Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (20 page)

"And more than you'll ever get," she countered as she set the bird back in its cage.

Liam snorted as he retrieved a trio of knives from the earth and began to toss them into the air.

"Do you think you can throw me another one without anything falling from your gown?" Liam asked.

Embarrassment flooded through Rachel. She couldn't stop the color that seeped down her face toward her bosom, but neither could she change her course of action, for pride pressed her on.

Tossing back her hair, she pushed out her chest. "We shall see," she said, and slowly bent to pick up the knife.

Not a man in the area breathed. Indeed, it seemed that not a breeze stirred in all of Christendom.

"Good God, throw it here before the fellow in the front faints," Liam snapped.

She did so, but her hands were shaking, and her aim was off. The knife wobbled low.

Liam snatched it up just before it struck his crotch. "Holy Christmas!" he swore, spinning it into space. "Watch where you throw it, lass. There may be something down there you will take a liking to some day."

"Not in this lifetime, laddie," she scoffed, and the crowd roared. The sound speared through Rachel, drowning her in a rush of adrenaline, and the show was on.

Tension rippled between them. Laughter and oohs and gasps sounded across the courtyard. And finally, with a flourish and a wave, Liam bowed.

The crowd applauded.

Rachel bowed.

The crowd exploded.

Liam scowled, grabbed Rachel's arm, and snatched her to his side, where they bowed together amidst whistles and laughter and ribald exchanges.

Lachlan, riding backward on his dappled pony and accompanied by a dancing bear, wove his way through the crowds with his cap extended. The spectators, intoxicated by the steamy performance, were generous.

Rachel straightened. Liam did the same. Their arms brushed. The air crackled between them.

His hand felt warm and strong against her arm, and his eyes still snapped with a passion she could not quite name.

"Rachel..." he rasped.

Emotion curled through her stomach.

"Aye?"

He seemed to lean toward her, but in an instant, he drew sharply away. "What the hell be you thinking?" he growled.

Disappointment swamped her like bitter ale, but she raised her chin and squared her shoulders.

"I was thinking I might manage to draw a wee bit of attention if I but tried."

"By flaunting yerself like a—"

"Flora," Rory said, approaching from behind.

Rachel turned brokenly toward him.

"Tis impressed I am," he murmured, letting his eyes roam for a moment. "And me I was thinking you might be a mite shy to perform. But you surprised me." He shifted his gaze momentarily to Liam.

"You didn't tell us your wife was so much the entertainer, Hugh," he said.

"She is a constant surprise."

"Aye. I can see that. The show did well," he said, jiggling a pouch of coins and shifting his dark eyes quickly back to Rachel. "Marta needs a few supplies and I wondered if you might like to accompany me to the marketplace."

"What of Catriona?" Liam asked.

The men's gazes clashed for a moment, then the corner of Rory's mouth lifted in a disarming grin. "She is busy," he said. "And I have no talent for bartering for a woman's needs. But Flora is your wife, and I would not dream of doing anything to cause trouble between the two of you."

A muscle jumped in Liam's jaw, but he shrugged as if unconcerned. "Well, if you do not even
dream
..." He laughed. The sound was rusty. "You must go of course, Flora. You deserve the distraction."

"You don't mind?" she asked, playing her part with care and precision, yet trying to see through the lies to his true thoughts. There were times when she felt she could guess people's minds. But Liam had never been one of those people.

"Of course not," he said. "I know you too well to think you'd do anything unseemly."

Anger spurred through her. "Do you now?" she murmured.

"Aye." His dark eyes flashed. "I do indeed."

"Then I shall go with Rory," she said, and placing her hand on the Rom's arm, turned toward the market.

They stayed all that day in York for Marta thought it wise to perform again that evening when others would have arrived and the previous spectators might well be lubricated into generosity by too much ale.

Ale, it seemed, was a performer's best ally.

As for Rachel, she lay curled up inside her wagon. Feigning a headache, she'd left Rory's company only minutes after they'd reached the marketplace. But though she'd returned to their small encampment shortly afterward, she had not seen Liam or Catriona since their performance.

Not that she cared what the two of them were doing. Long ago she had learned that caring for Liam was a fool's course. Ever since he'd turned her aside only to be found in Elisa's arms.

Rachel sat up abruptly. The wagon suddenly seemed too small. She needed air. Swinging the door open, she prepared to step outside.

Liam raised Ids head just as she glanced toward the fire. Their gazes flashed and fused.

Rachel's heart yanked to life in her chest. Her breath rushed like a sharp wind, and then, shaken and uncertain, she ducked back inside.

"Bloody hell!' Liam murmured.

A chuckle sounded behind him. He turned with a scowl, spearing Marta with his gaze.

"I fear I fail to see the humor," he said.

She cackled as she took a seat on a log and placed a bundle between her feet. "Tis because you cannot see your own face, lad."

He snorted and sent a sour gaze toward the wagon. "I've seen more than I wished to for one day."

"That I doubt," she said. He turned to her and she laughed again. "I'm thinking you've seen far less than you want to, laddie."

"I've no idea what you're speaking of."

"And I'm the Princess of Wales." She chuckled again. "The truth is you're so hot for her you cannot think for the wanting."

"The truth is I'd just as soon throttle her as look at her."

"Aye. That too," she intoned with a sigh.

Rory sauntered past. Liam watched him and felt his body go tense and his nostrils flare.

"He has the Rom allure for women, does he not?"

Rory disappeared from sight. Liam shifted his scowl back to the matron. "Are you simply looking for new ways to flay me, or do you have a point, old woman?"

She cackled. "I am saying you cannot fight fire with damp chaff."

"What—"

"You!" she said, stabbing a gnarled finger at him. "You are damp chaff. Sodden and uncertain and of little use to the fire she burns for you."

Something lurched in Liam's gut, but he ignored it. Rachel carried no flame for him. That much he knew. Maybe long ago when she was still too naive to see the infinite chasm between a nameless bastard and a laird's daughter, she had felt something for him, but he'd made certain to change that.

Since then he'd had nothing from her but barbed words and bitter feelings.

"Have you nothing to say, laddie?" Marta asked.

He scowled. "You didn't seem daft when first I met you."

"Aye. I am daft. But I see things you do not. And if you had the balls, you might ask for me own advice."

He wasn't going to ask. She was an opinionated old woman with a penchant for meddling, he told himself, and Rachel Forbes didn't care for him. She was a lady, perfect, polished, preening. And he was
not
going to ask.

"What advice?" he asked.

Marta grinned toothlessly, then, reaching down, retrieved her dark bundle and tossed it at him.

"Fan the flame, lad," she said.

The sun had set by the time Catriona called for an audience that evening. Five torches had been lit and thrust into the dirt in a half circle. The light illuminated her face, making her exotic beauty more impossible, her feats more spectacular.

Rachel watched her from a dark area near the wagon and wished to God she were a hundred miles away, that she'd never met Liam, that she had a boatload of cloth to hide her flushed face and mounded chest. She'd made a fool of herself once already today when sparring with Liam and she had no wish to do so again. But pride is a hard mistress, and insisted that she not back down, that she stand up to Liam's challenge and prove herself capable of doing whatever he could do.

Finally Catriona performed her last twirling feat. Liam ducked out from another wagon. He was dressed in his usual hose and tunic, but over the simple linen shirt, he wore a vest of dark leather. It was laced part way up his chest and made his wide, white sleeves seem even more voluminous.

Their gazes met and fused.

"Tis not too late to find some decency," he said.

Rachel lifted her chin and stepped forward as Catriona introduced them to the crowds.

In a moment, Liam was tossing the potatoes into the air. His rhythm was perfect, his concentration undisturbed. So already her attire did nothing to distract him, Rachel thought, and swore she would not care. Instead, she would concentrate on the act, garner as many coins as possible, and hasten to Blackburn as quickly as possible.

Twas urgent that she get there soon, she told herself, but found to her chagrin, that despite everything, the edge to her need was gone. Before she had felt driven to reach the king, but now other things distracted her. Things that...

There was a gasp from the crowd. Gone were Liam's potatoes. The yellow scarf swished through the air, but instead of swirling about her shoulders, it hissed across his own. And then, with a flick of his wrist, the scarf was removed.

The crowd gasped again. Rachel gave a practiced smile then snapped her gaze back to Liam.

Her jaw fell slightly, for with the removal of the scarf, his tunic had also disappeared. Only the vest remained.

She stared in abject amazement. True, she had no idea where the shirt had disappeared to, but twas himself that made her gape. Beneath the laced leather of the vest, his chest gleamed in the firelight and his biceps danced as he twirled the scarf again. It swished around her shoulders and drooped away, but in a moment, he caught the opposite end.

It was then that Rachel realized that music was coming from somewhere. And suddenly they were turning in unison. The silk glided across her back, sensuous as a caress. His gaze caught her, hot and sharp and lurid in the flaring torches.

He tugged her closer with the silken bond. Their bodies nearly touched, but not quite. She felt his breath against her cheek, felt the warmth of his flesh even from inches away, saw the corded strength of his broad throat. His eyes mesmerized her. His hand touched hers. She stopped, made breathless by the emotion in his eyes, but he continued to circle her, and suddenly she realized her arms were behind her and bound by the silken scarf. Her back was to the audience. Their gasps alerted her, and suddenly her arms were released and she was clutching something clasped in her fingers.

Without a cue, curiosity made her pull her hands forward into her view.

Flowers. She stared at the yellow blossoms. But Liam was in front of her now. With a single touch, he urged her to turn toward the audience again. Then, tugging one bright bloom from the bouquet, he brushed it across his lips.

Something made her shiver at the sight. Soft as a sigh, he swiped it across her mouth. The shiver deepened.

The crowd was silent. Or perhaps she'd simply forgotten they were there. Liam leaned closer.

His presence filled her. Her heart pounded and her lungs refused to breathe. He brushed the petals across her cheek, then down her neck then flipped his hands away.

The spell was broken. The flower was planted firmly in a slit in her sleeve. He tugged the bouquet from her hands, and turning, tossed them into the crowd. But even before the last blossom had fallen, he had snatched up a trio of sticks. Having already been dipped in pitch, they flared as he set them to a nearby flame. First one end and then the other.

They flashed upward as Liam tossed them toward the sky, glowing in a golden arc of flame. But now he was moving, striding around her. She stood perfectly still, only shifting her eyes. He stepped behind her. She felt the heat of the slim torches on her shoulders, but suddenly they flashed in front of her face.

Gasping, she stepped back, but there was no room, for Liam was directly behind her. His chest felt hard and smooth as granite against her shoulders. His hands were beneath her arms, moving, always moving, catching and tossing the whirling flames.

Frightened and nervous, Rachel turned to the side. Liam's face was inches away, his black eyes intense as they stared into hers. His chest flexed against her back, his arms brushed her sides.

Her face felt hot, but whether it was from the flames or his proximity, she couldn't tell. She felt him turn, and there was nothing she could do but turn with him.

It felt like a slow, exotic dance. Skin brushed skin. Music throbbed from nowhere, and against her cheek, Liam breathed, "Trust me."

It took a moment for her to find her voice, then, "With what?" she whispered.

His lips parted and nearly touched hers. She waited breathlessly for him to answer, but suddenly she realized the torches had ceased their flight and burned like a bonfire before their faces.

And just as suddenly the crowd was cheering and they were bowing.

The music dwindled.

"It's a bear!" someone yelled, and the crowds spilled away to watch Lachlan's huge beast dance.

Liam doused his torches in a nearby bucket without even turning away.

"Rachel." He breathed her name, but she was unable to respond, for his lips were so close to hers.

His skin gleamed in the firelight and his eyes were intense.

"Rachel," he whispered again, and a muscle danced in his jaw.

"Aye," she managed, though hoarsely.

"Tis not meant to be."

She was breathing hard and fast and refused to understand him. "What is not?"

"This," he rasped.

But just then their fingers inadvertently brushed.

The fire just doused was renewed.

Liam clenched his jaw, and, seeming unable to help himself, he snatched her hand and moved toward the wagon. She could do nothing but follow him.
Wanted
to do nothing but follow him, to feel him pressed against her, to hear her name on his lips.