Claimed by a Scottish Lord (10 page)

The trek had been treacherous for half a mile as the crude path narrowed upward through moss-covered rocks into woods of rowan, ash, and tall pine. Barefooted, the path was even worse. He‘d noted blood on one of Rose‘s feet. But there was nothing to be done at this moment. It was the only trail out of the wash.

Neither of them spoke until they reached the woods and the noise of the river faded. Without asking her permission, he sat her on an old rotten log to rest and reached for the torn hem of her breeches.

She misunderstood his intent and caught his hand to stop him.

―Easy, Rose. You have to allow me to look. You are bleeding.‖ He sat her foot in his lap and followed the trail of blood with his fingers up the slim curvature of her calf.

She squirmed. ―You do not need to touch me . ‖

He noticed that about her: she disliked being touched, or perhaps only his touch disturbed her, for she seemed consumed with tenderness for others.

It was not her foot that was injured, he realized. The blood came from a jagged gash on her thigh that he could see through a tear in her breeches. He silently swore. She had attempted to bind it with torn cloth from her shirt. He rent one of his sleeves, then rose and knelt in a shallow stream to rinse the cloth. He returned to her side. ―Why didn‘t you tell me you were injured?‖

―What would we have done? Hailed a carriage and ridden out?‖

He suspected Rose was the type of person who could be bleeding from an artery and still would not open her mouth in complaint or ask for help. She intended to carry her own burden whether she be his hostage or nay. So it surprised him when she squeezed her eyes shut, clearly afraid of what he saw.

―Is it . horrible?‖

He could see it was deep but she had done a fair job of stopping the bleeding. ―I will know more when I see the injury in the light of day.‖

―Bind it tightly, but not so tight you cut off the circulation to my leg.‖

Though he knew quite well what he was doing, he did not mind her instruction if it gave her the illusion that she held some power over her life.

Conscious of how she looked, her eyes and hair awash in a checkered patch of moonlight, and wearing a nearly transparent shirt, more undressed than other women he‘d bedded, he concentrated on applying the cloth firmly to her thigh and wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound. And for one moment, decency reared its symbolic head, denouncing him for a bastard.

―Between what remains of my shirt and yours, we are running out of medical supplies,‖

he said. ―At this rate we will both be down to our breeches.‖

―Then ‘tis fortunate you allowed me to keep my dirk.‖

The tendons stood out on his arms as he leaned forward. ―Indeed.‖

He peered at her, reminding himself she was cold and in pain, and then suddenly looked past her down the narrow trail.

Something, a noise, voices in the night, touched the periphery of his senses. But he heard nothing now. ―What is it?‖ Rose asked.

He didn‘t answer. His body tensed. He stood. ―Remain here.‖

The path hooked sharply just ahead, and he walked toward an outcrop of rocks. Farther from the invading sound of the river, he could hear voices. Torchlight glow speckled a hollow below. He crouched behind the rocks and scrub. It was a group of some twenty or thirty redcoats bivouacked for the night.

Bloody Sassenach soldiers.

The flames from a central fire flickered over their faces and red coats and knee breeches. Some of the men were drunk. Others played dice. The late-evening breeze carried the sounds of their subdued laughter and voices as they sat around the fire. All, without exception, were well armed.

Rose suddenly came up behind him. ―Dragoons—‖

He clapped his palm over her mouth and dropped to the ground on his belly beside her, looking back down at the hollow. One of the men made a searching glance toward the rocky ledge but returned his attention to the tin plate in his hands as the bloke beside him said something that caused laughter.

Ruark pulled back slightly and peered at Rose, who glared back at him from over the rim of his hand. ―A scream carries too easily,‖ he said softly against her ear. ―If you make a sound, Rose . ‖

He meant the threat in his words. ―This is a well-armed British detachment and by the looks of it they have been drinking. Trust me. I can guarantee they will not treat you nearly as kindly as I have thus far.‖

She nodded in understanding, and he eased the pressure of his hand. The ferocity in her eyes dimmed only slightly as she spit dirt from her mouth.

―I do
not
trust you.‖ But her anger with him did not preclude her recognition of the danger she also faced. ―What are we going to do?‖

They‘d followed the only trail out of the wash. Rose was physically unable to go back the way they‘d just come. He studied the hollow and found a row of tents at the wood‘s edge, and he smiled to himself.

―We steal a horse.‖

―Are you insane?‖

The wind was rising and the sound of restless trees replaced that of the river. He could always count on rain in Scotland. Tonight he wouldn‘t mind. ―The patrol has bivouacked for the evening,‖ he said.

Careful not to dislodge any stones, he edged them down the trail, helping Rose walk with one arm beneath her shoulders. He could have slung her over his shoulder like a sack of oats and been done with it but he saved her the indignity. Much to her dislike some moments later, he borrowed her dirk. The thing was bloody convenient to have, and he didn‘t know when he‘d have use of a weapon. He wouldn‘t have allowed her to keep it otherwise.

An hour later, he had secured himself a fine black horse belonging to the officer in charge, and a pair of boots that actually fit. He had also acquired a knapsack and a cloak, which he gave to Rose when he returned to where he had left her, gagged and tied to a thick exposed tree root. He hadn‘t trusted her not to crawl away while he hunted down a horse and food, and the moment he‘d come across rope, he‘d used it. As he knelt in front of her, he warned her again of the consequences if she should cause him any more strife. Then he lifted her onto the saddle and climbed behind her. Only after they‘d ridden a distance from the Sassenach camp did he remove the gag, which was all that had been left of his other sleeve.

―You are an ogre, Roxburghe. The French pox is too good for you!‖

He laughed and gathered her closer with one arm, liking the warm feel of her between his thighs. ―What do you know about the French pox?‖

―I know that nothing cures it.‖

With that pronouncement, he grinned. A faint clink of the bridle and her firm bottom pressed intimately between his legs, he turned the horse south. ―You are a lot of trouble, Lady Roselyn.‖

Chapter 6

R
uark carefully finished binding the wound on Rose‘s thigh as she slept. She laid on her back perfectly still, her hair spread around her head like a sunset halo and, despite himself, he lifted a strand and rubbed it between his callused fingers. She wore only her white shirt and the cloak beneath her that he had unwrapped from around her unclad form to tend her injury. She may as well have been naked.

Aye, she was temptation itself.

Full breasts crested with dark nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her shirt, the kind of breasts that fit perfectly into a man‘s hands with nothing left over to waste, flat stomach, the beckoning flair of her hips and narrow tuft of pale hair between impossibly long legs. The whole of her nothing but softness and curves. He‘d already spent half the morning watching her as she slept, and reluctantly, he edged the cloak over her. He hadn‘t liked where his mind was heading and didn‘t know what to do about it. He had sworn no oath of protection to her, owed no one but his people his allegiance.

But it was not just her beauty that had kept him by her side contemplating the daughter of his Sassenach foe. Not for the first time did he wonder how Friar Tucker had kept her hidden all these years. Or why Lord Hereford had ever stopped looking for her. Tucker had not told him everything.

Perhaps had she shown less courage, he would be less invested in her and more inclined to ignore the extent of his desire.

He wanted her. And he did not think he would.

For desire it was, like watching Venus in the nighttime sky so close he‘d oft stood on the deck of his ship and wondered what it would be like to touch that light. But he‘d always had the power to temper his wants with restraint.

A whisper of movement alerted him that Rose was awake, and it was as if something warmed inside him as she stirred. Her lashes fluttered open and he was caught in her verdant gaze. Still half asleep, she stared up at him, before she blinked as if in confusion. She peered around her at the mist-soaked glade, slowly becoming aware of a crackling fire and a shelter of pine covering her.

Her hand went to her hip to find her dirk gone. Noting her lack of apparel, she pulled the cloak around her and sat up, spilling her hair around her shoulders. The amused light in his eyes caused her to frown. She should feel grateful he‘d allowed her to keep the shirt she still wore.

―Where are my clothes?‖ she demanded.

―You will get them back when we are ready to leave. After your defiance yesterday, I can see removing your boots was not enough. I will take no chances. Not with that injury you have on your leg.‖

She looked around the glade. ―How long have I been asleep?‖

Strangely, her ire only served to confirm his admiration of her. ―Long enough to decide it is far more perilous for me at this moment than you.‖

Alarmed, she peered past him. ―Have you seen dragoons?‖

―Oh, aye.‖ He laughed, in good humor. ―Dragoons are everywhere.‖ She observed his warm scrutiny with a frown. ―You have been asleep for five hours,‖ he said on a more sobering note. ―We traveled through the night. I stopped because the horse needs rest, as do you. How is your leg?‖

― ‘Tis attached,‖ she murmured.

He crouched beside the fire with his elbow against one knee. She stole a closer look at him only to discover him staring at her.

―That wound needs to be sutured,‖ he said.

She looked as if she wanted to tuck her leg somewhere safe from his scrutiny, but knew he was correct. ―How will you do that?‖

―I took an officer‘s field kit along with that horse. There will be a needle and thread inside. Or I could cauterize it.‖

He considered the pain either procedure would inflict, and looked away to tend to the meal. McBain had sutured more than one injury on his body. He had more scars than years .

―Have you ever mended flesh?‖ she asked.

―I lived on a ship for nearly thirteen years. I can mend anything.‖ His gaze suddenly softened. ― ‘Tisn‘t that difficult, love.‖

She sighed. ―Then I have not dreamed this nightmare about ogres, magic spells, and fire-breathing dragons,‖ she said. ―You are real.‖

―Aye, I am real, Sassenach.‖

―
Sassenach
. ‖ His tone as much as the single word caught her attention. ―Do you despise the English or just Lord Hereford? Did you not yourself hire out to the Crown? Were you not allied to his Royal Navy?‖

―Only in so far as it proved profitable.‖ And until his father died.

―The authorities would hang you if they knew you were a smuggler.‖

―Aye, they might, if such crimes could be proven.‖ He spoke with no small amount of amusement, considering that Friar Tucker could be hanged for the very same transgressions, along with half the borderland lords with him. ―My conscience has already settled the fact in my mind that I am a criminal at heart.‖

He gave her what was left of a stale oatcake from the knapsack he‘d stolen along with the horse. ―You are not eating?‖ she asked, hesitantly.

―I ate while you slept.‖

If she‘d been less starved, he suspected she would have denied him the satisfaction of accepting his hospitality. But she was so hungry she even ate the crumbs that fell on her lap. Accepting his generosity should have been the worst of her sins, he realized, as she swallowed the last bite and he met the awareness in her eyes.

So she feels it, too
.

He offered her the whisky flask and was surprised when she took it. He watched as she carefully sipped.

Sunlight cast a golden glow over her skin and hair and her impossibly full mouth, over the full mounds of her breast visible beneath the thin cloth of her shirt. He did not understand the connection between them and his lasciviousness began to irritate him.

And she was a virgin, no less.

―Thank you,‖ she rasped.

Hardly expecting the sentiment, he laughed. ―For what exactly am I being thanked?‖

Her attention paused on his mouth where she had knocked him with her elbow last night. He could still feel the tenderness. ―For saving me in the river last night. I hope you were not too wounded.‖

The corner of his mouth turned up at the blatant lie. ―What is a bit of blood shared between intimate enemies? Hmm? I still have my tongue.‖

― ‘Tis a shame. Tongues can be rather useless in the wrong mouth.‖

This time he did laugh aloud. ―An empirical statement coming from you, Rose.‖ She suddenly slid away. But he was ever quick to block her with his arm. ―Especially from someone who has probably only used hers for eating and saying all the wrong things.‖

―I do not want to be attracted to you,‖ she said bluntly.

―Duly noted.‖

He did not want to be attracted to her either.

And there it was. The reality of it as vexing as a splinter beneath his flesh, as if the thought had plagued him all along but had only taken shape now for what it was. As if her beauty was not enough to admire or endure without also enduring his own honesty and the reason she was with him now.

He needed her.

Without Rose, he did not have enough with which to bargain for his brother‘s life.

But even were he not in her life, she would still not be free.

She must have recognized this.

His chest suddenly moved with silent laughter at the utter absurdity of his lust. He crossed his wrists and returned his attention to Rose, his control tenuous at best.

―You may find all of this amusing. I do not.‖ Her chin lifted. ―I have spent most of my life at the abbey and among the people of Castleton,‖ she said. ―I may not be a sterling example of female gentility, but I have always tried to treat people fairly and with kindness, believing that one‘s actions would lend to a like treatment in return.‖

―Then you expect payment for good behavior?‖ He purposefully misconstrued her words.

Her gaze widened. ―Most certainly not.‖ She brushed crumbs from the cloak as if casting about for a way to better frame her thoughts. ―I have little memory of my father,‖ she said after a moment.

Some of the verve left her tone as if she sought to remember what she could of the man who was her sire. ―I know people despise him. Even as I know he once served the admiralty as a decorated war hero. Now he is returned to Kirkland Park, the hated king‘s warden, for he dares enforce laws in the borderlands to rein in certain lawless elements.‖

―Is that who you think he is?‖

She blinked and looked away. ―How can I know the character of a man I do not remember? Mayhap I need to believe he is more decent than others say. I only know he has left Hope Abbey alone.‖

―Why is that, do you suppose?‖

She scraped the moisture from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and glared. ―You ask a lot of questions for someone who should know the answers. Perhaps Friar Tucker paid the proper taxes and has done nothing so outwardly untoward as to attract the warden‘s wrath. How should I know Hereford‘s mind?‖

―Has he ever been to the abbey?‖

―Nay. And I wish you never had been either. For you are as autocratic as he must be. As are all men. A
fish
serves a more useful purpose on this earth than do men. At least I can eat a fish. I am not responsible for what happened to your brother.‖

―The boy to whom you so casually refer is James Marcus Kerr,‖ he said. ―My father‘s son by his second wife. She calls him Jamie. I have never met the boy. I was gone from Scotland ‘ere he was born and did not return for thirteen years because my father beat the living hell out of me, claimed me unworthy as his heir, and hoped I would die on the sea. I did not. Jamie shares my sire‘s blood through no fault of his own. He is twelve.‖

He laid his palm against her cheek and turned her face into the sunlight. ―I do not take my actions lightly,‖ he said. ―Some would go to war over what Lord Hereford has done to my family. A month ago, before my return, I was one of those men. But in the end, my brother would still be dead.‖ He lowered his hand. ―I wish things could be different but they are not.‖

She did not pull away from his gaze as he had expected, and instead he was the one who broke contact as he bent to return her plate to the top of the knapsack.

He did not want to see Rose as anything more than political currency. He was a pragmatist, a man at ease with his duty with no qualms doing what was necessary to secure his brother. He‘d never had much of a conscience when it came to life‘s ambiguous moral choices. So he did not understand his feelings now.

―I fear I am far braver dealing with another‘s ailment than my own,‖ she said, returning his attention to the task at hand.

She had lifted part of the bandage and was studying the injury on her thigh. She wrapped her hand around the whisky flask as if considering its contents, then offered it back. ―I know this is sacrilegious for me to say to a Scotsman, but whisky is nauseating. If I must get myself drunk to endure sutures, I prefer wine as my anesthetic of choice. I . I can do this without intoxicating myself.‖ She squeezed her eyes shut and said bravely. ―I am ready.‖

Ruark edged the flask back to her. ―Drink, Rose. A sip. You might be ready, but I am not. I can knock you out and you‘ll feel nothing or you can drink . or both.‖

And strangely, the fact that Ruark Kerr, the infamous Black Dragon, did not seem bent on intentional cruelty toward her seemed to soften her eyes as if his actions somehow gave her hope that in the end he would find a way to free his brother without sacrificing her.

She was wrong. More than she could possibly know.

―My apologies, Rose.‖

He could endure his own pain more than he could suffer hers. Before she could respond, he clipped her head with his fist, and darkness mercifully claimed her.

R
ose dreamed in a landscape barren of color and light, gliding on wings of shadow. Pain came and went with the darkness that weighted her like lead in water and she struggled to rise from the depths consuming her. She could not breathe. She fought to loosen the ties that bound her before she drowned.

Cold, wet, and shuddering, Rose was not remembering the river‘s rage that had nearly taken her over the falls. She was remembering the storm that would take her mother out to sea. She heard the seagulls screaming and wheeling above her head and the strain of battened-down canvas in the rush of wind. People standing in the rain on the docks. The scent of lilac, faint in the fine mist of dawn. The warmth as someone carried her and held her, and Rose knew it was her mother.

―
Roselyn .
‖

With a gasp, she opened her eyes and sat up.

Arms had come around her almost at once, gently pulling her back into a protective embrace, promising she would be safe.

In the somber shadows, she recognized nothing. Rain fell in the darkness beyond and she was cold. Roxburghe‘s voice came to her. He lay between her and the way out of the shelter. As if to guard her . or protect her. She had not realized how close in meaning the two actions were. There was a narrow divide between being imprisoned and safekeeping. Tonight she felt safe.

―You are dreaming, Rose.‖

She splayed her fingers over his chest if only to test that he was real and not a figment of a dream, knowing she should never test boundaries.

His heartbeat was steady against her palm, like the sound of rain outside their shelter. The heat from his body warmed hers. ―I . I am sorry,‖ she whispered.

His arm tightened around her, and at once, the dream of moments ago began to fade back into the darkness. ―Why?‖

Blinking moisture from her eyes, Rose drew in a breath. ―She died alone in an angry sea. She died because of me, my lord. I want to know why.‖

He pushed up on his elbow and she felt his hand go to her forehead. But she could have told him she had no fever. Even the throb in her thigh had faded to the background of her thoughts.

She could feel his gaze on her face, a palpable touch. ―Who died, Rose?‖

But she was emerging from her dream world now as if she had stepped from the icy mist that would drown her and into Roxburghe‘s arms.

She had awakened once earlier in the day and he had given her supper and told her the weather had worsened. But in the darkness, the rain and the rest of the world faded with the dream. In the darkness, her senses hummed. Only in the darkness did she truly feel free.