Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (12 page)

She gave him a crotchety glare, but he was undaunted.

"To be dulled only by your beauty and your generosity."

"Hogswaggle!" She gave him a glare, paused, then, "Here. You might as well keep the mug...

since you've soiled it anyway."

Liam bowed again, swept the flowers from the mug, and handed them to her. "Tis oft said that a heart of gold is found with hands of clay."

"And tis just as oft said that clever hands are the hands of a rogue."

"It is indeed," Liam agreed with a laugh. Turning to the crowd at large, he saw that a goodly number were pressing gifts into Rachel's hands.

"I've little enough to give you," said the blacksmith, and sent a quick glance to the sky. "But you're welcome to the loft above my smithy if you've a mind to find shelter before the weather worsens."

Remembering the group of horsemen that had rushed by, Liam considered refusing. But one glance at the fatigue in Rachel's face changed his mind.

"Twould be greatly appreciated," he said instead.

Fat raindrops slanted in from the north. The crowd began to disperse. The old potter shuffled away, the bouquet of wildflowers clutched in a gnarled hand near her heart.

"My son will show you to the loft," said the blacksmith, and left to see to his own affairs.

Rachel and Liam gathered up their possessions, mostly newly acquired, and hurried after the lad to the smithy's shop. It was a large stone building with a huge opening in the front and a hearth in the middle.

The ladder up which they climbed was rickety, but the chaff at the top was deep and clean.

Only at the far end had it begun to mold.

In no mood to complain about the accommodations, Rachel sighed as she settled onto the straw, then spread what was left of her gown in front of her. They placed their meal upon it—the mug, newly filled with milk still warm from the cow, a handful of roasted pecans, a loaf of onion bread, and two small, dried fishes.

"Nothing to spit at," Liam said, all but salivating at the fare they'd gained.

"Tis a feast," Rachel concurred, her eyes bright beneath the broad brim of her plumed hat.

He glanced at her, wondering for a moment if she were being facetious. After all, she was a laird's daughter, accustomed to the fat of the land. But he saw neither sarcasm nor disdain in her expression.

"You did well," he said, though he thought he would be wise to shove the food into his mouth and not speak at all.

"I stood at the side and stared with mouth agape," she argued as she tore off a bit of bread.

"Nothing more."

What he truly didn't need was her modesty. He would be far better off to remember her hauteur and forget the rest. "Had you not made the ploy believable we would not have gained their attention.

Tis all in perception. Had I simply begun to perform, they would have convinced themselves that every passing lad has the same talent as I. Even if I had the benefit of my black powder to add to the show, we would have been lucky to get an empty nutshell."

She took a bite of bread, but didn't turn her eyes away. "I think, mayhap..." She paused for a moment. "Could it be you think too little of yourself, Liam?"

Her angel eyes were entrancing while her devil's mouth was quirking. He was caught in the middle, between heaven and hell, unable to turn away.

The evening stretched into silence. The tiny trace of her smile diminished to solemn earnestness.

"Liam." Her voice was small, like a young lassie's. Like a slip of a girl dressed in voluminous white, with her sable hair unbound and her amethyst eyes full of softness and adoration. "I—"

"Eat." He said the word abruptly, for the truth was, he couldn't bear to hear her talk, to watch her lips move, to know that at this moment she felt some tenderness for him. He could not do that and resist her. Instead, he dropped his gaze away and snatched up a fish. "You'd best eat and get some sleep. The morrow will be upon us soon."

It took a moment, but he finally felt her gaze drop away. "The men that galloped by us on the road... Do you think they are in the village?"

He shrugged, trying to dispense with the heavy emotion caused by her nearness. "Don't fret about it. I'm certain no one recognized you as a woman." Although how they could fail to, he could not imagine. None of the folk present had seemed entirely daft.

They finished their meal in silence. Finally Liam undid his belt and set it aside. Rachel moved the mug to a safe location, hung her woven pouch over a nearby beam, and removed her hat. Then she pulled the ragged remains of her gown over her legs. But in a moment a tiny frown wrinkled her brow. "I could share," she said softly, lifting the sorry garment.

It was, suddenly, rather difficult to breathe, harder yet to respond. But he forced himself to remain calm. She wasn't offering herself naked and wet and needy, he reminded himself. She was merely sharing a tattered bit of cloth. Still, it was no mean task to force out a refusal. "Nay," he managed. "I've slept with less."

"As have I," she said. "But not until two nights ago."

Beneath them in the quiet stable, a horse sighed contentedly.

"I'm not unaccustomed to the cold," he assured her.

"But you're not used to walking day after day with a leg wound and too little food," she said.

Their gazes caught. He wrenched his away.

"My leg feels—"

"Liam." Her voice drew his attention back to her face. "I need you well."

In his mind, he understood her words; she needed help to reach her destination. And yet, in his
soul,
it sounded like she needed
him.
Needed
his
strength and
his
talents, and
his
person. Needed his hands against the warmth of her skin, needed his kisses, and needed him deep inside, throbbing...

God! He was a weak-willed bastard and he knew it, but suddenly he couldn't help himself. He was across the distance before he could formulate a decent excuse. But he was not foolish enough to touch her. They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other.

"Sleep well, Rachel," he said finally, and turning his back, lay down on his side to stare into the darkness.

"Aye." She barely breathed the word. "You too," she said and spreading the tattered remains of the gown over both of them, turned in the opposite direction and went to sleep.

It was the same old dream come to haunt him.

The dream Liam long ago condemned as utter foolishness.

Even if he could have Rachel Forbes, even if he were some snot-nosed noble lord, he would not want her. She was haughty and cool and better than thou.

But it was damned difficult to remember when the dream swelled up around him like a warm mist, when his heart was racing like a wild steed's and his every nerve ending was buzzing with delight.

Dear God, it was so real. He could feel her hand, satin soft against his flesh as she caressed his chest. He moaned and bent his leg, snuggling it between the warm embrace of hers. Her head, soft as a swallow, was cupped against the warmth of his heart. He drew her closer.

She sighed, her ungodly lips so soft, so close that there was nothing he could do but kiss her.

They awoke at the same moment, inches apart, their eyes wide.

"Liam!"

He jerked as if slapped, hoping to God that all the talk had been wrong, that Rachel could not see inside his mind, because if she could read his thoughts this time, she would never let him forget it.

But he realized slowly that her voice was breathless and that her hand lay beneath his tunic against the warmth of his flesh.

She yanked it out as if burned. Her devil's lips were slightly parted, but for a moment she said nothing, then, "I must have been..." She was breathing rather hard, and her cheeks were the color of a summer sunrise, but she didn't move back any farther. "I was dreaming."

Her words stopped his breath.

"Dreaming?"

She said nothing.

He tried to swallow, to think, to breathe. It was hopeless. "About what?"

"Maybe we should leave."

"Aye," he agreed, but she hadn't moved, and she was so close, and her eyes were just as wide and enchanting as they always were in his dreams, and her hair was all tousled, and... Dear God, what could he do when her hair was tousled? He had to kiss her!

His lips closed over hers.

"Da said to—"

Rachel shrieked. Liam jerked away, flashing his gaze toward the ladder.

The blacksmith's son stood as if suspended in midair, his head and shoulders just visible above the loft's floor, his jaw all but falling from his face as his eyes bugged at them.

"You were kissing him!" he gasped.

"Nay I—" Liam began.

But the boy was already scrambling down the rungs. His feet missed a few in his haste. He fell the last two and landed on his rump on the hard-packed earth. But in a moment he was up and galloping away, already exercising his lungs. "Da, Da!"

"Bloody hell!" Liam rasped, lurching to his feet.

"Sweet Mary!" Rachel prayed. Snatching up her few possessions, she shoved them into her pouch.

"Hurry," Liam urged.

"What'll they do to us?"

"If they think you're a lad and I was kissing you, or if they find out you're a woman and I lied to them?"

The options seemed to be enough to silence her. She lurched for the ladder and all but slid down it. Liam was inches behind as she spurted for the wide front door.

"I saw them! With my own eyes, I saw them!" rasped the boy from just outside the door.

Rachel skidded to a halt. Liam snatched her arm, yanking her back toward the far wall.

They glanced desperately about. But no avenue of escape threw itself in their path.

"Up the ladder!" Liam rasped.

She didn't ask why, but scampered up the listing rungs like a harried squirrel.

Liam reached the top, raced past her, and slid onto the rotting straw that lay near the rear. True to his raging hopes, a small hole shone in the stonework. Bracing himself, he kicked at the wall with all his might. The rock teetered a bit.

"Come down from there, Master Martin," a voice called from below.

Liam kicked again. The stone let loose. The mortar gave way. Twas a small hole, but judging by the expression on Rachel's face, she was willing to squeeze.

He motioned raggedly toward her. She slid through feet first, grasped the rock with clawed fingers, and let herself down.

Liam followed as quickly as he could.

From inside, they heard feet on the ladder. It did nothing but hasten their retreat. Still two yards above the ground, Liam jumped to the earth. Grabbing Rachel's hand, he pulled her away from the smithy.

Quiet and quick as the dawn, they raced down a back alley, through a small herb garden, and across a narrow courtyard.

From around a corner, they heard the sound of whistling. Liam snatched Rachel down to a walk.

In a second, the tanner was upon them, his broad face florid.

"Good morning to you, Martin. And young Jamie. Will you be performing for us again today?"

"Nay, I fear not," Liam said. "We must away."

"Ahh, tis a pity."

"Aye," Liam said, and pressing his hand to Rachel's back, hurried her out of the village and onto the road.

Sometime after noon, hunger drove them into the woods in search of food. But there was little to be found.

Finally, thirsty and fatigued, they wandered to the stream they'd been following. Once there, they scooped water into their hands, slaked their thirst, and considered options.

"My guards will be searching for me," Rachel said, not turning toward Liam as she watched the silvery waves roll by.

"Aye,"
he agreed. "But they'll be searching for your corpse along the river."

"Maybe not. Twill surely occur to them that I may have survived," she said, but the roaring memory of the falls made her doubt her own words. Even she couldn't say how she had survived.

Still... "Maybe we should have stayed in the village. Eventually, they may arrive there."

"Stay as man and lad or man and woman?" Liam asked.

Neither of them had spoken a word about their time in the loft. Their gazes met now for a fraction of an instant, then hurried apart.

"There are those who frown on that particular form of perversion," Liam warned her.

"We might have told them the truth."

"Some would consider disguising a woman as a man an even more hideous crime. There be laws against it, you ken."

"Then why am I dressed as—"

"Because I cannot risk you!" The words shot from his mouth. "Because long ago and far away I vowed to protect you."

"What?"

"In the tower," he explained.

"What tower?"

"When you so clumsily stole my amulet and met your cousins to invoke a charm."

"You were there?" She all but whispered the words.

"Aye."

"Then twas you I heard behind the barrels."

"Aye."

"I thought it was a rat. It appears now that I was right," she said, and chuckled.

Liam turned irritably toward her. "Tis no laughing matter, Rachel."

"Aye, it is," she said. "Twas naught but a silly child's game."

Liam jerked to his feet. "Did you learn nothing from your cousins' misfortunes?"

"Misfortunes?"

"Sara—lost in the wilds of England, alone, but for a babe who was not her own. Not a bite to eat with brigands on her trail. How do you think she and the babe survived?"

"Sara is as sharp as the cut of a whip, and as caring as the Madonna," she said. "She would survive for the child. And too, I think mayhap Sir Boden had something to do with their good fortune."

"You give no credit to the dragon? None atall?"

"Nay," she said. "I do not."

"And what of Shona's adventures? She destroyed a plot against the crown and saved the boy king by her own hand. Not a scratch did she receive. Does that not seem amazing to you?"

"Shona is all but a warrior in her own right," Rachel said, but she found now that she had jerked to her feet without being aware of the movement and that Dragonheart was clasped tightly in her right hand.