Rivals for the Crown (46 page)

"There's only the shirt left."

"That too," she said and put her hand on the triangle of skin below his neck.

He did not move as she pulled the laces apart, moving her hand lower to caress each inch of skin newly revealed. She could feel his pulse quicken as she touched him, and leaned close, to put her lips where her fingers had been, inhaling his scent. His quick intake of

breath made her bolder, and she spread the material wider, pulling the last of the laces apart. She looked into his eyes, then pushed the cloth over his shoulders, baring them, and his chest,
savouring
the sight, then letting the shirt fall to the floor.

He stood, his stance wide, without moving, letting her look her fill. Which she did. He was magnificently made, his wide shoulders tapering to a lean waist and hips, the muscles of his chest and stomach defined, a dusting of blond hair on his chest. His legs were long and muscled, and his body was ready. She touched his side, running her fingers lightly along his ribs, then lower. And lower still. He was very ready for her. His hand clasped around hers before she could touch him.

"Not yet, lass. If ye touch me it will be over."

"Then I could just look at you, Rory. I could look at you forever. You are beautiful, sir."

His laugh was low. "No. But I am verra willing, as ye can tell."

She traced the tip of her finger along his collarbone, following it to the tip of his shoulder, then back. "I had dreams of doing just this, Rory. I would wake in the night and think of touching you. Of how your skin would feel under my fingers. Warm, just as I imagined. I can feel your strength."

"Isabel, is this what ye want? Ye need to tell me now, because soon I willna be able to stop."

She slid her hand down his side, feeling the contours of his hip, the concave surface of his stomach. "I am ready, Rory. I want to feel you next to me. And inside me."

"Jesu," he said and kissed her again, his lips arousing her even more.

His hand slid her bodice off one shoulder, his lips doing as hers had done, following his hand along her skin. She shivered at his touch. He lifted her
over tunic
over her head and threw it across the room, then the
under tunic
as well. He pulled out the last of the pins that bound her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders. And he smiled.

"There has never been a woman more beautiful, Isabel. Never, in the history of man has a woman been so splendid."

His hand cupped her breast, kneading it softly while his lips found hers, then her neck. Then her breast. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back at the sensation of his lips on her nipple, of his hand caressing the curves of her waist and hip and back again. He groaned softly, blowing against her nipple.

"I want ye, lass. I want every inch of ye."

"Yes," she said breathlessly, her mind focused on his touch, on the tingling of her skin wherever he touched her.

He ran a hand from her breast to her waist, her hips, the swell of her buttocks, the top of her thigh. And then between her thighs, his touch gentle, but still she jumped.

"I'll stop," he whispered.

"No. Don't."

He moved his hand back and forth, pushing his finger between her folds, then finding the opening. She shivered again, with delight, and made a sound that surprised her, almost a purr.

He took his hand away and looked into her eyes. "Isabel?"

"Yes," she said, and let him lead her to the bed.

He tossed the coverlet aside and pushed the pillows to the floor, then swept her into his arms and lay her down on the cool sheets, stretching that long, lean body next to hers. They did not speak as they explored each other.

He kissed her shoulders, lingering over her collarbone and neck, then feasted on her breasts. She held his head to her, threading her fingers through his hair, memorizing the moment. She'd waited so long to have him in her arms.

She let her hand run down his spine and his arms and shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple under his skin as he moved. He slid his hand along her waist, to her ribs and down to her hips.

"Feel how beautiful ye are," he whispered. "How perfect ye are."

She held him in her hand, feeling the pulse of his blood under her fingers.

"You feel like silk," she said, running her fingers along his length.

He laughed and kissed her stomach, then moved lower, pushing her legs apart and making her cry out with surprise as his tongue touched her. She arched to meet him.

"Now, Rory," she said.

"Are ye ready for me?"

"Yes, and yes, and yes!"

He moved above her, then closer, his erection just touching her. Then inside her, slowly thrusting, withdrawing, then thrusting again. With a moan he thrust inside her, then pushed himself up on his arms.

"Isabel, I thought Langton—"

"No," she said. "Let's not talk of him."

"Let's not talk," he said.

They didn't. He taught her well. Once. Then again, more slowly. She enjoyed it more this time, and even more the third. And as she closed her eyes, sated and warm, his arms wrapped around her, she realized she felt safe for the first time in a very long time. lama woman, she thought, and smiled.

He kissed her neck and sighed. And slept.

TWENTY

They made love all night, then slept wrapped in each other's
arms, waking to talk of all that had happened during their time apart, then feast upon each other again. He was surprised and charmed by her passion. When he said that to her, she laughed, saying the Isabel she used to be was gone forever.

"I was afraid to live, Rory. Now I'm afraid there won't be time to do it all."

She listened while he told her of the abuses committed by Edward's troops in Scotland, of his time with William Wallace and his men. Of the negotiations he'd conducted between clans, the alliances that had been formed but not yet tested.

"Will they hold?" she asked. "If it does come to war, will they hold?"

He sighed. "I dinna ken. Memories are long in Scotland. Some will find ways to hate each other again no matter what they've promised. Others may at least find peace between their clans, if not between Scotland and England."

"Then it was worth being without you."

"No, lass, not even that was worth being without ye."

He gave her Rachel's message of love, which brought tears to her eyes. And he talked of his loneliness and his longing for her. And his guilt for not being in Berwick when Langton arrived. She soothed him, reminding him that he would have had no way of knowing Langton would arrive, but he knew the guilt would never leave him.

"I should have been there. It should have been me protecting ye." He trailed a finger down her arm. "Ye've not told me of that night. Tell me now."

He listened while she told what had happened with Langton, and Henry's part in helping her escape. And he knew her story would haunt him all his days.

"He could have killed ye, lass. Or had ye killed. I could not stop thinking of it, a woman like ye, with a fiend like him. It set my blood on fire. Still does."

She put a finger to his lips. "Hush. It was my decision to go there, Rory. And believe me, as hard as it was to actually live through it, it was much harder to be in that tiny room at the inn and wonder what was happening to Rachel and her family. I can never make it up to them for what they suffered because of me."

She talked of her childhood, and her dreams of her father, of being a girl in London with one dear friend, who was then torn from her. Of being chosen to be a lady-in-waiting to a queen, and how that had come to be. Of her time in Newcastle, and her loneliness and longing for him.

He told her of his visit to Lonsby, of her father's displeasure at his arrival, her father's wife's dismay, and her father's children's wide-eyed curiosity at learning they had a half sister.

"Charlotte is yer age," Rory said. "She sent you greetings."

"And the rest of them?"

"Nothing."

She nodded. She'd expected as much.

They made love again. She laughed, saying she would not be able to walk, and he showed her things they could do to satisfy each other. They agreed they would go to Scotland—but not to Berwick, where Langton's men were watching for her, but to Stirling, where he would leave her with Nell and rejoin William. And then he kissed her again, feeling the silkiness of her breast against his rib, the softness of her leg along his.

"Lass, we need to talk about this. About us."

She smiled. "It was wonderful, Rory. But we do not need to talk. I chose what I did. I gave myself to you freely and do not expect anything from you."

"Ye should. And I want more from ye than this. I dinna want this to end, lass." He took a deep breath. "Marry me, Isabel. Today. Now. We'll find a priest and pay him well. I am only a younger son, aye, but we willna starve. I'll work so verra hard the whole of my life. I canna promise ye jewels, but ye'll have a roof over yer head, and food each day, and a man who loves ye with every part of his soul. And his body. And often, if I have a say in it."

"I love you, Rory," she said, beginning to cry.

"First tell me, lass. Will ye have me?"

"Yes and yes and yes, and in every way possible. Now kiss me."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He kissed her, thoroughly, pulling her against him, her willingness making him desire her even more. She kissed him with abandon, leaving him unable to think, her mouth and hands creating sensations that made him forget time. She was more adventurous now, exploring him and letting him do what he would. They lay, sated at last, listening to the wind in the trees outside.

"Shall we find a priest?" he asked. "Or wait until we get to Scotland?"

"I think we both need to get out of England. And we'll find a priest when we're safe. We need to leave here, don't we?"

"Aye. We're too close to Newcastle. I dinna ken how far they're patrolling, but we're too close and we're on the main road. But I thought we could be safe for one night."

She pulled herself from his side, giving him a view of her breasts. He cupped one, smiling at her, then climbed out of the bed, rummaging through the clothing he'd tossed on the floor. She watched him move, enjoying the long line of his leg and where it met his hip, the muscles under the skin of his arm flashing and then gone, his lean body sinuous and inviting.

"Rory," she said. "What are you doing? Come back to me."

He grinned and held up something, then came to sit on the side of the bed. "It was given to me by Lady MacDonnell," he said, handing it to her.

The brooch was a golden circle, set with jewels and engraved on the back in a language she could not read. The pin, long and golden as well, was engraved with a raven and what looked like Norse runes.

"It's beautiful," she said. "I remember you wearing this in London. What did you do to please the Lady MacDonnell so well, sir?"

"A small thing. But I'm giving it to ye as a way of giving credence to yer words. That's my name, in Gaelic, and the date, and the thanks of Lady MacDonnell. The st
ory and the brooch are well ken
in Scotland. Show it to anyone who kens the Highlands and they'll give ye hospitality and send word to my parents, who will take ye in."

"But we'll be together, won't we?"

"It's just in case, lass. And I will have to rejoin William and the others. Kieran's no doubt already on his way to Newcastle, looking for me."

He turned, staring at the door as they heard the sound of horses outside and voices calling orders. They exchanged a look. He folded her fingers around the brooch.

"Get dressed, lass!" he whispered, and leapt from the bed.

"Are they soldiers?" she asked, pulling her
under gown
over her head.

He listened through the door and cursed himself. Soldiers. English. Many of them, from the sound of it. And well known to the innkeeper, who was welcoming them and inviting them in to eat. Rory lifted the latch as quietly as he could, then slid the door open a crack. There were at least twenty of them, wearing the uniforms of the king's household. And there, in the shadow of the door of the innkeeper's lodge, a knight, only his back visible. The others were watering the horses and following the knight inside.

Rory closed the door, leaned against the wall, and told her. Her eyes were huge, but she was calm. She opened the door to the lean- to, where the wood was stacked, and pointed. At the side of the lean-to was a narrow door. He nodded.

He threw his clothes on, strapped on his sword and dirk, and grabbed her satchel as she finished dressing. He hurried her out to the lean-to, then inched the door open. The way to the trees was clear.

"I dinna think I'll be able to get to the horses," he said softly.

"No," she whispered and slipped through the door.

"Run, Isabel. I'll be behind ye." He watched her disappear into the trees, then turned to push the door to the lean-to closed.

The door to the cottage burst open. Three men rushed in with swords held high, spotting him at once. Their shouts rang out, and he knew it would be no more than a moment until the others arrived.

One rushed forward, swinging wildly. Rory parried two strokes, then struck at the man's thigh. He went down with a scream, holding his bleeding leg. Another came forward and fought well, his strokes quick and varied. Rory wounded him in the arm. The man slowed but did not falter.

The third circled him and Rory pushed back, trying to get near the lean-to door. Then a fourth and fifth came in, and another through the door from the lean-to. They charged him at once.

He fought madly, forcing them back and gaining the door. He burst through it, into the yard, to find the knight waiting, his sword raised in anticipation. Rory darted to the right, then whirled and charged, striking the knight with the flat side of his sword, knocking him to the ground. Rory kicked the knight's weapon aside and turned to face the others.

The soldiers formed a ring around him, their weapons drawn, bloodlust in their eyes. It would take just a word from the knight for them to hack him to pieces. There was no way he would get through them, but if he delayed them a little longer, perhaps Isabel would escape. The knight rose clumsily to his feet.

"Sir," he shouted to the knight. "On what grounds do yer men kick open the door and assault me?"

"You are outlawed, MacGannon."

"I do not ken ye, sir. How is it ye ken me?"

"I saw you in London and learned your name. There are not many blond men wearing outlandish clothing, wooing one of the queen's ladies. We knew who you were. The innkeeper said there was a Highlander here and a woman with him. So tell me, sir, where is Mistress de Burke?"

Rory watched the men who were closing in on him. "Ye burst in here on that alone, sir, that there was a Highlander and a woman? Is it now a crime to be a Highlander? Is Mistress de Burke the only woman who might be traveling? Is she the only woman in the world, sir?"

"You do know there is a bounty on her head? A princely sum. Or should I say a stewardly sum? Do you not want a share? Or do you plan to have the lady's
favour
s and the bounty as well? When we find her, we may all sample her
favour
s."

"Skewer yourself, sir. Or rather, let me."

The knight leapt forward, his arm raised, letting Rory know exactly what sort of blow he intended.

Rory parried it, and again, and knocked the sword from the knight's hand.

The knight, on his back on the ground like a turtle, flushed scarlet. "Take him," he said to his men. "Alive."

They closed in. Rory fought, but there were too many. His last view was the ground rushing to meet him. His last thought was of her.

Isabel stood in the trees, in a muddle of indecision. Should she come forward and appeal for clemency from the knight? Or would he only arrest her and take both of them to Newcastle?

She could think of only one thing to do: ride for Scotland and find Kieran, or someone who could get a message to him, that Rory had been captured. She moved slightly, to feel the coins still sewn in the hem of her skirts, and blessed Rachel's mother for teaching her that. She would find a way.

The soldiers left not long after beating Rory to the ground. They tied Rory, unconscious, to his horse, and led him away. The knight disappeared inside the innkeeper's lodge for several moments, then emerged, alone, watching the others take to the road. He stooped to retrieve Rory's sword from the ground and studied it for a moment, then, with a vicious thrust, drove it into the ground, where it wavered and stood, the hilt looking like a cross marker on a grave.

He leapt to the saddle and whirled his horse in a circle, staring into the trees. She dared not breathe, knowing that any movement might draw his gaze. And then, with a splatter of gravel from the horse's hooves, he followed the others.

She waited for what seemed forever, then crept out of the trees. No one stopped her as she pulled Rory's sword from the earth with great effort. She hurried into the cottage, grabbed Rory's pack, his cloak, and her satchel, then ran with it all to the stable, hoisting herself to the horse's back. She took a deep breath, deciding what to do, then kicked the horse into motion.

She rode as quickly as she could, finding a village, and in it a villager who told her where to find what she needed. She rode carefully, unwilling to catch up with the knight and his men, and

with full knowledge that she would be noted by those who saw her. Women did not travel alone. She was tempting the fates; she could be killed for her horse alone or she could simply disappear and no one would even notice that she was missing. She retraced their journey of the night before, asking several times before she found the route that brought her to Hulne Priory near Alnwick.

The friars were able to provide her with vellum and ink and tell her where she could find a reliable messenger, who assured her he would take both of her letters immediately and return in time for Christmas. She wrote to Rachel, just a few words, in case it was intercepted by others: "English have RM. Newcastle." And signed it simply "I." The other was to Nell Crawford at Stirling Castle: "Rory taken. Newcastle. Isabel." She tucked the brooch Rory had given her into the pouch with the letter to Nell, wondering if she was being foolish to entrust it to the messenger, but knowing that Nell or someone at Stirling would recognize it and believe her words. She paid the messenger well and turned her horse south, praying as she rode, the words forming a chant that matched the rhythm of the horse.

In Newcastle she found a room near the Black Gate, not realizing until she had secured her room that the house was full of soldiers. She told the woman who rented it to her that she was a widow, visiting her brother, a soldier. The woman winked and said that happened all the time, and that as long as they were quiet, she and her "brother" were welcome.