Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (13 page)

Roderic almost chuckled. Lice was not the only devil in her pallet.

"’Tis sorry I be if I awakened ye, lady."

"No need for apologies. I am but fretful, I suppose."

"Ye canna sleep again?" clucked the maidservant. "Poor thing. So many worries. Can I get ye somemat? A cup of ale, mayhap?"

"Don't bother yourself, Marjory. Sorry to have frightened ye." She paused for a moment, then, "Go back to sleep," she said, but her words were issued from the hall, and already he could hear her feet padding softly away "Don't concern yourself if I am gone for some time."

"Good morningtide, Flanna," Roderic said, not bothering to rise from his pallet. He was tired and irritated. Where the hell had she gone in her flimsy nightgown in the middle of the night? To her lover's room?

For a moment she stared at his legs. They were bent at the knee and bare to midthigh but she couldn't see more. In an instant, her gaze snapped to his face. Her cheeks were pink. Perhaps he had been wrong about the view, he deduced, feeling somewhat better.

"'Tis early ye come this morning," he said, sitting up and swinging his bare feet to the floor. "I hope ye slept well." God's wrath! Where had she gone? He had stayed beneath her bed until just before dawn, but she had not returned. Frustration made him rise abruptly to his feet and mentally grind his teeth. He had been patient Hell, he had known her for nearly half a week. Why wasn't she infatuated with him when he couldn't seem to spend a single minute without thinking of her? “What brings ye to me lofty tower? I hope there is na cause for alarm."

"Nay." Her tone was taut. Last night she had looked young and unprotected. But there was little of the innocent child in the woman who stood before him. "Why should there be?"

"Indeed, there should na," he said with a shrug. "All is right with the world. Or at least... all is right within the confines of this tower.'' He lifted his hand to indicate the small space which was allowed him. Who the hell had she been with? "Why na allow me the freedom of Dun Ard?" The words escaped him before he had time to make them sound charming.

She narrowed her cat-like eyes at him. Good God, she was stunning.

"I am becoming restive in this place." Indeed, the thought of her with another man made him want to pace. At first he had thought her cold and unfeeling. Later he was certain she had been hurt and would not allow herself to be wounded again. The knowledge that she was simply not interested in him made him insane. "I'm not used ta such confinement. Even the English are na so cruel as to give their prisoners na leeway. King James was educated and allowed to live at court during
his
captivity. Surely I could, at the least, be given permission ta take me meals in the hall." And learn where she spent her nights. "After all, where could I go? I could never escape with so many eyes watching me," he continued, glancing past her to the men in the hallway. "I am getting cramped from lack of exercise." He flexed an arm.

She didn't seem to notice.

He frowned. "I would be willing ta work for the privilege of some freedom. I could dig ye a new well," he said. God's wrath, he would dig from here to London if it would afford him a chance to learn more about her.

"And soil your hands?" For a moment he thought she would laugh at him.

He grasped his plaid near his brooch and pushed back his anger. "They've been soiled afore."

"Truly? When?"

She was mocking him. "Ye ken little of me and mine, wee Flanna. I would that ye'd learn the truth."

She watched him with solemn eyes and for a moment he thought she was questioning her own misconceptions, but instead of voicing inquiries, she turned away. "I have not the manpower to worry over the well at this time. We can continue to draw water from the burn for a while longer."

"But what if ye are besieged. Ye must have fresh water inside the walls."

"Besieged?" She turned smoothly back and laughed. "As ye said, Forbes, my people are all but starving. What do we have that others might covet?"

"Horses," he said easily.

He knew in an instant that he had struck a sensitive chord, for her expression went cold. Did she regret telling him of her breeding program?

He was tempted to soothe her worries, to tell her that he would hurt neither her dreams nor her people, but she wasn't ready to believe him. "I will dig the well," he said. "I need na help. But I do require some activity other than staring at the ceiling of this tower."

"Then ye have not..." she began and stopped abruptly. He waited. "Ye have not..." Lowering her voice, she took three steps forward—"left this place?"

So she had gotten his note and she had thought of him. Did she have a lover she had told? Had he been jealous? Roderic almost smiled. Instead, he forced his brows upward in an expression of innocence. "Mayhap ye think I sprouted wings and went flying about Dun Ard by night. Only"—he laughed, feeling a bit more atease—"I missed this tower so I came back here to perch?"

For several moments she held him with her eyes, but finally her gaze drifted to the window. "A rider leaves even now with your message for Laird Leith," she said, keeping her tone perfectly steady. "I thought ye might wish to know."

"Aye." Roderic nodded, watching her. He wished she would not look out that window, for he thought he might have bent one of the hinges on his hurried flight up the plaids. He had lain for a long while under her bed, and though he had told himself he merely waited to make certain Marjory slept, he knew he awaited Flanna's return. "Me thanks. But ye have na answered me regarding dining in the hall."

She flickered her gaze briefly to him before turning her attention away and striding to the window. "And why would a Forbes wish to be pressed in among the MacGowans?" she asked, gazing out toward the distant kitchens.

Roderic shrugged, trying to rid himself of his tension. From where he stood he could see now that the hinge was indeed bent. "’Tis a fault of mine," he admitted blithely. "I like people."

Flame scowled, not turning from the window. "Even MacGowans?" she asked, placing a hand on the shutter.

Roderic pinned his gaze on her fingers. They were inches from the crooked hinge, and now he thought he could see a frayed thread of brown woolen caught upon a splinter nearby. "It be difficult ta say whether I like MacGowans or na, lass, since I've been granted so little opportunity to mingle with them."

She remained silent, still studying the world outside before absently closing one shutter.

"And, too," Roderic added, hoping to distract her, "our meeting was hardly of the most pleasant nature. After all, ye did lie ta me from the verra start. Ye did ..." Her hand had moved on the listing shutter. “Ye did take advantage of me trusting spirit. 'Tis true, lass," he rambled on. "It didna enter me head that such a lovely maid as yerself might seek to play me for a fool. Might even…" He waved wildly and shook his head, trying to draw her attention—"even seek to hold me hostage."

She turned to watch him, and for a moment he lost his breath, so grand and proud did she look against the dark backdrop of the stormy sky.

"I fear 'tis another fault of mine," he murmured, finding his train of thought. "I be forever misjudging women." Never had he misjudged a woman. Not until he had met Flanna. But now he was making a habit of it. "Must be me lack of experience."

Hand still on the shutter, she turned a bit more toward him. "I think ye be the one playing
me
for a fool, Forbes."

"Me?" He tapped his brooch, feeling honestly offended. "How so?"

"Forgive me if I do not think ye gained the name Rogue because of the time ye've spent playing flute for the sheep."

"In all honesty, lass," he said, feeling a bit better for the reminder of the name his kinsmen had given him, "I have a gift for quieting sheep."

"And for quieting women?"

He raised his brows at her. Thinking her jealous would definitely improve his frame of mind.

"I would guess ye have tossed more innocent lasses than I could count," she said.

He dropped his hand to his side and canted his head. "Tossed?" he asked, his tone sober as he straightened. "Nay."

For a moment there was a flash of something in her eyes. "Nay?" she asked. "Ye are saying ye would not..."

He watched her closely. The young lass was back, uncertain, innocent, and more beautiful than the heather on the hills. He took a step nearer. "What?"

"Are ye saying ye would not"—she faltered, groping for the correct words—"dishonor..." Her gaze turned nervously to her hand, and suddenly her body became stiff.

In profile, he could see her scowl as she plucked the snagged thread from the shutter. It was brown—as was the plaid of the clan Forbes. She turned abruptly, holding the yarn between her fingers. Her expression had gone hard, he noticed, but he kept his own blithe as he watched her.

"Yours?" she asked softly.

He shrugged, trying to disavow his tension. "Mayhap."

"How did it get there?"

He shrugged again. He was ready to offer an innocent explanation, but looking into the deep intelligence of her eyes he knew such would never work.

So instead he made his expression very sober and stepped nearer. "'Tis like this; I wished ta escape. Indeed, I jumped ta the window. 'Twas a tight fit but I squeezed through. Then I…" He scowled, thinking. "I knew I couldna jump so far below," he said, hurrying to the window to stand beside her and gaze down at the wall beneath them. "So I... removed me plaid." He nodded, as though thinking his story quite clever. "I took off me plaid and tied it to…" He glanced quickly about. "…to that hinge. See there. 'Tis bent from me weight." He was very close to her now.

Her face was smooth as marble and showed no expression other than cool disdain. "So ye crawled down your plaid?"

"Aye."

She raised her brows, causing a single wrinkle to appear in her forehead. The Flame of the MacGowans would age well, Roderic deduced, if she were afforded the opportunity to age at all. If she were not killed raiding or feuding. She would not go to fat but would keep the tone of youth and vitality-for many years. For she was royalty in spirit as well as in blood.

"But your plaid was not long enough?" she asked, playing along with his story. "So ye climbed back up to await your breakfast?"

"Nay," he said and grinned. "I dropped down." He glanced at the wall below and grimaced. "Though, 'twas a frightful long way, I managed to hit the wall."

"Aye?" She tilted her head at him.

"Aye."

"And what did ye do once ye got there?"

"Oh ..." He shrugged casually. "I jumped down to the bailey."

"Ye didn't even bother taking the stairs?"

"Nay." He shook his head, making a disdainful expression. "Thought I
_,
if I can manage ta hit the wall, tis certain I can hit the earth."

For a moment the flicker of honest amusement lighted her eyes and teased her lips. "Truly?"

He stared at her, entranced, before finding his voice. "Nay. I lie, lass," he said softly. "But I dunna lie about this—I had nothing ta do with Simon's death. And neither did me people."

She watched him in silence before drawing a deep breath. "Promise ye will not try to escape."

It would be so easy to become lost in her eyes. "Why would I wish to?" he asked.

"Promise me."

"This day I will na escape."

"Bullock, Forbes will be free to roam Dun Ard and take his meals in the hall henceforth."

"Aye, me lady."

"But keep an eye on him."

"Aye, me lady."

"And Bullock," she added, turning abruptly, her back straight as a lance as she stared first at Roderic and then at the window, "bind the shutters closed."

Chapter 9

The bitch still lived. Forbes should have killed her. He should have slit her throat with her own jeweled dirk and fled. But he had failed. Even when he had been left alone with her, when he had been given every opportunity, he had failed. Instead, he had kissed her. And the bitch had kissed him back, like a hound in heat.

So she was falling for the cur's charm, was she? Well, all the better, because when Forbes died, she would mourn, and then she would follow him to hell where women like her belonged.

"Has anyone seen me bonnet?" asked an aging fellow with a balding head.

"Anyone seen me tartan?" growled another.

Roderic ignored the questions as did the others at the table, for 'twas the third night in a row they had asked the same. Only Roderic knew both items were safely hidden beneath his humble pallet in the tower.

"So it be true that Lady Fiona Forbes be the verra daughter auld Ian MacAulay lost as a babe?" asked old Alexander. He had a marked shortage of teeth and was usually the first to seat himself close to Roderic during meals, for he loved a good tale as well as any man there.

The hall was busy this evening. The balding fellow and his companion moved off, mumbling about thieves in their midsts. Warriors and servants and roving hounds mingled. 'Twas the fourth day Roderic had been allowed in the hall, but still he had learned little of Flanna's nocturnal whereabouts. "Aye," he said in answer to the old gaffer's question. "Fiona is Ian Mac-Aulay's daughter. And me brother, Leith, has the scars ta prove it."

There were chuckles from his circle of listeners. "’Tis said she be a feisty thing," commented someone.

"Feisty?" Roderic raised the drinking hom to his lips. In the past days he had come to know these people. In fact, he had stood elbow to elbow with a few, heaving a shovel or pick. Digging a well in the rocky earth of Dun Ard was not a simple endeavor, but it did relieve some of his roiling frustration. "Nay. A wildcat is feisty. Lady Fiona is ... dangerous."

More chuckles greeted his words. There were few traits the Highlander appreciated more than spirit. "But is she na a healer?"

Roderic canted his head, then stabbed a piece of venison from a nearby bencher. "'Tis truth I tell ye, lads," he began, then paused for effect as he held the meat high. "Were Fiona here, she could breathe life into this buck's lungs."