Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (25 page)

"Lift your skirts, lass, before you break your neck," Marta scolded.

Rachel turned quickly to find the ancient matron watching her from beside the fire.

"You'd not be so alluring with missing teeth. Mark me words," she lisped. "Lift your skirts."

"But..."

"They're only ankles."

Rachel complied, lifting her gown a scant few inches, but she'd lost the rhythm and stumbled again.

"Here," Marta said, taking the flute from Catriona. "Let me play." She set the flute to her lips then lowered it for a moment to squint at them. "Now you dance, the two of you."

Catriona nodded, then raised one arm above her head and lifted her skirt with the other.

Rachel haltingly did the same.

The music drifted softly into the night air. Catriona began to tap lightly to the tune, and then she began to dance. The beat rushed along. Cat's movements kept pace as she swayed and turned and tapped.

Rachel tried to keep up, but she was nervous and stiff.

"Nay," Catriona said, and grabbing her arm, pulled her to a halt. "Don't tell your body what to do. Let the music tell it. Let the music take you where it will. And when you are there, then dance."

Rachel stared at her in confusion. The music started again.

"Close your eyes," Cat whispered.

Rachel let her lids drift closed. The sweet melody lifted to her, through her. Images came to her. She was at her favorite lochan in her homeland. The sun shone. The grass was mossy-soft beneath her bare toes. She was young, a child. Her feet began to move, slow at first, then faster as the music sped along. She lifted her arms, letting them undulate to the magic, spinning and twirling until she was breathless and high and happy and the song came to a throbbing halt.

Rachel stopped, her heart pounding, her cheeks warm with the rush of spent emotion.

Catriona glanced at her and smiled. "He hasn't a chance," she murmured.

"Were I you," Marta rasped, "I'd begin making the babe's clothes immediately."

They were wrong, of course, Rachel told herself as she curled onto her blankets in the wagon.

She didn't mean to make Liam jealous. She'd never hoped to do that. After all, she had no more interest in him than he did in her. Her objective was only to reach the king before it was too late. And yet, her dreams had changed. No longer did she see the boy king thrashing about on his bed. Nay, when she dreamed of him, they were dreams of contentment. Instead, she now dreamed of a lochan, of a broad, verdant glen and water as clear as the sky. But sometimes... sometimes a face would appear in the water. Fear would grasp her then and she would awaken.

What it meant, she didn't know, but she had no choice but to continue her journey to Blackburn, for she had vowed on her life to do so and to tell no one of her mission.

Maybe she should break off from the Gypsy band, but that didn't seem right. Here she felt safe, or as safe as she could be. Here she was fed and protected. It would do her little good to leave the band for a faster course only to be killed before she reached the king's side.

Nay, she would stay with the Roms for a while longer at least, and while she was there she might just as well obtain some money to ensure her well-being. Surely there was no sin in dancing.

She slept most of the days as they traveled, and stayed up at night, watching over Lachlan, who recuperated slowly but steadily. Sometimes Marta would play the flute and she and Catriona would dance in the shimmering light of the fire.

The village they arrived at late one evening was built on the side of a hill. Low on supplies and coin, they ventured straight into the city. Less than an hour later, they prepared to perform. Lachlan, bandaged and slow, sat atop his pony with Bear dancing along beside to announce the approaching entertainment.

Finally, the show began. Maybe Rachel should have become accustomed to the rush of nervous energy that spilled through her when Liam began his magic and all eyes turned to her, but instead, she was only becoming familiar with the feeling of nausea.

She glanced through the slit in the wagon's door and saw the Irishman preparing for his act. Her nerve wavered. Her heart pounded. What in God's name was she thinking? She was a healer, a lady, not a common dancer. But just at that instant, Catriona called her name.

Rachel shrank against the wall of the wagon, holding her stomach and wishing she were a million miles away, but the door burst open and there was nothing to do but follow the girl's orders.

Nothing to do but draw the shimmery scarf over her face and step into the flickering firelight.

Marta's music welled up. She saw Liam turn toward her. But she shifted her eyes away, refusing to look at him. The crowd welled up before her. Faces turned expectantly—crofters, merchants, a well-dressed nobleman with a balding head and eyes that shone bright in the firelight.

She froze, paralyzed at the sight of them.

Had she been able to move, she would have flown back to the safety of the wagon, but she stood immobilized. She couldn't do this, couldn't make a spectacle of herself just to prove Liam wrong. But at that moment she heard Cat's whisper as if it came from somewhere inside her.

"Close your eyes."

She did so gladly, not to concentrate, but to shut out the sight of the faces around her, the chandler's open-mouthed perusal, the nobleman's unblinking stare. But the music was still playing, pulsing in the very earth beneath her, thrumming from her feet to Dragonheart and from there to her very soul.

Her feet picked up the rhythm of their own accord, softly at first, slowly. But the music was building. She lifted aft arm in supplication to its magic, and now her feet were moving faster. Her body bent and swayed like a willow bowing to the wind, her skirt whirled about her bare legs. The music throbbed faster still. The crowd was a blur and no longer mattered. Only the music mattered, the emotion, the dance, the movement.

Her hair, burnished as bright as the firelight, twirled about her. Her heart pounded and soared in rhythm with her feet, until the music dashed high and dropped low. She dropped with it, breathing hard and wild as she fell to the earth, her skirt like a crimson tide around her.

Noise erupted from the crowd. It took her a moment to realize it was cheering. Gathering her nerve, she looked up at the faces before her. Aye, they were cheering her, but there was more than happiness in their voices. There was desire, as hot and savage as a well-stoked flame.

Rachel rose shakily to her feet, bowed once, and turned toward Liam. For a moment, he stood just as entranced as the crowd. Finally he forced himself to move, to perform, but there was a slow sensuality to their performance now as if the magic was nothing more than an extension of her dance.

Electricity snapped between them like summer lightning, flowing from one to the other, drawing them close on every poor excuse, making them touch a moment longer, their fingers lingering, their gazes smoldering, until finally the act came to a halt.

They bowed side by side. Lachlan rode up on Bear. The crowd turned away.

Breathless and exhilarated, it took Rachel a moment to realize Liam was holding her hand.

Their gazes caught and melted like molten steel.

It seemed as if he tried to pull his hand from hers but was not quite able to do so. Instead, he stood in silent immobility. "What are you trying to do, Rachel?" His words were whispered, a broken accusation.

He desired her. For this one moment she was certain of that. And yet still he did not want her.

Twas that realization that made her pull from his grasp, made her turn and walk, stiff and proud toward her wagon.

But once there, beside the narrow vehicle, she found she couldn't bear the thought of its confinement. Snatching up her tunic, she raked it over her head, picked up her pouch, and glancing about once to make certain she was undetected, she disappeared into the woods that bordered the village.

The forest was dark and quiet. She walked for a long while, seeking solace, and finally, weary and spent, she found a peace of sorts.

Soon she would leave this life behind and return to the one she knew. And the next time her father found her a match, she would take it. She would become a wife, a mother. She would become content. She swore it.

Eventually she came to a bog. Mist rose from the water, muffling the world in a blanket of silver. Still, she could make out a cluster of white blossoms in the darkness. She bent to smell them and recognized them instantly as elder.

Brewed into a tea, the flowers would be a potent fever tonic.

"I think we've come far enough."

With a gasp, Rachel spun toward the voice.

A man stood before her in the darkness. Not a tall man, but broad and squat. Moonlight gleamed off his bald pate and his rich garb.

He took a step toward her. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Waiting? Nay! Whatever do you mean?" She retreated cautiously backward, her mind spinning. Twas the nobleman from the village, the nobleman who had watched her with such avid interest. Of that she was certain. Why was he here? she wondered, but she didn't allow herself to answer that, for she knew his reasons, could read it in the hot recesses of his mind. "In truth I am meeting someone here," she said, struggling to keep her tone calm.

The sound of his chuckle rippled through the night. "Aye. You are meeting me."

Rachel forced a smile. She had been in such situations before. This was not the first time a man thought himself irresistible. But it
was
the first she'd been thought of as a Gypsy instead of as a laird's daughter who would be jealously guarded and fiercely protected. "Indeed, good sir, I don't even know you."

"You may call me Lord Pitney."

"Lord Pitney." She bobbed her head, trying to stay calm. "My Hugh is to meet me here in a short while."

"Hugh?" He chuckled again. "The lad what tosses the potatoes? He was occupied with the other girl when I left." He stepped closer still. "This Hugh is a lucky man to have two lovely wenches about him. But I see he is not enough to keep the likes of you satisfied, aye?"

She shifted her gaze sideways, planning her retreat and forcing herself to continue to banter.

"You are much mistaken," she countered. "I am all together satisfied."

He smiled. "If such was true, you would not have ventured from the fold. So here is my question. "He paused and crossed his arms against his chest."Did you lead me out here for naught but pleasure, or are you hoping for some coin."

"Coin?" Her heart was beating faster.

"Tis not that I am adverse to paying for the privilege of your company. I only wish to know beforehand."

"Pay! I fear you've got the wrong idea, gentle lord."

"Nay, I do not. But come now. I've already wasted enough time pursuing you. Let us find a likely spot," he said, and reached for her arm.

She jerked away.

Even in the darkness, she could feel his displeasure. "Come now, lass. Tis not nice to tease and run. We both know how this will end."

"You've misjudged the situation."

"And you misjudge me," he said, his voice dark.

She tried to spin away, but her foot had sunk in the bog behind her and she fell.

"Tis not quite the sort of place I would have picked. But if you insist," he said and bending, reached for her.

It was at that moment that Rachel kicked. Drawing her free leg back, she snapped her heel directly into his crotch.

He fell with a rasping croak, clutching his groin and swearing.

Rachel lurched to her feet, but her ankle ached, and her movement was too slow, and in that instant, he grabbed her arm in cruel fingers.

Rachel shrieked and kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, but in the same moment, he wrenched a dirk from beneath his tunic.

"You little vixen!" he snarled.

She scrambled away, but he was already after her.

In three strides, he had snatched her by the back of her tunic. She was yanked from her feet and tossed to the earth.

"I was prepared to be generous!" he snarled, standing over her. "But no more, I think. It seems your beauty has made you haughty." He dropped to the ground, his knees straddling her, his knife held in one hand. "I do not like haughty peasants. Tis not right. But you'll not be so proud without your pretty face," he snarled, and leaned close.

"Hello," someone called from the fog.

Pitney jerked to his feet. "Who's there?"

"Tis me," Liam said from nowhere. "And I rather like her face the way it is."

"Where are you?" Pitney growled, taking a cautious step forward. Nothing but the muffling fog answered him. "Show yourself!" he hissed.

"Gladly," Liam answered.

Pitney pivoted about, knife extended, and in that moment, the Irishman stepped into view, his hands empty and arms stretched peaceably to the sides.

"It seems only sporting that you lose the blade," Liam said. "Twould put us on equal footing."

Pitney studied him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. "Equal! You think yourself my equal Gypsy boy?"

Liam's smile was slow, mocking. Even in the darkness, Rachel could see the satyr's slant of his mouth, the slash of white teeth against dark skin.

It was that expression that launched Pitney forward like a charging bull.

But in that instant Liam bent, curled his fingers about a felled branch, and swung all in one swift motion.

It cracked with resounding force against the side of Pitney's head. He staggered to a halt. The blade slipped from his fingers, and then, like a felled pine, he crumbled to the earth.

"Nay. We are not equal," Liam said. "I have a longer weapon."

Rachel stumbled through the fog toward him.

He caught her in his arms, squeezing her to him, drinking in the feel of her, the knowledge that she was safe, that all was well. "What were you thinking? What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, but he could manage no anger, only heart crushing relief.

"I just—"

He pressed her to arm's length. "You could have been killed! You could have—Jesus!"