One Man's Love (7 page)

A
lec entered his chamber, the wooden door easing shut behind him with a muffled groan. He strode to the table and, pulling open the tinderbox, lit the candle sitting there.

Leitis was standing with her back against the wall, her arms folded in front of her. Her chin was tilted up and her eyes were staring at him impassively.

“Were you content to remain in the dark, then?”

“I do not believe my contentment mattered,” she said coolly.

He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the peg beside the door, then removed his waistcoat until he was attired only in shirt and breeches. When he turned and walked toward her she didn’t glance
away, almost as if she dared him to approach her. Her gaze was direct, the contempt in her eyes a challenge.

He reached out one hand and touched a tendril of her hair. It had darkened over the years, but there was still a hint of the unruly girl she’d been, Leitis of the flying orange curls and infectious laugh.

He trailed his hands from her shoulders to her wrists, feeling the coarse weave of her dress. With a fingertip, he marked the places on her sleeves where the fire had burned small holes. She had no other clothes, no other belongings. She stood devoid of all earthly possessions except for her character, improvident, rash, and impossibly courageous.

“I won’t be your whore, Butcher,” she said, her voice trembling faintly, enough that he suddenly understood that the anger was merely bravado.

“Is that why you think I’ve brought you here?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” An answer tightly voiced. He had heard men shouting out their crimes to him and it affected him no less than this reluctant admission.

“I believe your post as hostage does not require that sacrifice,” he said wryly.

She looked skeptical. “Englishmen are like any other men,” she said, taking a step away from him. “They’re like stallions, always wanting the act.”

He raised one eyebrow and gazed at her. “And have you been someone’s mare, Leitis?”

“No,” she said, meeting his look resolutely.

He knew in that moment that she lied. “Who was he?” he asked, fighting back a sense of possessiveness so strong it baffled him.

She looked equally startled by his question, or perhaps the tone of it. He was surprised when she answered him. But her look was defiant as she did so.

“There was a man,” she said proudly. “I loved him and he was going off to battle.”

“So you lay with him,” Alec said, congratulating himself on the even nature of his voice. He walked to the fireplace, staring down into the cold ashes.

“Yes,” she admitted softly. “I lay with him.”

He had not seen her for years. She was, despite his memories of her, little more than a stranger. What did he care of her experience? Calm and rational thoughts, but they did not ease his surprising anger.

“Where is he now?” he asked finally, the question itself too intrusive.

“Marcus was killed at Culloden.”

He closed his eyes, the battlefield recalled with ease, not simply because of the atrocities that occurred there but because of his nightly recollections of it. He was never spared the sight of Culloden in his dreams. He had the sudden unwanted thought that he might have killed her Marcus himself, or watched as it was done.

He turned and glanced at her. There was color high on her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself, but did not look away.

A knock on the door interrupted the painful silence between them. Alec called out a greeting and Donald entered carrying a tray. He placed it on the table, arranging the dishes.

“I brought you roast beef, Colonel,” Donald said, glancing over at Leitis with a smile.

“Have you met our guest?” Alec asked. “Leitis MacRae, hostage; Donald Tanner, sergeant and aide.”

Donald smiled at her coaxingly. Leitis didn’t smile in return, but the look in her eyes changed a little. Not as much caution there as a moment ago. Donald was not without his female admirers. Women, for some reason, wanted to cosset him.

“Shall I bring your bath, sir?” Donald asked, and Alec nodded.

A moment later the door shut behind him and they were alone again. Alec walked to the table, sat with his legs stretched out before him. He removed his boots slowly, waiting for her next barb. It would come, he was certain of it. Leitis had never been comfortable with silence.

“Now you’ll convince yourself that since I’ve known the touch of a man, it would not be rape,” she said suddenly.

He glanced at her, shaking his head. “Don’t you realize that I could give orders to raze your village and it would be done without a word spoken in protest? Or that I could have each one of your clansmen killed and no doubt receive a commendation for it?”

“The English reward cruelty, then,” she answered fiercely. “Not courage.”

“Yet with all that, you keep slinging mud at me,” he said, ignoring her comment.

“It would be dung, Butcher, but I can’t find any at the moment.”

He bit back his smile, knowing Leitis would not be pleased at his amusement. But she was so foolishly fierce at the moment.

“Is it difficult being an instrument of death?” she asked quietly.

She’d meant the words as an insult, but he chose to answer her honestly. “It is difficult to send men into battle, knowing that they may die. I do not doubt your leaders felt the same.”

“I hope they did,” she said surprisingly. “It should cost a man something to order another’s death. Even if the cause is worth dying for.”

“The more death you witness,” he said bluntly, “the more you question causes.”

She turned away, staring through the window as if the view of the night were new to her.

“You hate well, Leitis,” he said quietly.

“I have reason to,” she said icily, narrowing her eyes. “The English killed my family and the man I loved.”

He abruptly stood, walked to his dispatch case. Pulling open the top drawer, he retrieved a sheet of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink. She frowned as he returned to the table and calmly cleared a place on which to write. The scratching of the quill was grating in the silence.

He stood, walked to her side, and handed her the list.

“What is this?” she asked, reaching out to take it.

“All those men I knew who died at the hands of the Scots. It’s only fair that we keep score, isn’t it?”

Instead of answering him, she scanned the list he’d written.

A list of twenty names, all English, and all good soldiers and decent men who had not deserved the fate meted out to them.

“What?” he asked. “No biting remark, Leitis? No comment that a dead Englishman is the only bearable one?”

She stared at the names. “They all had mothers,” she said softly. “And wives or sweethearts. It would be cruel to wish them dead.”

“But they were Englishmen,” he said tightly. “Shouldn’t you rejoice at their deaths?”

She glanced up at him. “Do you rejoice each time a Scot dies?” she asked, the words tinged with an odd kind of sadness.

At one time he had, a confession he’d made to God but would not voice to her.

“Kings should have to fight a war, and no one else,” she said in the wake of his silence.

“You would have King George and your pretender wage battle in a field somewhere?” he asked, startled at her comment.

“But it isn’t just kings and princes, is it?” she asked, glancing at him. “It’s men who would make war a game. Not for peace, but for other reasons. Greed, for example.”

“Greed?” He smiled tightly. “Colonels into generals and privates into sergeants?”

“To obtain land or castles or power,” she corrected, handing him the list before turning and staring out into the night.

“The world has always been that way, Leitis,” he said softly.

“It does not mean,” she said, shaking her head, “that it’s right.”

“And how would you have the world?”

“As it was,” she said faintly. “But then I didn’t know what I had. Peace now seems so simple to wish for and so difficult to obtain.”

“For all of us,” he said somberly.

“Where is your world, Butcher?”

He smiled at the effortless insult of her tone, but answered her question easily enough. “Where is any soldier’s home? Where his commander has sent him. Where his dispatch case is, or his cot.”

“It is not here in Scotland,” she said acerbically.

“I’m afraid it is,” he replied, speaking the truth in a soft voice. Her shoulders were rigid, her stance stiff and unyielding. She ignored his words, even his presence. A deft repudiation, effective for all its silence.

A knock on the door preceded his aide’s entrance. The young man was bent low beneath the weight of a large copper vessel.

“Where did you find that?” the Butcher asked, surprised.

“Major Sedgewick ordered it from London,” Donald said, lowering the tub to the floor. The tall back was embossed with carved flowers and a tree. Peering out from behind the spring foliage were several scantily clad nymphs.

“The major likes a bit of elegance,” Donald said. “Fancies himself, I think.” He flushed, then ducked his head. “Begging your pardon, sir. I meant no disrespect to a senior officer.”

“I heard nothing,” the Butcher said, exchanging an amused look with his sergeant. “Did you ask if he had any French-milled soap?” he asked sardonically, finally moving away from her to stare down at the copper vessel.

Donald shook his head regretfully. “All I’ve got is that sorry excuse for barracks soap, sir.”

“It will do well enough. I’m used to my skin stinging.”

“Do you bathe often?” she asked, a bit of curiosity she could not forestall.

“It’s a ritual I observe after spending a day in the saddle,” he said dryly. “I haven’t the fortitude of the Scots who ride bare-arsed on a woolen blanket for days and don’t notice either the rash or the smell.”

She turned away to hide her unexpected amusement. There had been too many times when she’d
wished her brothers had taken more than an occasional dip in the loch.

Donald placed the toweling next to the bath before leaving the room. Leitis wished he had stayed in those next moments. The silence between the two of them seemed too loud, almost expectant.

She clasped her hands together, tipped her head back to look up at him. The flickering light favored his face, creating shadows and highlighting the sharp line of jaw and nose. A man of authority, blessed by Fate, and given power over all the Scots of Gilmuir.

He waved his hand in the direction of the tub. “The gentlemanly thing to do is to offer you first privileges,” he said bowing in her direction.

She would not show fear in front of this man, nor allow him to see her tremble. “I’ve no intention of bathing in your tub. Or in your presence, for that matter,” she said crisply.

“I would leave you in privacy,” he promised softly. “My word.”

“What is an Englishman’s word, Butcher?” she asked.

“That sounds too much like your uncle, Leitis,” he said curtly.

He took a step toward her and she stiffened in anticipation. But he halted before he reached her, as if he’d seen the aversion in her eyes.

“Why are you Highlanders so stubborn? Is it something in the climate?” He waved his hand in the air as if to measure the mountains, indicate the glens. “Is it the mist? It’s forever raining in this misbegotten place; perhaps it’s soaked into your brains.”

“You would have me accede to your demands without a protest, Butcher? Then you have, indeed, chosen the wrong hostage.” She clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles hurt. “I am Leitis
MacRae of Gilmuir and I do not do as an Englishman wills simply because he wishes it.”

For a moment he simply stared at her, then a smile began to curve his lips. She frowned at him, but it had no effect on his amusement.

“Very well,” he said, almost casually. “Then at least share my meal. Or are you too proud to eat English food?” he asked sardonically.

“I’m not a fool,” she said, irritated. “Food is food, and I doubt it has a nationality.”

She walked to the table, stood looking down at the meal his aide had brought. There were thick slices of roast beef piled high next to a bowl of gravy, a round loaf of crusty bread, its top glistening with butter. A slab of blue-veined cheese sat on a separate plate, its odor so strong that the scent of it wafted up from the tray. Two flacons of ale sat in the middle of the table, the sides of the earthenware containers dotted with moisture.

There was more food here than she had seen in months, enough to feed three people.

She sat and began to eat slowly. During the last year she’d not had more than one meal a day, and those had been paltry next to this feast.

He continued to undress, hanging each garment on a peg. The Butcher was neat and orderly, but then she supposed soldiers were. His disregard for her presence was disconcerting, however.

Leitis glanced over at him once, only to meet his gaze. His fingers stilled in the act of unfastening his shirt; his face was expressionless. She looked away and heard him move again.

She stared down at the thick candle in the middle of the table, its cream color so pale as to be almost translucent. Wax slowly dripped down its side, puddling at the base of the silver candle holder. Even the
innocuous candle revealed the differences between them. Her cottage had been illuminated by twisted tapers soaked in fat. They always smelled and smoked when lit. This one had a scent of something sharp and aromatic that hinted at faraway places.

Donald entered the room again a short time later, followed by two men carrying buckets filled with steaming water. They bobbed their heads nervously in the Butcher’s direction as they finished their chore and left the room again.

“Why did you save the village?” she asked abruptly.

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Sedgewick’s actions were tantamount to taking an axe to a fly. Why burn a village when I would just have to rebuild it?”