, touched the scar on his right cheek. "He did not hurt me. I was merely foolish and in my haste, I fell."

Uncertainty tortured Leith. Was she lying to save another? Certainly he could not rule out such a possibility, for she'd already proven her willingness to protect others despite great risk to herself.

Harlow was one of his own. He could not accuse the man without just cause. Did the incident by the river where Rose had bathed justify Leith's mistrust of the lad? Harlow had, at the least, planned some mischief there, even if he had not actually hurt the lass.

Rose looked up at him with those entreating violet eyes, mentally pleading with him to hold his temper. He could feel her thoughts.

Holy Jesu, how had they come to this point, where she was the protector of his people? His people, for whom he would give his life. But how much more would he give for her?

"Come, lass," he said quietly, though his tone was steely. "I will take ye home."

Her arms slipped about his neck, and as she settled her head against his chest, her gaze slid to Harlow.

He stood immobile, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes filled with hopelessness.