One Man's Love (20 page)

Tilting his head in the direction of the tray, he continued, “Will you be asking me more questions, sir? If so, then I’d just as soon put this down. It’s heavy.”

Armstrong glanced at the covered meal, then beyond to Gilmuir. “He treats his hostage with great care,” he said.

Donald remained silent.

“An attractive woman.”

The hair on the back of Donald’s neck stood at attention. “Will that be all, sir?”

Armstrong looked as if he’d like to say something, but clicked his heels together, executing a perfect
about face. Donald watched his departing figure, frowning.

The more he watched and learned, William Armstrong thought, the more concerned he became. The colonel had made no attempt to capture the man known as Raven, nor had the search for the piper been continued.

The fact that Armstrong had been relegated to inventorying ordnance was another indication that something wasn’t quite right. Colonel Landers had removed Major Sedgewick from the fort, sending him to patrol the outlying quadrant. Why? Because the major disapproved of his actions in saving the Scottish village, or because Landers deemed him a threat?

Had Colonel Landers felt the same about him? Was there something he had done to warrant this duty? He slipped into the ordnance room and pulled out his journal.

He leafed through it and decided that it was time to send the information he’d collected to Major Sedgewick.

At dusk Leitis stood up from the bench and stretched. She was proud of the work she’d done so far, but she had a more pressing engagement at the moment. She smiled, anticipating seeing Ian.

Where did he stay all this time? There had been no talk of strangers in the glen. She looked in the direction of the fort. He had denied being one of the soldiers. Where, though, did he remain during the day?

She walked to the dresser and combed her hair, tying it back with her ribbon. She smoothed her hands over her skirt, brushed her shoes clean, and washed her face and hands.

Her mother had saved a bottle of precious scent, a gift from the Countess of Sherbourne. It was French
and only worn on special occasions. Leitis would have used it tonight, had it not been destroyed in the fire. Or she might put flowers in her hair, but she doubted that Donald would allow her to wander through the glen, searching for the perfect harebell blossom.

She entered the priory slowly, trying to hide her anticipation and eagerness. What should she say to him? Her abandon the night before didn’t feel shameful, encouraged as it was by love.

Loving was not something to suffer through, but to enjoy. Her fingers touched her lips, then stroked over her jaw to her throat. Her breasts felt heavy, tender. When he touched her, it was alchemy, as if her entire body were charmed.

She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for understanding her grief about leaving Gilmuir. And for bringing her memories of laughter and sunshine, of joy not easily summoned to this place and this time. For being a man who would help those in need, and for his kindness to an old woman, for his anger against injustice and cruelty.

What would happen now? A question she had not dared to ask. Would he come with them or remain behind? Would he leave Gilmuir once more or would he vanish, as he had all those many years ago?

The answers would either give her joy or sorrow. Perhaps it was better not to know, to only accept what she’d learned in this past year. No one was guaranteed a future, especially not in these turbulent times. Today was all they had and today must be enough.

Once, in this very place, she’d spied on him, later feeling only shame for the act. He and his mother had talked together and he’d confided in her. She had answered him with wisdom Leitis had never forgotten.

“It is good to have someone better than you,” his mother had said.

“But I would like to be better at something,” he had complained. “Fergus is better at fishing and James better at climbing, and Leitis can do everything else.”

“How will you ever get better if you do not find yourself challenged?”

He’d not looked pleased at that remark. “So often?” he asked, and the countess had laughed. The sound trickled through the room like water falling over rocks. Leitis could not help but smile herself.

The countess’ hand cupped her son’s face and she bent down to place a kiss on his forehead. “You must simply try your best. That’s all that matters. Comparing yourself to others does no good. Measure yourself against your own vision.”

He’d gone on to be better at fishing than Fergus, and climbed as well as James. But she could always outrun him, she thought with a smile.

Her heart leapt when she saw a shadow. Ian leaned against one of the pillars that supported the arches, his gaze on the oncoming storm. The recent bad weather had passed them by last night, only to return with a vengeance.

To her disappointment, he still wore his mask. But she said nothing, knowing that he would dispense with it when he was ready, and not before.

“It looks to be fierce weather,” he said, turning and smiling at her.

Sheets of rain drew a curtain between the glen and the loch. Gusts blew the storm closer to Gilmuir and Fort William, showering English fortress and Scottish castle alike.

She smiled, thinking that he had eased their meeting with such commonplace words.

“I’m used to the rain,” she said.

“You would have to be, living at Gilmuir,” he said, glancing at her. She stepped closer, placing her hand on his arm, needing to touch him.

“Where are we going tonight?”

“We’re going to play highwaymen,” he said, smiling. “Come with me and we’ll ride through the Highlands, offering succor and safety to those who would come with us.”

“And fetch Mary’s sister?”

“And Dora’s daughter,” he said, nodding. “We’ll pluck the brightest and the best and take them with us.”

“And the old and the infirm,” she added.

“The young and the weak,” he said.

“Lead on,” she said, “and I’ll be your partner in revolt.”

“Not revolt,” he corrected, “but rescue.”

She followed him to the center of the priory and to the entrance to the staircase. Soundlessly, he pulled the stone away, revealing a set of stairs just as black, just as steep as they had been a day earlier. But the journey was made easier both by practice and his presence and seemed to take no time at all.

At the base of the stairs, he bent and lit the lantern.

They stood at the cave entrance staring out at the storm. The cove acted as a chamber of echoes, so that the drumming sound of the rain beating against the loch was almost deafening. The black sky was pierced by a silvered bolt of lightning, a low and rumbling roll of thunder growling in approval of its display.

“It sounds as if God is English,” she said, pulling back from the entrance, “and angry at us for what we’re about to do.”

He smiled, studying the storm.

“It’s not wise to be on the water when there’s lightning,” she said. Her hand reached out and touched his arm, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Have you another way of getting to the glen?” he asked, turning to her. “One that will not alert the troops at Fort William?”

She nodded. “I do,” she confessed, “but I wouldn’t use it today.”

He stared at her, obviously surprised.

She pointed above them. “There’s a track all around the island,” she said. “I used it to escape from the Butcher once.”

“A track? Where?”

“Around the cliffs,” she said, and smiled at the look on his face. “It’s wide enough not to be dangerous,” she said. “If you’re careful.”

He shook his head, murmuring something she suspected wasn’t the least complimentary.

She moved away slightly, leaning against the curved wall. Above her was the final portrait of Ionis’s love. “I merely meant,” she said, smiling back at the woman immortalized by a man’s devotion, “that we should wait. Perhaps there is a way that we could occupy ourselves,” she suggested. She closed her eyes. It was one thing to be daring in the darkness, quite another when he was looking at her with such interest.

“How?” he asked quietly, his voice low and slumberous.

She felt her cheeks warming. “Donald taught me a game,” she said, “but I’ve no cards here.”

“Nor am I in the mood for one of the games we played as children,” he said.

She blinked open her eyes, looked at him. He was smiling, but the expression in his eyes was oddly wicked.

“Perhaps there is something else we could do,” she said, studying the portraits above her. “Only to while away the time, of course.” She felt absurdly breathless, as if she’d run the length of the glen. Her cheeks were heated; her heart beat so fiercely that it sounded louder than the rain.

He bent and extinguished the lantern, plunging them into darkness.

“I have an occupation in mind,” he said. “A game of another sort.”

“Do you?”

“It’s a game in which there are two winners,” he softly said.

“Are there?” she teased. “How can you be so certain?”

“I shall be very careful to ensure it,” he said softly.

“Is it not necessary, first, to come closer?”

“In a moment,” he said. She could tell by the sound of his voice that he hadn’t moved.

“What did you like about last night, Leitis? What was the one thing that pleased you the most?”

Her body grew heated, embarrassment traveling from the top of her head to her feet. “Don’t you know?” she asked, hedging.

“I want to hear it from you,” he said, inflexible.

“There’s more than one thing,” she said, her hands fluttering in the air.

“Only one.”

“When you kissed me,” she said, then decided that was wrong. “No,” she corrected, “when you held me.” There was the other, too. “When you touched me,” she whispered, the words difficult to speak. It was one
thing to dream about him, or to recall those moments in the privacy of her mind, another to tell him.

“Only one,” he said, moving closer. “When I touched you? You were shocked by it.”

She nodded. “It was a very shocking thing.”

“When I entered you?”

She nearly choked on her gasp. “Should you be saying such things, Ian?”

“Let me be the Raven tonight,” he said. “A man of mystery. I could be anyone,” he said. He reached out his hand and gently touched her face, found her lips, and traced them with one finger. “I could be your worst enemy, your most dreaded foe, a stranger,” he whispered.

She turned toward his shadow. The storm raged above them, disapproval and censure in the sound of thunder. Despite herself, she felt a thrill of anticipation, something abandoned that curled inside her and stretched with new life.

“Would I want you to touch me?” she asked breathlessly.

“You couldn’t help it,” he said, his fingers brushing down her throat.

“I dislike feeling weak,” she said.

He chuckled. “You never could be, Leitis. You love like you live, with ferocity and joy and complete abandon.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she whispered.

“It’s dangerous,” he said, his voice deep. “It incites passion in a man who might wish to taste that life, experience it.”

“Does it incite you? Even being a stranger? An enemy?”

He whispered against her lips. “An enemy who cannot help himself.”

“I should weaken you somehow,” she said. “If you were truly my adversary.”

“Touch me,” he urged. “That should accomplish your aim.”

She smiled, charmed, amused, and a little anxious by his game. But she’d never resisted a dare in her life. Her hand reached out and flattened on his chest, crept lower until it hesitated at his waist. A streak of lightning flashed, illuminating the cave, and Ian. He wasn’t smiling, nor were his eyes amused. Instead, his look pinned her in place, as if he were truly a stranger, an enemy, the Raven.

She pulled back her hand, but he retrieved it again, placing it on his chest.

“Shall I tell you what I liked?”

She said nothing. An assent would plunge her into wickedness, but she was too curious to deny him.

“When you screamed,” he said. “I heard the sound in my dreams last night and woke hard with the thought of you.”

She stepped back against the wall, her hand still held to his chest.

“I want to taste your nipples, Leitis. Feel them against my lips; stroke the softness of you as you grow wet for me. I want all of these things as anyone you deem me to be, friend or foe, lover or stranger.”

She began to tremble. Not in fear, which might be more acceptable, but in some other emotion she’d never before felt, something dark and dangerous and abandoned.

“Then I’ve won,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse.

“Not yet,” he said, and pressed against her. She could feel the length of him, the firmness of his muscles, his strength.

She closed her eyes again, an act of surrender. “I remember how you felt,” she said, placing her other hand on his chest. The tips of her fingers pressed against his shirt, traced the placket, and burrowed beneath to his skin. A sigh escaped her as she touched his bare skin, as if she had waited all this time for just this.

“And when you entered me,” she admitted, the words a whisper as she stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his lips. His mouth was hot and hungry. His hands were suddenly everywhere, unlacing her dress, fumbling beneath her skirts, baring her in a wild flurry of fabric.

He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, pushing her bodice open so quickly that she heard the stitches rip.

She didn’t care. She had become someone frenzied, a person she barely recognized. She wanted to touch him, feel him, hold him in her arms, and kiss him so deeply that he couldn’t speak. Render him as unsettled as she felt.

Passion required no tutelage, she discovered. No slow gaining of knowledge, no practice, nothing was necessary but the moment and the craving.

Her fingers unfastened his breeches, reached within them as if she’d done this before, as if she’d always been decadent. He was hard against her palms and so hot that he almost scorched her. A sound escaped him, a gasp, a moan, some note that echoed her own excitement.