Highland Flame (Highland Brides) (15 page)

"Ye have more nerve than brains, Forbes," she said. "If I chose I could kill ye here and now."

"Tell me ye've taken na lover."

"Why?" she asked hoarsely.

"Because I can think of naught else when ye are in the room." It was a direct quote from the note he had left on her pillow. Her face went pale as freshly fallen snow.

"It was ye?" she whispered, her expression unreadable.

With everything in him, Roderic longed to say yes, to admit that he had breached her bedchamber, had watched her sleep,, had seen her fine body kissed by the gentle light of the fire. "Me what?" he forced himself to ask instead.

She swallowed and pushed her hands under the table. To keep him from seeing them shake? Roderic wondered.

"Yes." When she raised her eyes again, every emotion had been deftly wiped from her face. "I do have a lover, Forbes," she said.

Roderic remained perfectly still, though his heart pounded in his chest "Who is he?"

"'Tis none of your concern."

"But I am concerned," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper to his own ears. "For I think that in yer heart ye are mine."

She rose rapidly, nearly unsettling her heavy chair. "Your vanity far exceeds your wit," she hissed. "I say I have a lover, and he leaves me little time to think of any other."

Frustration rushed through Roderic like an unchecked fire. "Aye, lass, and 'tis rumored his name is Lochan Gorm,'' he whispered, leaning close.

In a heartbeat, her hand gripped his shirt and her knife pricked his throat.

A woman shrieked. Men jumped to their feet. Somewhere near at hand, a pitcher dropped, splattering ale in every direction.

"It will be a pleasure to kill ye!" she growled.

"Flame!" someone yelled.

"Roderic," a woman gasped.

"Lass," Troy rumbled from behind her. "Are ye ta kill him now?"

"Mayhap?" She spoke through her teeth as she pressed the blade against Roderic's throat. "And why na?"

"Because we dunna want Forbes' blood defiling our hall."

"Damn the hall!"

"Lass." Troy's hand was on her arm now. Though Roderic didn't shift his gaze from hers, he knew the Wolfhound was trying to urge her away. "'Twould be a waste of a good hostage."

"'Twould be a waste of me time ta let him live."

Roderic kept his attention riveted to her face. "Rarely have I seen anyone react so violently to a
lie,"
he suggested.

She pressed the blade harder against his throat. "By all that is holy, he wants to die, Troy."

"Then make him suffer, lass. Disappoint him," the Wolfhound soothed. "And let him live."

"'Tis only a matter of time before ye are mine," Roderic whispered.

The blade shook against his throat before she yanked it away. "Take him to the tower!" she ordered. "Or feed him to the hounds.'

'

Within the silent confines of her bedchamber, Flame paced. Roderic! How
dare
he say the things he had? She stopped to stare out her narrow window. Even now her hands shook.

So the gossipmongers were stirring. Even now, after she thought she had gained some loyalty. But who was she fooling? She was no laird, no chieftain, no great ruler. She was a woman. But not a whole woman. She had given that up. And for what? To please her father? But no, she had realized the futility of that long ago. She had become the Flame because the MacGowans needed her, and because she needed them. She had become the Flame to gain acceptance. But how could they accept her as she was? She was neither a woman nor a man. Neither a laird nor a peasant. She had to be more than all of those, bigger and better and different, without being too different.

There had been a time not so long ago when she had thought she could be like other women. She had dreamed a simple dream, believing, for a while, that she could be loved and cherished by a charming man. But the man chosen for her had proven himself to be less than charming and far less than honest, for he had said he adored her. The truth had shamed her to her soul. For all along, he had loved another.

Flame stared into the abyss of the night outside her window. The memory still made her want to hide as she had after her father had struck her for the first time. But cowering beneath her bed had aided her no more than her tears. And, in truth, Carvell’s betrayal had forced her to stand up to her father. And though her legs had been quaking with fear, she had done so, and refused to marry her betrothed. She could remember her father's rage as if it were yesterday. Even now, she could feel his fists slam into her. The pain had echoed in her skull like distant drums. But before she had lost consciousness, she had told herself that the sins he hated her for were not her sins, but his own. So why did she still feel she must repent?

From somewhere far away, an owl called. The sound carried well in the still air. It had been just this kind of night when a small girl had climbed sick and shaky from a trunk to blink at her first sight of France. Her tears had dried and she had made a vow to be a better child. Not an evil thought would enter her mind, not a cruel word would pass her lips. She would be tractable and soft-spoken until her father would come for her. He would take her in his arms and beg for her forgiveness.

But he didn't. In fact, she had not seen him again for nearly ten years, and then only when she refused to marry. It seemed her betrothed and her father had been cast in the same mold. But that did not mean that all men were alike. 'Twas possible that a man could deal honorably with a woman, was it not?

Without meaning to, she moved to her bed. The note was there, under her pillow.

Slowly, she withdrew it and smoothed it against the white linen that covered her bosom. Pretty words. That's all they were, and yet... it had been a long while since she had felt like a woman.

There were tears in her eyes. They were hot and they stung, but she refused to let them fall.

It was probably just a hoax. No one could truly believe the words that were written on the parchment. No man thought her more beautiful than the heather on the hillock. There was not a man in Dun Ard who was left speechless by her presence.

But someone
had
been here only a few nights before. Someone had penned the words, slipped into her room, and watched her sleep.

The small hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. The reaction should be caused by anger, she knew, or at least by fear. But it was neither. The reaction was caused by the titillating realization that someone had stood in the dark, mere inches from her. He had thought her beautiful and had not hated her for it. Perhaps he had dreams of holding her in his arms. Perhaps he had seen past her men's clothing into her heart. Perhaps he had seen the fear and loneliness there. Perhaps he was Roderic.

Dear God! She turned quickly from the window, gripping the note. She was being a fool again.

But no longer. She would rip the parchment to shreds. Crumpling the letter in her hands, she prepared to do just that, but her fingers would not tear, her heart would not completely give up hope, though she knew she should.

Loneliness ripped at her soul, but there was someone who would listen and care, and tonight she needed him. Cramming the parchment back under her pillow, she hurried from the room.

The hall was quiet now. All the tables, but the one at which Roderic sat, had been stored against the walls. Men lay scattered about the room, asleep in the rushes and covered with their plaids. The hounds were tied at one wall. The tawny bitch he called Bonny watched him. To his right, William sat slumped with his face squashed against the rough-grained wood of the table.

"Ye are na such a bad sssort, Forbes," Bullock said. His chin was propped precariously on the heel of his hand and his eyelids were at half mast.

"And ye are a terrible dice player. Ye owe me another drink."

Bullock failed to respond. His lids had fallen closed, but one popped open suddenly. "Did I thank ye?"

"For what?"

"For na killing me."

"Nay."

"Ahh," said Bullock before changing the subject with the clever speed seen only in one badly inebriated. "Have ye noticed that the lady Flame has eyes like emerald lochans?"

Roderic tightened his fist. Could it be that
Bullock
was Flanna's lover? he wondered, but in a moment he discarded that notion. It was far into the night. What man would choose to spend time with his comrades instead of with Flanna if he had a choice?

Bullock was not her lover. But was there someone else? Was she with him even now? Roderic slipped his gaze to the top of the steps.

"Promise ye willna escape this night, Forbes."

Was she holding someone in her arms? Was she giving her lovely, sensuous body to another even as he gambled with an intoxicated guard?

"Forbes."

"What?"

"Promise."

Roderic turned toward Bullock. Slumped over the table as he was, he looked nearly as broad as he was high. "Why should I promise now?"

"Because I am drunk. Prraps ye didna notice."

On the contrary, Roderic had noticed. In fact, he had spent most of the night causing it. "I promise."

"Ahh." Bullock lifted his mug in a sort of salute. "Ye are a good ..." he began, but before his statement was finished, his head fell to the solid table with a resounding thump.

Roderic watched him. "Bullock?"

No answer.

"Ye are a good man, too," he said, and rising to his feet, hurried across the floor and up the stairs to Flanna's room.

Chapter 10

So they laughed at Forbes' jests, admired his boldness, welcomed him into the fold. The fools! Had they already forgotten Simon's gristly head? Had they so easily forsaken their vows for revenge? They would need a reminder. A poignant reminder. And what would be so poignant, or so sweet, as Flame's head severed from her body. Yes. Another loosed head would renew their bloodthirst.

Marjory slept beside her mistress's door. The sound of her breathing was soft and even. Roderic stood for a moment, hand on the latch. He was being a fool. If he had retained any pride, any good sense, he would march back down those stairs and leave Flanna MacGowan to her own diversions. After all, he was Roderic the Rogue of the proud Forbes clan, admired by men and adored by women. Why should he concern himself with a haughty lass who dressed like an outlandish man and rebuffed him at every turn, whose very hair glistened with tempestuous life. True, her face was like flawless marble and her figure as firm and smooth as a fine statuette. Her wit was as sharp as the tip of her dirk and...

Jesu! Roderic swore silently and pushed the door open.

The chamber was empty!

God's wrath! Not again! His temper suddenly boiled. Could she embrace another when
his
touch ignited the flame in her? When she was meant to be in his arms? He had to find her, and he would.

Before the foolishness of his decision dawned on him, Roderic was storming down the hall, jerking open doors to peer inside. Storage barrels, baskets of wool, and silent looms peered back.

Another door was pushed open and ...

"Stay back!" a small voice quavered.

Roderic remained very still. The room was lit by a single candle. It washed yellow light about the tiny chamber, illuminating the narrow lad who faced him with a dirk and a countenance as pale as death.

"Wh-who are ye?" he whispered. The knife shook when he spoke.

Roderic drew a calming breath and let his gaze skim past the boy to the still form beside his low pallet. It was Flanna. Her lovely body was covered with a bright green tartan and her face was peaceful as it rested upon the edge of the boy's mattress.

So this was where she came in the deep of the night. Relief washed over Roderic like a warm evening tide.

"I said ..." The lad's voice quavered again, but he tightened his unsteady grip and took a step nearer. "Who are you?"

"I am Roderic, of the Forbeses."

The boy's gasp was surely loud enough to wake the dead, and yet Flanna slept on. Roderic let his attention drop to her again. God, she was lovely and she was not in another's arms. But why was she here? He took a step forward to see her more clearly, but the boy brought up the dirk and spread his skinny legs. They were bare below his white nightshirt and looked as frail and knobby as a felled myrtle branch.

"You'll not harm her, Forbes. Not so long as there is br-breath in my b-body."

Roderic forced himself to contain his smile. Surely such a gallant heart should not be mocked, he thought. "I willna harm her," he said. "But may I close the door so that we dunna disturb her maidservant?"

The boy's hand shook visibly and his eyes were so large in his pale face that Roderic feared he might faint. "Why are you here?"

"I come looking for yer lady," he said and nodded casually toward Flanna, but his mind was racing. Who was this lad to her? Could it be that he was her son? A love child? Or a child of shame, born out of wedlock, forced upon her by rape? 'Twould explain much of her distrust of men.

Rage mingled with questions within Roderic, but he quieted his emotions. Easing his hand to the door, he closed it silently while watching the wide, falcon-steady eyes of the lad. "I will hurt neither ye nor her, young Hawk."

The dirk shook again, and the lad's face showed his uncertainty. "My name is not Hawk."

His hair was as black as a raven's wing, making his narrow, sharp-boned face appear very pale, and his light blue eyes seem almost silver.

"What be yer name, then?" Roderic asked.

The boy pursed his lips, and in that moment he reminded Roderic of Flanna. " 'Tis Haydan. Haydan Boudreau."

"Boudreau? Then ye are na the lady's ... relation?"

The boy looked surprised. "Nay. I but wish I had a spark of her flame. But I do not. Why have you come?"

"Because I worried for her welfare."

"You?" The lad could not have sounded more shocked if Roderic had proclaimed himself to be the devil incarnate.

"I mean her na harm, wee Hawk."