Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (15 page)

22

Thunder boomed and echoed across the moors but Sorcha, draped against her horse with her hands wound into his mane, was barely aware of it.

              Far away, she thought she saw a horse and a man galloping toward her, a dark plaid flashing in the wind. She shook with cold, her ripped tunic no protection against the fierce wind and drenching rain, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

The world was a fast-moving swirl of blues, greens, and browns. Soon her horse’s neck was slick with sweat. Behind the lone man she saw other men and other horses.

              And then her horse was slowing and he was there.
Malcolm.
Practically throwing himself down from his horse and reaching for her. She fell into his arms as Kendrew and the other men looked on.

              “Sorcha,” Malcolm said. “Are ye hurt?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging desperately to him for warmth. “I dunna think I ha’e any broken bones.”

He lifted her gingerly onto his horse and swung up behind her, wrapping them both in his plaid. “Tell me what happened.” He stroked the side of her face.

He’d spoken her true name. He knew. Somehow he knew. How?
“Nessa, my maid, and her lover Lulach Kerr, husband to Caterina Cellini, lured me to the burn and pushed me from the cliff into the waters below. Yet I lived. Did Nessa return to the keep?”

              “Aye. Alone.”

              “What did she tell ye?”

              “That ye’d run off with yer lover.”

              Despite the situation, Sorcha laughed at the absurdity.

              Malcolm looked at the throng of men. “Fan out. Comb the banks of the burn and the river. Find this Lulach and bring him to me.” His voice rang loud and clear across the moors. Kendrew and his men nodded. The Highlander was a man used to being in charge. “I’ll take Sorcha back to the keep. We’ll get ye bathed and dry, lass, and get some whisky in ye.”

              “I dunna ken why she wanted to kill me. I ha’e been a faithful friend to her since our childhoods. Her mind…I didna realize she was mad until it was too late.”

              “I ha’e a lot of questions myself, lass.”

              “How do ye ken I am Sorcha Douglas? If Nessa planned to continue the ruse of being Lady Douglas and actually marry ye after I was gone, it wasna she who told ye.”

              “Nay.”

              “Then who?”

              “Yer brother Gillis.”

              “Gillis! But he doesna speak! He hasna spoken since….”

              “He told us all Nessa wasna the Lady Douglas. I think he feared greatly for yer safety.”

              “Gillis spoke,” she said in wonder, finding the first ray of hope in a vera long day. She curled into the warmth of his big body. “This has been a day of revelations.”

              “Indeed it has.” His arms tightened about her. “I am glad yer alive, Lowlander,” he whispered so only she could hear, his breath warm on her ear.

“Of course ye are,” she whispered back. “For now ye willna be deprived of punishing me for my deceit.”

He said nothing but prodded his horse toward the keep.

23

Martha had been to the bedchamber and had prepared a warm bath. The fire crackled. Sorcha practically drained a cup of whisky, the liquid warming her insides.

              It was dusk, that time of day that seemed to be neither light nor dark, and the room was shadowy from the flickering light of the candles. It was still raining and the wind gusted outside. As she removed her wet boots there was a knock on the door.

“Sorcha?”

Wordlessly, she opened the door and let Malcolm in. He closed it and stood by the hearth. “Come here, by the light, lass, and remove yer wet tunic.”

She turned to him, uncertainty in her eyes.

“I’ll no harm ye. I want to be sure ye dunna ha’e any serious injuries from yer fall into the burn.”

She was too exhausted to argue. She went to his side and gingerly slipped her ripped tunic over her head, discarding it on the floor. She stood before him, her body aching, sore, and bruised from her ordeal at the burn. But a small smile graced her lips. “I should throw that in the fire. I should like to watch it burn.”

Malcolm scooped the material up and threw it atop the flames. His eyes touched her naked body from head to toe and his jaw was tense but Sorcha did not avert her eyes in shame. She raised her chin a notch. “Yer hair and clothes are wet, too, Highlander. From the rains.”

“Are ye suggesting I remove them and join ye in a bath?”

For a second her mouth gaped open and he laughed. “I wasna suggesting anything of the sort!”

He placed a lean finger over her lips. “Shush now, Lowlander. I ha’e seen many an injury. Too many. Broken ribs and limbs and gaping wounds. Once I witnessed a man who had been wounded ride for miles holding his insides, which hung outside his body over his saddle. I’ve seen men fight on with arrows sticking from their necks. But some injuries are on the inside and….”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better? I’m fine, Highlander.”

He laughed but his look turned serious as he examined her body, softly running his hands along her shoulders, her arms, her back, and then along her sides. Once she flinched as his fingers touched a sore spot near her ribs and he made a sound as if he’d been bruised himself. “Och, sorry, lass.”

Then he ran his hands along her legs and her calves. His hands were strong and bore their own scars.

“Ye seem to be alright except for some bruises and scratches,” he said gruffly. “No broken bones. Now let’s get ye into the tub.”

She obeyed, the feel of the warm, rose-scented water heavenly after the chilling waters of the burn. He grasped her hands in his. “Yer hands are like ice. The bath will help warm ye.”

He knelt by the tub and began to bathe her with the sponges. The touch of his eyes on her skin was as gentle as the touch of his hands, and he did not disguise his concern. Despite the fact that she was bared to him, she was not embarrassed. She felt safe and warm and she knew he would not harm her in any way.

“’Tis a good thing yer fierce,” he said. “And that ye ken how to swim. Did yer brothers teach ye to swim, the ones ye…lost at Arkinholm?”

Sorcha half closed her eyes. “Aye. Gordon and Tavish. They had no choice. I followed them e’erywhere they went. I wanted to do e’erything they did.”

“I ha’e a younger sister like that. When we were bairns, Andreana followed me e’erywhere I went.”

“One day Tavish threw me in the loch. He just scooped me up in his big arms and tossed me in. It was either sink or swim. So I learned to swim.”

Malcolm smiled. “Brothers can be such dolts.”

“Oh, nay, ‘twas a good thing he did.” She sighed. “Or I might nae be alive today. If I hadna learned to swim as a wee lass, I may ha’e drowned when Lulach pushed me o’er that cliff.” She yawned from exhaustion. “I dunna feel vera fierce. I am still cold and vera tired.”

The steam, the warm water, and Malcolm’s gentle ministrations began to relax her but she still shivered on occasion. The full force of what happened hit her then and she told him everything. About the puppet she’d found in the cradle and hidden beneath the pile of clothes, its face slashed and strings cut. About the burn. About Nessa and Lulach and being shoved from behind. Tumbling over the cliff. Nearly drowning. Thinking she saw the Glaistig and then her mother beneath the water, that her mother’s spirit had helped her to live. She told him of her mother’s grief, and how she’d ended her life in the burn. She did not tell him she’d thought of him in what might have been her last moments. She did not tell him she wanted to hate him but his presence and his touch excited and stimulated her as no man’s ever had.

“Later I will go to the undercroft and take a look at the puppet,” he said. “We will find out if Nessa put it there.”

“Where is Nessa?”

He trailed the sponge along her chest, near the swell of her breasts and then along her shoulders. A faint blush spread to her cheeks.

“Nessa’s brother, Tomas, the one who is so fond of ye, found her here, in yer room, wearing a blue dress, talking to people who weren’t there. She told e’eryone ye’d run off with a lover. She really did expect me to marry her. Kendrew and the rest of the clan would ne’er ha’e stopped searching for ye. I wouldna ha’e stopped searching for ye. They wouldna ha’e let Nessa stand in her yer place as my bride. She is a mad woman. Kendrew told me all about yer attempt to pass yerself off as the maid to avoid marrying me.”

He frowned. “Tomas himself brought her to Ronald and Murdoch and helped to take her off to the dungeons. He could ha’e helped her escape. But he did not. Underneath his oafish ways, it seems Tomas is a good man. Nessa waits there until we decide her fate.” His look turned fierce. “Men search for Lulach now. I’ve sent men to Lulach’s keep to fetch his wife Caterina but I dunna ken when she will arrive. She must be told of her husband’s actions.”

“Caterina is a shy woman, a kind woman. I canna imagine what it must be like for her, married to such a monster. ‘Twas nae a love match. I hope she will be treated kindly. She couldna ha’e kent Lulach’s and Nessa’s plans….”

“She will be questioned. We willna treat her harshly. There is no reason to. Mayhap she can help us find Lulach.”

“And then?”

“And then he will die for what he tried to do to ye, lass. He will hang or he will meet the thrust of my blade. I must confess, the thrust of my blade would be much more satisfying.”

“And what of Nessa? Ye willna hang her? What she did was horrible, but she isna in her right mind. She has suffered much.”

“She lured ye to the burn with the intent to kill ye. She was clear-headed enough to do that.”

“’Tis true, but I canna imagine her swinging from a tree. She should be punished, but mayhap nae in that way….”

It was a struggle for Sorcha to keep her eyes open.

Malcolm studied her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Lass,” was all he said.

He stood and removed his wet shirt, placing it on a chair near the hearth so it would dry. “Where might I find yer nightdress?”

“I dunna think it would fit ye, Highlander.”

He turned and the wolfish smile on his face was mesmerizing. Almost brutal. Malcolm was a man who did not seem to smile often.

“’Tis in the chest.”

He retrieved the nightdress and laid it on the bed. Then he helped her from the bath, giving her clean linens to dry herself with. “Ye should rest now.”

She had her bare back turned to him but she felt his eyes on her. She slipped the nightdress over her head and climbed into bed. He laid next to her, bare-chested, wearing only his trews, and pulled her into his embrace.

“What do ye in my bed?” she said with alarm.

He pushed an errant curl from her forehead and his eyes were heated, dark gold as he traced a finger along her cheek to her lips. He kissed her softly and briefly. “Relax, Sorcha. Sleep. I am merely going to keep ye warm, for ye still shiver.”

She had not realized her palm was curled into a fist against his chest and she relaxed it, splaying her fingers against his sleek, muscled skin. She could feel the steady, strong beating of his heart. “I am sorry I lied to ye,” she said.

“We’ll get around to that,” he promised. “For now, rest.” He stroked her hair softly. “I’ll keep ye safe and warm, if ye’ll let me,” he whispered.

Cradled against him and greedy for the warmth of his lean, strong body, she did as the Highlander commanded and fell fast asleep.

24

Sorcha awakened the next morning to find Malcolm sitting by her side, tired lines of fatigue beneath his eyes. The sun shone through the window, plaiting the stone floor with its golden beams.

Malcolm had changed his clothes and wore the Maclean plaid, a circular pewter brooch studded with topaz gems pinned at his shoulder. His clan motto
, Virtue Mine Honour
, was engraved on the brooch. His black hair was neatly tied back with bow cord. “The bow cord is an interesting touch,” she said.

“How do ye feel, Sorcha?”

“Considerably better.”

“I searched the undercroft but the puppet is missing.”

“It was nae beneath the pile of clothes?”

He shook his head.

Sorcha frowned. “’Tis all too strange to think about. Like a nightmare. Like it didna really happen.”

“Nessa claims she didna take yer puppet and place it in the cradle. I dunna believe her. I will discover the truth.”

“And Lulach? Has he been found?”

He shook his head. “But we will ferret out the whoreson bastard from whate’er dark, stinking crevice he hides in.”

A tray with bread and ale had been brought up by Martha earlier and Sorcha practically attacked her breakfast.

Malcolm stretched and arched a dark brow. “’Tis good yer eating. Ye’ll need yer strength. The priest arrived yesterday.”

She stopped chewing. “The priest?”

“Father Roslin.”

“The one who is to marry us?”

“Aye.”

“I seem to ha’e suddenly lost my appetite.” She could not read the look on his rugged face but something akin to hurt flashed in his eyes. “I…I dunna wish to sound ungrateful or dour, Malcolm. I do appreciate yer tender care of me last evening.”

He laughed. “But my presence still makes ye lose yer hearty appetite?”

“I...simply dunna wish to be married. ‘’Tis why I lied to ye about who I am. I was hoping ye’d be driven away by the lady’s atrocious manners and I wouldna ha’e to marry. Most lasses when they are bairns dream of what their wedding day will be like. They imagine being swept off their feet by a nobleman or a prince. They dream of the beautiful dresses they will wear and the flowers they will put in their hair. I ne’er really thought about it. I ha’e always prized my independence.”

“Ye havena been with the right man. With the right man, ye would retain yer independence and gain so much more.”

She almost said,
I ha’e nae been with any man.

“A marriage should be a marriage of equals,” he said. “The man and the woman matched in temperament, trust, and passion.”

“I agree, Highlander, but ‘tis a rare thing in a marriage. And we marry because a king decreed it. We hardly ken each other.”

“We will ha’e a lifetime to ken each other. Perhaps in time we will develop some…affection.”

His eyes held hers but she couldn’t read his emotions now.

“At the vera least,” he said, “yer feelings for me canna possibly change for the worse.” There was an amused twitch to his lips.

“I will admit, at the vera least, yer nae the ogre I thought ye’d be.” She looked out the window, almost smiling herself. “Will the weather hold, Highlander?”

“When does the weather e’er hold in Scotland? Besides, rain on yer wedding day is good luck. And if ye get wet, well, I can say ‘tis no hardship bathing ye and keeping ye warm. I’d be happy to do it again.”

An uncharacteristic blush stole into her cheeks as she remembered he had seen her naked. Yet he had not made her feel ashamed and he had not forced himself on her. Why did this man, of all men, have the power to make her feel things with the flash of his smile, his heated gaze, and his touch? His hands were strong and scarred, proof that he was a kindred spirit…one who had also spent his life thus far in battles. Yet his touch with her was tender and reverent, despite how she had tried to deceive him.

She thought of Tomas’ brutal, inexpert kiss in the gardens and then of Malcolm’s. Malcolm had experience well beyond her own. A simple touch made her whole body feel afire.
Malcolm is a man unlike others, and he will take ye places ye’ve ne’er been, if yer brave enough to let him.
She felt a small ball of fear in her stomach thinking of the night to come, what he would expect after they were married.

“Sorcha, I didna wish to marry either.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Ye’ll laugh.”

“Nay, Highlander. I willna laugh.”

“I always wanted to marry for love,” he said.

Sorcha frowned. Was there a woman he loved in the Highlands? Someone he wished to marry instead of her but the decree from the king made it impossible? Malcolm was a virile, mysterious man. She had no doubt he would attract the attention of many women. Her pride would not allow her to ask.

“At any rate, lass, all is ready,” he said. “The clans await us at the auld stones by the sea. Except for the servants who prepare the wedding feast and the guards who mind the walk and the dungeon. The chapel is too small to accommodate e’eryone. I would rather be married by the sea anyway, our oaths bound by stone and water.” He stood and strode to the door. “We must nae keep e’eryone waiting.”

His dark-lashed eyes were stormy as he studied her. He was amused but there was something else in his look. Anger? Hurt? “I dunna ask ye to be happy about ha’ing to marry the likes of
me
, Sorcha, but I had hoped, at the vera least, to begin my marriage with honesty. No more lies?”

She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest but nodded.

“Ye’ll appear below after ye dress, and accompany me?”

“I ha’e no choice.”

“Ye ha’e one hour, Lowlander. If ye dunna appear within that time, I will return, throw ye over my shoulder, and carry ye to the stones myself.”

In exasperation, she threw the covers over her head. She heard him laugh as he closed the door.

She lay there a while thinking of all that had happened in the short time since the Highlander arrived. She needed to talk to Gillis. She wanted to thank him for alerting the clan that something was amiss and find out if he continued to speak or if he had retreated back into his shell. She felt hope for him, something she had not felt in a very long time. She wondered, would he ever talk about what had happened at Arkinholm? If he could talk about it, he could begin to heal; he could begin to lay down some of the burdens he had carried for so long.

She finally threw off the cover and began to wash and dress. What would she wear? She could not wear her mother’s blue gown, as Nessa had taken it. She did not wish to wear the blue gown now anyway. She did not want to think of Nessa in the damp, dark dungeons below, but Nessa had tried to kill her and take her place. The friend she had known was gone and in her place was a mad woman Sorcha did
not
know. A dangerous woman.

A bittersweet memory flashed in her mind, Sorcha and Nessa as wee lasses, adorning themselves with sparkling glass jewelry and parading about the castle, Nessa cradling her wooden doll.

Sorcha concentrated on choosing a gown from those in her wardrobe. ‘Twas to be a simple, meaningless ceremony, so there was no need to wear anything lavish or treasured. She would speak vows, but what would they mean? They would be the Highlander’s words, and she would simply repeat them without much thought.
They would take their vows and everything they vowed to do they would be silently promising themselves not to do. They would be vows that came from their lips, not from their hearts.

At least she would not have to stand for hours while the seamstress created a wedding gown. She did not have to worry about a trousseau. She chose a lime green gown with long, flowing sleeves. It was overlaid with gold fabric that laced across her middle, beneath her breasts. She pulled the laces tight and then retrieved her mother’s bone bracelets from her oaken chest, slipping them over her wrists. It gave her strength to feel them there.
Live, Sorcha, live.
Her mother’s words still echoed in her mind.

Sorcha studied her reflection in the silver hand mirror. The sunlight streaming into the room softened her face so it seemed, though not beautiful, somehow arresting. Her deep green eyes flashed defiantly and her auburn hair fell in fiery waves over her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high and her chin somewhat aggressive. She had the proud face of a Douglas.

She twisted her hair into a single, long braid. She would not weave any flowers through it. She had never whitened her face with wheat flour or paint, and she would not do so now. Nor had she ever undergone bleeding, as some women did, to make their skin paler. She spent time a lot of time outdoors and her skin had a healthy, unfashionable glow. She would not need rouge, given how often the irritating Highlander made her blush. Och, but she had never blushed around any man before.

Sorcha was thankful she had no scars. Some women covered their smallpox scars or similar marks with pieces of velvet or silk cut into the shape of stars, moons, and hearts.

Still, something was missing. Smiling, she looped her arrow bag and Malcolm’s great war bow over her shoulder, admiring the accessories. Then she set them down. She would like to see the look on Malcolm’s face if she appeared in the hall with his weapon, but decided against it. She had tested his patience enough these past few days.

Be brave, Sorcha.
Her heart clamoring like a battle drum, she descended the stairs to a nearly deserted hall. She saw Gillis, Malcolm, and Nathair standing by the hearth, Malcolm and Nathair talking quietly, as she approached.

“Gillis,” she said, overcome with emotion as she ran to him and embraced him. “Ye saved my life. Ye told them about Nessa. Ye…spoke!” She pulled back from the embrace to look at his face.

He nodded, his grey eyes shining with happiness. “Yer nae angry…with me?”

“Oh nay, how could I be? It gives me hope, Gillis, hope that ye can finally begin to heal from the past.” She turned to address Malcolm but was interrupted before she could speak.

“I like the Highlander,” Gillis said.

Sorcha’s eyes rounded.

“And as father is nae here to do it, I gi’e ye my blessing.”

Tears sprung to Sorcha’s eyes.

“Well said, Gillis,” Malcolm remarked. “And I like ye, too.” Malcolm’s amber gaze shifted to Sorcha, traveling hotly over the tips of her rounded breasts. In the harsh light of the candles on the iron chandelier, his face looked different. His eyes were darker and the bronze of his skin more pronounced. There was something amused and something inscrutable in his expression as he regarded her, a feral glint in his eyes that suggested he was not displeased with the situation. “Ye look fetching, lass.

“Aye, vera beautiful,” Nathair agreed. “And yet ye look as if yer going to an execution and nae a wedding.” He smiled devilishly.

Sorcha looked at Malcolm. “Am I going to an execution? Will ye punish me for my deceit?” She did not let him speak. “I will take all punishment ye deem necessary, whate’er it may be. They were my lies. Ye willna punish my clan? They merely indulged me.”

Malcolm frowned, his jaw hard. “I ha’e already addressed the clans this morning. The Macleans will stay on here until I feel the situation has righted itself. There is an…understanding.”

“He means we stay until trust has begun to be established, nae only with ye but with yer clan, given our rocky beginnings,” Nathair said. “I must say, Sorcha, ye do inspire fierce loyalty. Yer
entire
clan and all the villagers tried to convince us ye were a maid servant and nae the Lady Douglas, hoping Malcolm would be so disgusted by Nessa’s behavior that he would turn tail and run from this place and ye’d be spared ha’ing to marry the brutish Highlander.”

Malcolm gave him a look. “Ye think me Brutish, Nathair? I am insulted.”

Nathair ignored him. “A rather brilliant strategy, lass. Ye’d make a good commander on the field of battle, for ‘tis no easy thing to make others follow orders and whims, especially in dangerous situations involving dangerous, brutish men.” He looked pointedly at Malcolm. “Brutish men rumored to drink the blood of their enemies from their hollowed out skulls and to cut men’s beating hearts from their chests with a mere glance.”

Sorcha glared at Nathair. “I should ha’e put an arrow in her yer sorry hide the day I met ye.”

              Nathair laughed as Sorcha stormed off toward the stables, Malcolm quickly catching up with her in the courtyard. He took her arm in a possessive manner and forced her to stop and look up at him.

“Ye ken we are two of a kind, Sorcha. Both headstrong. Neither of us would e’er be described as meek or indecisive.”

              She read in his looks a different meaning—they were about to embark on a new relationship, very different from the one they’d begun when he’d arrived at the keep. Sorcha knew it would be more exciting than it would be with any other man, for the Highlander had a way of stimulating her and challenging her with his very presence. There would be fierce disagreements, of that she had no doubt, and a clash of wills. And based on the tremors he caused in her body from the merest of touches, there would be fierceness in the bedchamber. He meant to possess her in every way.