Highland Storm (4 page)

She glared stubbornly. “Aye, you’re right. It happened at home, when I tripped in the pantry, where I’d gone to fetch some onions.”

“If that was the truth, then like as not ye’d have a broken neck as well.”

She dropped her gaze, trading her view of Alexander’s amazing eyes for the sight of his muted hunting plaid. Doing so felt oddly like admitting defeat. She summoned the rest of her willpower and mentally urged herself to shut up. He knew she had lied, but that didn’t mean she had to tell him the truth.

“I’ve been on the receivin’ end of quite a few blows myself,” he said, “and the dealin’ end as well. That bein’ said, it looks to me like someone struck ye.”

Isla’s heart sped up as he paused. How did he know, and why did it feel again as if he was looking right through her with those piercing eyes?

Damn him!

 
“And if you’re not marrit,” he continued, “then it must hae been your father.”

Isla’s hands trembled visibly in her lap and she buried them in her damp skirts in an effort to hide her unease. He had said it, but he couldn’t make
her
say it. Her cheeks flushed with heat, as if his words had set them aflame. At some point, her mouth had loosened, involuntarily abandoning the tight line she’d compressed it into in favour of parted lips. She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped them.

“It’s true, then,” he said, his tone flat and final.

Her anger from earlier that day rekindled, and she wondered what had ever possessed her to let it fade. “And what concern is that of yours, even if it is true, Alexander Gordon?”

For several moments, he was silent. Then, “No man could see such a bonny face spoilt by a blow without feelin’ his blood boil a little.”

She crushed her skirts in her fists, squeezing them savagely as his words washed over her. His blood was boiling, was it? And hers was going straight to her face, betraying her by setting her cheeks so thoroughly aflame that her hair must have looked dull in comparison.

“And I’m willin’ to bet it doesnae stop here,” Alexander said, touching her jaw lightly again. “I’d bet beneath that cloak and dress there’s a body that’s been abused the same way.” He reached beneath her cloak and barely touched her shoulder before letting his hand fall away.

 
She wanted to stiffen, to shy away from his touch, but she couldn’t. Instead, she found herself wishing he hadn’t stopped. Nobody had ever touched her so softly before. Nobody had ever touched her simply for the sake of touching her. At least not since her mother had died so many years ago, when she herself had been little more than a baby. Was this what a lover’s touch felt like? Would she have felt this way when he’d kissed her, too, if she hadn’t been so numbed by anger? Her cheeks burnt even warmer at the thought, but she was unable to summon her rage again. In its place was a hollow feeling and a rebellious longing.

“Ye ken,” Alexander said, “my father always told me that only a coward will hit a woman.”

Isla frowned. Her father was many things, but a coward? No. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he never would have raised a hand against her. He was not a coward, but a man who had simply lost much and didn’t appreciate what—who—he had left.

“He also said,” Alexander continued, “that a man who would hit a woman doesnae deserve to have a woman at all. Not a wife, or a daughter.”

“And what would a Gordon know?” Isla snapped. Who cared how nobly the man spoke? It was easy to judge when your own life hadn’t been torn apart, and the scraps left of it turned upside down. The fact that the man’s own kin were responsible for the destruction of her family was too much.

“If your father is anythin’ like the rest of your lot he…” She paused on the verge of swearing, fearing Alexander would silence her with another kiss she wouldn’t have the willpower to fight against—or be able to do anything but melt in his arms. “Well, I dinnae care what he says.”

Alexander shook his head. “My father is Malcolm Gordon, and he’s as good a man as ever lived.”

Isla stiffened. “Malcolm Gordon…Laird of Benstrath?”

Alexander nodded. “Aye.”

Her blood rushed and tingled just under her skin, flushing her face not with embarrassment, but with the rage that had escaped her only moments ago. It was back now, like a wayward demon with its Biblical seven companions. Her pulse pounded in her ears like a war drum, and the empty feeling in her stomach was suddenly replaced with a cold fury that put her earlier anger to shame. The pungent smell of bloody tartan and reddened earth filled her nostrils, as real as a phantom could be. She scented the truth, also, but felt a nagging need to be sure.

“Then Alpin Gordon…he’s your brother?”

Alexander nodded again. “Aye.”

His admission was all the confirmation Isla needed, and her body responded to it, her pulse reaching her fingertips, making them ache with every heartbeat, itching to reach for her knife. It was tucked into her right boot—she could reach it. But could she withdraw it before he grabbed his dirk? There was only one way to find out. She moved her hand in a flash, slipping it beneath her petticoats and bringing it out holding the small blade she’d tucked there. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough to kill a man. If she could just drive it beneath his breastbone…

Alexander’s blue eyes widened in surprise, and Isla’s stomach clenched, spilling bile into her throat as she forced her hand forward, wielding the blade, meeting his flesh just below his sternum. The tip had split the sopping fabric of his shirt, causing blood to bloom on the pale material as he offered no resistance, save for a face that made her want to kiss him rather than stab him and eyes that reflected—of all things—betrayal.

Chapter Three

Isla collapsed, dropping the knife with a sob. The icy fury had left her in rush, leaving her hot and trembling with mingling sensations of fear, failure…even regret. She’d pierced his skin, but she’d gone no further. He made no move to retrieve the knife or to reach for his own dirk as Isla’s hair fell forward, hiding her face behind a red curtain as she cried.

“Isla…” he said, his voice thick with some emotion she couldn’t identify, absorbed as she was in the tangle of her own feelings. The sound of it only made her weep harder. When she met his eyes, they were wide with shock.

“Damn you!” she cried through her tears, pounding the damp earth with her fist. “Damn you, Alexander Gordon, I cannae bring myself to kill ye!” Her knife lay nearby in the dirt, and she dashed it away with her hand, slicing the side of her palm on the blade. A few drops of her own blood flew after it as it skittered across the ground. “I cannae do it!” She was gasping now, her breath coming in short, laboured bursts.

Alexander seized her wrist, holding her hand aloft, and his eyes widened at the sight of her blood, which had begun to stream down her wrist. He paid no attention to the wound Isla had inflicted on his chest. “Isla!” he implored. “Isla, be still!”

She pulled against his grip, but his hold on her wrist was so strong she could never hope to break it.

“Let me go!” she cried, prying at his fingers with her free hand.

“I willnae let ye go!” he replied, holding her wrist as tightly as ever. “Not now, and not until ye tell me what ye meant by tryin’ to kill me.”

She lost her balance and fell onto her foot, which seemed to explode with pain. The world suddenly went black just as her lips parted to make way for a scream that never sounded.

Isla’s spell of unconsciousness didn’t last long. Mere moments after she’d fainted, she was blinking. Slowly, she focused her eyes on the face of Alexander Gordon. Amazingly, her blackout seemed to have cleared her head slightly. Only slightly. She remembered what she had done—what she had tried to do—and trembled. Alexander was kneeling over her, his face troubled. Her foot was alight with pain, and her hand stung fiercely. She wished she could slip back into the peaceful ignorance of sleep, but Alexander locked his eyes with hers and held them there.

“Why?” he asked. “Why try to kill me? I’ve been nothing if not kind to ye.” His blue eyes gleamed with indignation and continued to beg the question even after he fell silent, waiting for an answer.

Isla’s head swam with a multitude of possible replies—everything from outright lies to stony silence. What came out was the truth. “To be forgiven,” she said, feeling quite detached from herself as she spoke. The confession hung in the air, as if it had been spoken by a stranger, and surprised even her.

He stared down at her, his brow knitted in apparent confusion, perhaps wondering if she’d hit her head too hard when she’d fallen. “Forgiven?” he repeated. “For what?”

She tried to look away, but was unable. His gaze was magnetic. If she had to look him in the eye, she might as well tell him the truth.

“For your brother’s sin.” This confession had a weight to it, and instead of hanging in the air like her last one, it seemed to settle onto the ground, as glaring and discomfiting as the layer of rainwater that had gathered on the ground, which she could feel soaking through her layers of clothing.

Alexander appeared almost as shocked as when she’d stabbed him. “
My
brother?”

Isla’s neck was uncomfortably stiff, but she forced herself to nod. “Alpin Gordon… He murdered my brother, Hamish Forbes, nearly a year ago.” Her admission rung in her ears, followed by a thick silence.

Alexander frowned deeply.

So he knows it’s true,
a small voice declared solemnly from somewhere in the back of Isla’s head.

“And ye blame yourself?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. “I dinnae blame myself. My father—he blames me.”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath, and the story tumbled out, flowing as quickly as the spring that bubbled beside her. “I was workin’ in the fields one summer afternoon when a strange man rode by—a Gordon. He—he harassed me, and I cried out. My brother Hamish heard and came to my rescue, slaying the Gordon with his dirk. I thought it was over, then, but his companion rode along and saw Hamish standing over the body. The second Gordon murdered him in front of me, calling it vengeance when my brother had only fought to save me from the hands of a rapist!” She narrowed her eyes at Alexander, fixing him with her most intense stare. “That man’s name was Alpin Gordon, and he took my brother’s life, and ruined mine besides.” She reached slowly to her sleeve and pulled it back, revealing a long, raised bar of deathly white flesh that ran along the top of her arm from wrist to elbow, marking where she’d sustained a deep cut. “I didnae stand idly by, as my father pretends. I tried to stop Alpin, but he only laughed, cut me and…and killed Hamish anyway.”

Alexander eyed Isla’s scar, his expression changed, but unreadable. “And ye thought that if ye got your vengeance by killin’ me, your father might stop mistreatin’ ye for your brother’s death?”

She nodded, working hard to suppress tears that were suddenly pressing against the back of her eyes. “Aye.”

He appeared thoughtful. “D’ye truly think that if ye kill me, it will solve your problems?”

Her anger flared again, as sudden and consuming as the pain that burnt in her foot. “Ye dinnae have any idea what it’s like!” she cried. “I’ve lived the past year in shame, being beaten by my father every time he takes a drink and feeling the eyes of our clansmen upon me, accusin’ me of things I havnae done, and that wouldnae be my fault if I had! D’ye ken that I shall never be merrit because of what your kin have done to me? There isnae a Forbes alive that doesnae believe my maidenhead was stolen from me by a Gordon, no matter how many times I tell them it hasnae been! I am but trash to every man I hae ever known, and their stares and my own father’s words willnae ever let me forget it! I shall always be the lass who was bedded by a Gordon mongrel, and grow old under my father’s roof, feelin’ his fists against my jaw until the day he dies—after which I will be left alone!” By the time she finished, her chest was heaving, and the tears she’d worked so hard to hold back had escaped and were streaming freely down her cheeks. Full with the flood of emotion that confession had released, she hardly cared.

“I didnae mean to doubt that ye’ve suffered,” Alexander said, his eyes darting to her scar again, his gaze so heavy on the livid flesh that Isla imagined she could feel it, like a physical touch. “I only asked because if ye think my life will ease your troubles, then you’re verra welcome to take it.”

Isla gaped at him, her teary eyes growing wider and wider as he unsheathed his dirk. He wielded it deliberately with his left hand while he seized the collar of his shirt with his right, holding it taut. She watched, spellbound, as he split the fabric slowly from his collarbone to his navel, baring his chest, which was slick with rainwater. He shifted his hold on the dirk, gripping the blade as he extended the hilt towards Isla.

She rose slowly to her knees, careful not to fall on her foot again. She was unable to look away from his chest, even as he pressed the hilt of his dirk into her trembling hand. Her fingers slipped against the damp handle and she nearly dropped it. He caught it by the blade and pressed it back into her grip. Blood dripped from his hand as he withdrew it, falling onto his kilt and leaving a faint impression of redness on the dark fabric. His chest rose and fell steadily, much more steadily than her own would have under similar circumstances—much more steadily, in fact, than her own was now. She kept her eyes on the black hair that grew in a diamond shape on his breast, continuing in a line that went down to his navel and plunged below his kilt, as she gripped the dirk’s handle tightly.