Once a Warrior (30 page)

Anger swept through him, dousing the fire of passion that had raged but a moment earlier. “By God, you do wear my patience thin with all this talk about ‘the one,’” he snapped, rolling off her. He stalked naked over to the table, limping slightly, and snatched up his goblet. “There is no perfect man, Ariella,” he informed her harshly. “Any man who is worth a damn has taken risks in life, which means he has made mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes leave terrible scars. But the advantage of making even the ghastliest mistake is that you learn from it. Provided, of course,” he qualified in a flagrantly cynical voice, “you are unlucky enough to survive.” He tilted his head back and drained his cup.

“My father never made mistakes,” countered Ariella, clutching the covers to her breast. “He was always honorable and courageous. He never failed his people the way you did.” It was a cruel, cutting declaration, but in this moment she needed to say it. Perhaps because she needed to remind herself of his failings.

Outrage clenched his face.
“Your father never faced the challenges I faced!”
he roared, enraged by her simplistic, infuriatingly sanctimonious reasoning. “He
never
went to war,
never
led an army,
never
even left these isolated, sheltered lands to help another. The one time he was attacked, his clan was so pathetically ill prepared, many were killed, including himself, and very nearly his daughter. Is this what you hold up to me as an example of brilliant leadership?” he demanded scathingly.

“In the end he couldn’t protect us,” Ariella admitted, wounded by his contemptuous condemnation of her father. “Because he was not a warrior. The next laird of the MacKendricks must be a great warrior
and
a great leader.”

He regarded her with bitter rancor. “And you believe I am neither.” The statement rolled slowly off his tongue, which was strangely thick and clumsy.

“Maybe once,” she allowed, struggling to keep her voice even. “Not anymore.”

His pain was staggering. She could see it in the harsh lines of his face, in the wounded depths of his eyes. She never intended to hurt him like this. But she had no choice now. He must understand that despite what had happened between them, he could never persuade her to accept him as laird of her people. And more, she needed to be certain he would not return. That when he emerged from the thick fog of sleep he was rapidly drifting toward, he would hate her with a virulence that would keep him away forever.

The thought of it was unbearable.

Malcolm blinked, trying to clear his vision. Weariness was seeping through him, making him want nothing but to crawl back into bed and take Ariella in his arms and hold her tight against him while he slept. A few hours of sleep, in which he could forget about his past, and his future, and just accept the glory of her, soft and warm against him. Tomorrow he would make her see how wrong she was. Not about his failures, for they were chiseled into the hard rock of time, and there was nothing he could do to change them. But somehow he would convince her there was more to him than the self-pitying, weak-willed, broken warrior she had discovered the day she came to find the great Black Wolf. He was not the warrior he had once been, and he was man enough to admit he never would be again. But it took more than physical strength to make a great laird. It took wisdom, and courage, and honor, and even the harsh, unforgiving lessons of experience. All these he believed he had. And though he had never wanted the awesome burden of leading a clan again, he was willing to make that sacrifice.

For her.

“I am tired,” he mumbled, wondering at the effort the words cost him, at the extraordinary will necessary just to move his stiff, aching body toward the bed. “We will talk more of this tomorrow.”

She slowly shook her head.

Malcolm stared at her, puzzled by the tears streaming down her face, flowing so fast they dripped off her cheeks and dampened the sheet she clutched to her breast. Why was she weeping so? he wondered, struggling to concentrate. What had made her so unhappy? He frowned, trying to clear the mists swirling through his head. Sleep was surging over him in a heavy, warm wave, robbing him of his ability to think, or speak, or even recall what they had been discussing. But he never fell asleep like this, he realized, taking another uneasy step toward the bed. Ariella was crying openly now, her small shoulders heaving, her misery rising from her throat in shallow, choking gasps. What was the matter with her?

“My God,” he murmured thickly as understanding pierced the haze, “what have you done to me?”

Her expression was stricken, but that could not temper his fury. Gavin. He must find Gavin.

He turned toward the door. One step, then another.

Suddenly he was falling into a vortex of darkness, aware of nothing but his rage, and the muffled sound of Ariella’s weeping.

C
HAPTER
12

Wisps of lavender mist caressed the rose-and-cream stonework of the castle, veiling it in a shroud of cool vapor. It gave the fortress a mythical quality, as if it had suddenly appeared on the emerald crest of the hill and could at any moment vanish. The neat white cottages dotting the hillside heightened this illusion, each chimney exhaling a thin plume of smoke, casting a soft haze into the early-morning light.

Soon,
reflected Roderic, his belly tightening with anticipation,
all this will be mine
.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the night the MacKendricks had repelled his attack. At first it had been inconceivable, that these infantile artisans had learned so much of warfare in such a short period of time, they could hold off his rough, seasoned warriors. But the moment he saw Malcolm standing on the wall head, his incredulity hardened into bitter outrage. The fallen Black Wolf, that pathetic cripple who was supposed to be drinking himself to death somewhere on the king’s lands, had somehow found his way to the MacKendricks. Even more astounding, his former laird had not appeared to be the slightest bit drunk, or even in much pain, when he had confronted him. At first Roderic had feared this was the power of the sword at work, that Ariella had foolishly given it to Malcolm and it had effected his miraculous recovery. But a few moments of swordplay revealed she had not. Although Malcolm was still a formidable opponent, the sword he carried granted him no special abilities. His right arm was weak, forcing him to wield his weapon with both arms, and though he walked relatively well, his injured leg was a hindrance during the sharp, quick moves of combat. A few minutes of intense conflict, and he would be weakened to the point where he could be easily dispatched.

The problem, Roderic realized as he pensively stroked the thick scar marking his cheek, was that there were now so many others willing and able to fight.

A dozen of his men had been killed or wounded that night, and another ten captured, which left him with a rather paltry band of only about twenty able warriors. Given the castle’s new fortifications and the MacKendricks’ obvious eagerness to demonstrate their battle skills, a direct attack was now out of the question. The only way to gain possession of the MacKendrick sword was to capture Ariella and force her to give it to him. With the sword in hand and Ariella as his hostage, no one would dare oppose him when he killed Malcolm and took control of the castle. He would finally have a fortress and lands of his own, and lairdship over a clan whose uncommon industry would make him wealthy beyond imagination. More important, he would have the power of this sword, which would enable him to conquer countless other clans, extending his rule throughout the Highlands.

As for Ariella, she would be severely punished for making a fool of him twice. He smiled.

It was time to make the little bitch understand that her new laird’s patience had come to an end.

“And that is why he had to go home,” finished Ariella, gently brushing a lock of hair off Catherine’s forehead.

Her little sister regarded her with wide, despondent eyes. “But he didn’t even say good-bye.”

“It was very late, and he had to leave right away.” She tried to stifle her guilt as she added, “He asked me to tell you he was sorry, and to explain that his own clan needed him.”

“But we need him too,” countered Catherine. “He was supposed to give me a riding lesson today. He
promised
.” Her lower lip began to quiver.

“Our new laird is on his way this very minute, and he is coming with his great army, so we don’t need MacFane anymore,” soothed Ariella. “And when Harold arrives, we will have a huge party, with lots of music and dancing, and you can stay up as late as you like. Would you like that?”

She shook her head in misery. “I had another embroidery to give MacFane, and now he’ll never see it.” Her words were choked with tears.

“We can send it to him,” soothed Ariella, wrapping her arms around the child. Even as she said it, she knew she wouldn’t. She could not justify ordering someone on a week-long journey to deliver a scrap of cloth that was certain only to intensify Malcolm’s rage.

And when the sleeping powder had finally worn off that morning, his rage must have been awesome.

“Did Gavin leave as well?” Catherine demanded, rubbing his eyes with her fists.

Elizabeth kept her gaze locked on the plaid she was weaving. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “Gavin had to go with him.”

Her face was pale and frozen, as if she were struggling to control the despair roiling within her. Ariella found herself wondering just how deep Elizabeth’s and Gavin’s affection for each other had been. She had never asked her friend about it, but she had not thought their relationship went beyond a harmless flirtation. The bleakness carved into Elizabeth’s profile suggested that something far more meaningful had been destroyed by her betrayal. Was it possible, she wondered guiltily, that Gavin and Elizabeth had actually come to love each other?

Whatever their relationship had been, it could not possibly have matched the intensity of what had passed between her and Malcolm last night.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she recalled the weight and strength of his warm body stretched over her, pressing her deeper into the mattress as he filled her with need. How was it that he could have been so powerful and yet so vulnerable, so angry, yet so unbearably tender? She had seen him through drunkenness and apathy, through agonizing pain and humiliation, and, finally, in a moment of tremendous pride and victory. She thought she knew him better than anyone did, save Gavin. Yet last night she realized she hadn’t known Malcolm MacFane at all. Everything about him had suddenly seemed new and strange, as if the fallen warrior she had dragged home had gradually been transforming, and last night the final layers of his old character had finally been stripped away.

I stayed for you,
he had told her, his eyes burning with desire. And she knew he spoke the truth, that no amount of money could have enticed him to endure the disdain with which he had been treated when he’d first come, the humiliation of exposing his weaknesses for others to ridicule, and the incredible frustration of trying to train those who did not respect him and did not want to be trained.
I stayed for you,
even when he believed he could never train her clan, even when he was shot at with arrows, and purposely thrown from his horse injuring him so badly he could barely stand. All these things he had endured, when he could have simply demanded his payment and left, abandoning her to the threats facing her people.

For her.

And she had thanked him by drugging him, having him bound and gagged, then secretly spirited away from the castle he had worked so hard to secure, and from the people whose respect he had finally earned.

All night she had tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing. Over and over she had told herself this as she wrestled him into his shirt and plaid, the assurance growing more frantic as she watched Duncan and Andrew bind him, roll him into a blanket, then hoist him and disappear down the hidden staircase leading from her tower room. And then, when her chamber was empty and she could hear the sound of horses’ hooves thundering through the gate, she had wondered why the room suddenly seemed so large, and cold, and lifeless. She had thrown more wood onto the fire and climbed beneath the cool, rumpled blankets on her bed, but nothing could ease the chill that racked her body. It was as if all of her heat had poured into Malcolm, and now he had taken it with him. She had to betray him, she’d reminded herself desperately. She was trying to protect him, and her people, and even Harold, from the horrible scene that would ensue if Malcolm were here when the real Laird MacFane arrived. She had to spare Malcolm the unbearable cruelty of having his true past revealed to those who had come to trust and admire him.

Most of all, she had to protect herself from the agony of his hate burning into her as she welcomed her husband and laird.

“Are you saying that MacFane and Gavin won’t be coming back?” asked Agnes in astonishment.

Ariella shook her head.

“And Duncan and Andrew went with him?”

“MacFane asked Duncan and Andrew to ride with him, because he wanted to introduce them to the MacLeans to the east, where he thought Duncan could conduct negotiations for an alliance,” she lied. “They should be back in a week or so.”

She had ordered them to stay with MacFane until he was delivered back to his hut, which was a three days’ ride. Then they were to thank him for his services and pay him an amount many times greater than what they had originally agreed upon. Nothing would ever assuage his anger, but perhaps he could buy some land and build himself a fine home. Maybe he could try to make a better life for himself.

The thought seemed unlikely.

“And when is Harold coming?” asked Agnes, evidently concerned by the fact that they had no leader.

“He will arrive anytime now,” Ariella replied vacantly. “Perhaps even today.”

The three woman worked in silence a moment.

“Come, Catherine,” Agnes said suddenly, putting aside her embroidery. “Let us get a large basket and collect some flowers to place in the great hall so when our new laird arrives, it will be beautiful.”

“I don’t want to pick flowers for him,” protested Catherine.

“Then we’ll go down to the loch and look for kelpies,” she suggested. She rose and held out her hand. “Maybe we will find some pretty stones to add to your collection.”

Catherine cast her a doubtful look.

“Go on, Catherine,” prodded Ariella gently. “It is time you went outside and got some fresh air. And if you bring me back a really lovely stone, tonight I will tell you a story about the naughty fairy who caused all kinds of mischief in a little girl’s house, and the girl’s parents kept thinking she was responsible.”

Catherine ground her fists into her eyes again and sighed. “All right.” She moved toward Agnes with obvious reluctance.

“That’s a good girl,” said Agnes. “We’ll be back before supper.”

She cast Ariella a smile, then grasped Catherine’s hand and led her away.

Rage boiled in the pit of Malcolm’s stomach, so intense, it nearly eclipsed the pain gripping his back and leg in a brutal spasm.

Now that his mind was finally free of whatever foul substance Ariella had given him, he could feel both his fury and his suffering with gnawing clarity. The result was dangerously overwhelming. If not for the fact that his hands were firmly bound behind his back, he felt certain he would cheerfully kill both Andrew and Duncan for their participation in his abduction.

He tried to content himself with thoughts of what he would do if he ever saw Ariella again.

She had planned it all along, he realized, astounded by his own stupidity. While he had been forging alliances with other clans and doing his damnedest to make sure she was safe, she had been busily arranging her marriage and plotting a way to be rid of him. Now he understood her worried expression in the courtyard on the day he had returned. He had foolishly thought she was charmingly embarrassed by what had passed between them that night on the wall head. Instead she had been racked with worry as she’d watched her clan greet him with all the honor and affection normally bestowed upon a returning laird. In that moment she must have realized how much her people had grown to respect him. Perhaps she had even sensed that he enjoyed their attention, that after all the years of guilt and anger and isolation, he finally felt capable and needed again.

That was when she knew she could not permit him to stay, he reflected darkly.

She had tried ordering him to leave. But after their meeting on the battlements, she realized he was not about to be dismissed like some cowering servant. He had worked long and hard to train her people and to make her castle virtually impregnable. And given what he had to work with, he had been bloody successful. Initially he had agreed to help her because of the gold she had offered. But the minute he had seen the challenges he faced, his compensation became irrelevant. He had stayed because he had been tormented by the idea of Ariella killing herself while waiting for the great Black Wolf. He had seen her statue and had been so moved by her innocence and her beauty, and so appalled by the magnitude of his failure, that he had vowed he would not forsake his tender bride in death. That, of course, was before he realized his helpless intended was actually the filthy, insolent lad named Rob.