Once a Warrior (28 page)

“Excellent. Tomorrow we will send two messengers to visit the clans and confirm the arrangement.”

We.

She dropped her gaze to her food.

He could not stay here, she reminded herself. It was impossible. She was doing this to spare him, not to hurt him. It was not her fault he was not the one. The responsibility for that turn of fate belonged to him. Only MacFane could be held accountable for what had happened to his clan that night. And for what he had allowed himself to become afterward.

His sun-bronzed hand was draped casually around the stem of his goblet, which was almost full. She felt a stab of alarm. A man of his size must drink the entire potion, or the powder might not take effect.

“Come, MacFane, you aren’t drinking,” she noted, raising the pitcher. “Finish that and I will fill your cup again.”

He gave her a curious look. “It is unlike you, Ariella, to encourage me to drink.”

“I’m not encouraging you,” she protested. “I only thought you might enjoy a little more.” She set the pitcher down.

It seemed he had insulted her, though he didn’t understand how. He took a small sip of his wine, just to appear accommodating. In truth, he was feeling somewhat tired and had no desire to drink anymore. Obviously his journey had exhausted him more than he realized, which was giving the alcohol greater power over his body.

“While I was visiting the Frasers, I heard an amusing story about your clan,” he began, seeking to ease the tension that had arisen between them. “Some nonsensical legend about a sword.”

Ariella’s heart quickened. “Really?” she said, attempting to sound only mildly interested.

“Apparently the Frasers have long told a tale about an ancient sword that once belonged to your clan’s founder,” he explained. “They seem to think you still have this sword, and that it has some kind of magic power.”

“My clan was founded over four hundred years ago, MacFane,” she said, feigning amusement. “As old and rusted as some of our swords were when you first came, I doubt any of them are quite that ancient.” She managed a small laugh.

Malcolm smiled. “I told them I had never heard of this sword, but they seemed absolutely convinced of its existence,” he continued. “Which made me wonder if Roderic has heard this tale, and that is why he is so determined to have control of your people. Perhaps he believes he can force you to give him this sword.”

“I cannot say whether or not he heard the story,” lied Ariella indifferently. “He never mentioned it to me. I think it is clear he wants to be laird because he owns nothing, leads no one except those foul-smelling swine, and has nowhere else to go.”

“You are forgetting something.”

“What?”

“He wants you.”

He was staring at her intently, his blue eyes shadowed with an emotion she could not identify. Anger, perhaps—making her wonder if he suspected her imminent betrayal of him, if that was why he tarried so long over his drugged wine. Or desire—that smoky, barely leashed hunger that had made him reach out to her before, to hold her and touch her until she was drowning in heat and need. It was frightening to have him look at her so, as if he were stripping away the layers of her lies and defenses, trying to see what lay beneath. She wanted him to stop, yet she could not pull her gaze from his, for fear her inability to meet his scrutiny would be even more revealing.

“I told you before,” she began, her voice strangely hollow, “he wants me only because he believes marriage to me will solidify his position as laird.”

Was she really so innocent that she believed that? wondered Malcolm. Had she no perception of the unbearable desire she could ignite in a man? He had seen the vile, predaceous way Roderic had leered at her that night on the wall head. And Malcolm had been overcome with rage that someone should dare look upon her so—as if she were something to be conquered—something magnificently strong and rare that Roderic knew would fight him, but that he would eventually be able to break. Not with violence against her, though he would try that, would even find a demented, evil pleasure in it. But with the threat of violence against her people. That was Ariella’s greatest weakness, and Roderic knew it. One hand lifted to Elizabeth, or Agnes, or Helen—one sword pressed against the throat of Duncan, or Andrew, or poor old Angus—and Ariella would be on her knees, pleading for mercy and vowing to do whatever Roderic wanted.

He would not allow that to happen.

“These alliances are useful only if we are able to hold off an attack for at least four hours,” he remarked. “We still need an army, especially if the cottages on the hill are attacked and we are forced to fight in the open.”

We.

She could not bear it, listening to him as he planned for the defense of her people. She could not bear the knowledge that tomorrow he would be far away, forced to leave against his will. And that when he finally wakened and realized what she had done, he would be consumed with hatred.

Against her.

He rose from the table, suddenly restless. “I must write to each of the four clans, asking if they are willing to hire out ten of their warriors. The messengers can take these missives first thing tomorrow. With forty well-trained men we should be able to oppose Roderic’s forces for at least as long as it takes for help to arrive.” He moved toward the door.

Panic gripped her. He was leaving without having drunk his wine.

“Wait!”

Malcolm stopped. “Is there something else you wished to discuss with me?”

“You haven’t finished your meal, MacFane,” she said, attempting to sound blithe.

“Forgive me. I am tired, and if I am to complete these missives tonight, I must begin now.”

“At least finish your wine,” she persisted, gesturing to his goblet. “It may help you sleep better.”

“I have had enough.”

She watched him in desperation as he limped toward the door. Andrew and Duncan could never overpower him if he wasn’t weakened with the sleeping powder. But it was essential he leave tonight, before Harold arrived.

“You must leave us, MacFane,” she blurted out, nearly frantic.

He turned to look at her, one dark brow raised. “Why are you suddenly so anxious for me to go, Ariella?” he demanded softly.

“You were hired to train my people, and you have done so,” she explained uneasily. “We can take care of whatever negotiations must be carried out between the clans.”

Malcolm studied her a moment. She was struggling to appear calm, but her slender fingers clenched the stem of her goblet, betraying her anxiety. Not only did she want him to leave, he realized, she was actually terrified he might refuse. But why? What would suddenly make her so desperate for him to go, when her clan was still in danger?

Understanding crashed over him in a frigid wave.

“So,” he drawled, “you have decided on your new laird.”

She looked at him in surprise. Her first thought was to deny it, but the fury twisting his face made her think better of it.

“But this is a cause for celebration, is it not?” he demanded acridly. “Ariella MacKendrick has finally found the perfect man to lead her people. A magnificent warrior with a powerful army, who encompasses all of her sacred ideals. Come, now, do not keep me in suspense. Who is this valiant fellow?”

“You do not know him,” she replied tautly.

He considered this a moment, wondering if he should believe her. “Well, I can’t say that surprises me,” he remarked, his tone sneering. “I don’t believe I ever met anyone as saintly and gallant as the man you have been seeking. No matter. I look forward to meeting him when he arrives.” He moved to the table, lifted his goblet in a mocking toast, then took a bitter swallow.

“You will not meet him, MacFane.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not wish you to.”

“I see.” His eyes narrowed. “So after all that I have done here, I am dismissed, is that it?”

“I don’t know why you are acting as if some grave injustice were being done to you,” she retorted angrily. “You never wanted to come here. My father asked for your help, but you refused. Then I went to you and pleaded for your help, and you refused again. When you finally came, it was out of greed, MacFane, not because you wanted to help us.”

Everything she said was true. But hearing her say it only intensified his fury.

“Regardless of my reasons, I am here now. The great Black Wolf, at your service, milady,” he drawled, giving her a stiff, taunting bow. “Deeply flawed, crippled, with a shattered past and a hollow future. Of course I’m not fit to be this heroic laird you and Alpine have long fantasized about for your people. I’m not so young or strong, and God knows my life has been far from pure. But I am here, Ariella. Do you understand what I’m saying?
I am here!
”

“You’re too late!” she flared. “It could have been you, Malcolm. It
should
have been you. If you had only pulled yourself out of your drunken, self-pitying stupor and come, not because you
knew
you could help, but because you believed you
might
have been able to help, maybe then it would have been different. Because that would have been the action of a man of courage. That,” she finished, her voice steeped in scorn, “would have been the deed of a true warrior.”

“By God,
I was a true warrior
!” he roared. Overwhelmed with fury, he lifted the pitcher of wine and shattered it against the wall. Then he stalked toward her, uncertain of what he was about to do.

She jumped out of her chair, knocking it over in her desperation to evade him. But rage flowed hot and fast in his veins, and Malcolm would not let her escape. Her scathing contempt was more than he could bear. He grabbed her by her small shoulders and heaved her against the wall. Then he braced his hands on either side of her, imprisoning her with the shelter of his battered body.

Anger burned in her silvery eyes, and her chest heaved with breathlessness, barely grazing the fabric of his plaid. This was the woman who might have been his wife. The woman he wanted with a hunger so appalling, a need so crushing, he thought he might shatter from the force of it. And as she stared at him, her cheeks flushed with outrage, her eyes snapping fire, he wanted her to want him, just a fraction of how much he wanted her. He would never be good enough, or strong enough, or pure enough to assume the sacred role of her laird and husband. Perhaps three years ago, before he began this hellish descent into the pathetic shell he had become, he might have fulfilled some of her expectations. But all that remained of the mighty Black Wolf was the crippled failure of a man before her. In that moment he hated her with a passion that was staggering. He hated her for bringing him here and showing him what might once have been his, but now could never be. Perhaps this was God’s way of further punishing him, he reflected bitterly, by tormenting him with the knowledge that he had lost more than he had realized that ghastly night he’d led his army away from his castle. That was why He had sent Ariella MacKendrick to him. God wanted her to pull him from the mire of his self-destruction, to bring him to a place where he was given purpose and respect, only to have it wrenched away and be cast back into the lonely, hopeless pit of his life. It was more than he could bear, to be tortured so relentlessly. It filled him with a rage he could not control, and a despair he would never overcome. Not that he did not deserve to be punished so cruelly—oh, no, he was well aware of the justice of the thing. It was only that in this agonizing moment, with this glorious woman who might have been his trapped between his arms, he wanted the suffering to stop.

“I’m sorry, Ariella,” he said, his voice rough with anger and regret. “I failed you when you needed me. I was not the warrior you sought. And I did come for the money. But there is something you should know,” he murmured, removing his hand from the cool stone wall to brush his fingers against her heated cheek.

Ariella regarded him in confusion, trapped by the pain deeply etched across the hard lines of his face.

“What is that, MacFane?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

“I stayed for you.”

With that raw confession he lowered his head and captured her lips with his. He kissed her with urgent, brutal desperation, wanting her to the point of madness, and knowing there would be nothing beyond this single, stolen moment. Her mouth was warm and wine sweet, her cheek a silken veil against his rough jaw, and he wanted to remember these things, wanted them forever burned into his mind so when he lay alone each night in the years to come, he would be able to recall the velvet caress of Ariella’s lips and cheek against his. She did not fight him, perhaps because she was too startled, but in a moment she would regain her senses and shove him away, and he would never touch her again. The inevitability of this flooded him with anguish, as did the knowledge that she belonged to another, that what might once have been his could never be. An unbearable sense of loss gripped him, squeezing his chest so tight, he felt he couldn’t breathe, did not dare even to try, for fear his breath would escape him in a sob. He tasted her deeply, passionately, knowing time was his enemy, that any moment this fragile bond would be broken, and wanting to mark her with his kiss, so when she lay beside the man she had chosen, and endured his touch, she might remember what it was like to be wanted beyond all reason.

Ariella was falling into a dizzying swirl of heat and light and need. It was impossible, what was happening, she understood that, but she did not seem able to gain control of her reeling senses enough to make Malcolm stop. His desire was overwhelming; it pulled her toward him like a powerful wave drawing sand into the ocean. There was fury in his kiss, fury and pain and a terrible desperation, as if he were trying to make her belong to him, while at the same time knowing he could not possibly succeed. It was this that kept her from shoving him away, this burning hunger, this appalling torment, which rendered her unable to do anything except stand against the wall and endure his kiss. And then he began to pull away, and she was overcome with loss, as if all the light in the world had suddenly been extinguished. It made no sense—she should have been relieved it was over, and instead she felt abandoned and empty, a hollow fragment of what she had been a moment ago.
He is not the one,
she reminded herself desperately as the air grew cold around her. But knowing this did not comfort her, did not ease the pain tearing through her heart. Unable to bear it, she let out a cry of despair and reached out to him, drawing him back so she could wrap her arms around his neck and press her trembling lips to his.