Taming the Barbarian (21 page)

She shivered against him. “And the lady?”

“She was all that is beautiful, with hair like living sunlight and eyes like the cloudless sky.”

“The Celt knew her.”

“Knew her?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Mayhap none knew her. But he had seen her, had caught a glimpse of her now and again. And each time he wanted her more, for she could entrance a man with a glance, with the merest flicker of her lashes. But the golden lady…” He said the name softly, for despite the countless years of darkness, he could not manage to despise her. “She possessed an army of her own.”

“And so they were joined in battle?” she guessed. “The Dark Master and the lady.”

” ‘Twas to be,” he said. “The armies drew nigh to each other. Indeed, they were so close that ye could smell the sweat of the lady’s men, could taste their fear and battle lust on yer tongue like aged ale. But in the darkness before the dawn, she sent a messenger to the Celt.

“Except for his steed and a comrade of sorts, he kept himself apart from the others as was his wont. And in the silence of the night, she sent an emissary to him.” He shook his head, still regretting the foolishness, the weakness. “Even his besotted companion knew better than to trust her, but the Celt could not be gainsaid. Thus he journeyed to her tent. And she was there.” He whispered the words with shivering reverence. “Her very scent was intoxicating. Like a dream.” He drew a breath, smelling the rich fragrance that teased his nostrils. “Like a prayer. And her skin…”

Reaching up, he touched Fleurette’s face. “She was as bonny as a summer’s morning, as sweet as old wine.” He almost smiled at the memory, though it stung like hell. “And much stronger than she looked. Indeed, she put a
sgian dubh
to his throat.”

“A
sgian dubh
?”

“
A
black blade,” he whispered. “Slim and sharp and deadly.” He paused for a moment, thinking back.

“Mayhap he could have disarmed her before she took his life. Mayhap he could have bested her, for he had his hand about her throat.” He closed his eyes. “But she began to cry, and her tears… They were like droplets of silver, like rain in the deepest desert, melting his heart. She did na wish for battle,” she said. “She wanted naught more than peace for her peoples.”

The lady’s eyes were wide in the moonlight. “So she convinced him to stay the battle?”

“Aye,” he rumbled. “She said that if the Celt would but join her army, they could convince the Dark Master to cease his aggressions, for he was more powerful than all the others combined, more forceful than the pull of the tides.” He made a fist, then shook his head and let his hand fall lax.

“He would na longer be hated and feared. Instead, he would be revered and cherished, for he would be an ambassador of sorts. Without him the Master could na win the day and would be made to see the value of peace. No more lives need be lost. No more blood need be spilled.”

“So he agreed,” she whispered.

“Na readily, for he was a hardened man,” Killian said. “Hard and well paid. But she kissed him.” He shook his head and felt the sweet curve of the lady’s waist beneath his fingers. “And he was weak. By morning’s first light, he was entranced. Indeed, he gladly took the white flag she gave him. Just as the sun found its way over the eastern horizon, he rode his destrier up the hillock to wave the banner of truce between the armies, to put an end to the battles, to…” He drew a deep breath and let his eyes fall closed. “But he should have known better.”

“Why? What should he have known?”

“During the night, even while she moaned in me arms, even while she vowed her love, she had sent her army about her adversaries’ flank. The Master’s battalion was surrounded. Her men attacked even as the Celt unfurled his shameful flag. Mayhap ‘twas the screams of me comrades what brought him from his trance, but by the time their cries dried in the morning air ‘twas far too late, for the Lord had realized the betrayal. He realized his black sergeant had joined his greatest enemy, and in his wrath, he cast forth a terrible curse. I—” he began, but she thrust herself suddenly out of his arms.

Treun snorted and tossed his head.

“
Your
comrades?” she said.

Reality smote him like a broadsword. “
His
,” he corrected. “The Celt’s.”

She stared at him for one breathless moment, then shook her head. “You said,
me
. You said
I
.”

“Lass—”

“No!” she rasped and stumbled backward. “What are you trying to achieve? Do you hope to drive me mad? Is that your ploy? Were you sent by Kendrick?”

“Kendrick!” he snarled. “Ye would put me in league with his sniveling ilk?”

“Are you?”

“Nay”

“You lie,” she hissed. “Why have you come here?”

“I have come because I must.”

“Why? For money?”

“I na longer care for coin.”

“For revenge then?”

He opened his mouth for a denial, but he could not speak, for he did not have the answer.

“God save me,” she breathed, and suddenly she twisted about and bolted away.

“Lass, come back,” he called, but she was already catching Treun’s reins and swinging into the saddle.

“Wait!” he demanded, and leapt forward, but the stallion charged past him.

Killian stood alone, his fists curled in frustration, his breath heavy in his chest.

A scrape of noise sounded behind him, and he turned.

The wolf stood there, watching, waiting, his eyes gleaming with unearthly knowledge. Their gazes met in the darkness.

“Go then,” Killian said.

The animal dropped its muzzle to the earth, tested the scents for one brief instant, and darted away. Killian followed, running through the forest, following the wolf that followed the maid, but she knew the woods well and Treun was fleet. In a matter of moments, he had lost them all. His foot found a rut and he fell to his knees.

Cursing, he reached for the nearest tree and pulled himself upright, but even as he did so, he saw a scrap of white tied about the tree’s trunk. Bending, he undid the cloth and straightened. It was frayed and weathered and damp with mist, but even in the darkness, he could see the initials—
TME
.

“A
melia,” Fleur said, wrapping her arms about her tiny friend. Three days had passed since she’d made a fool of herself in Gardner’s woods, and she had a deep-seated need to put it behind her. “You look radiant.”

Amelia’s wedding gown was made of fashionable white linen, her headdress was crafted of finest lace. “My heartfelt congratulations to you.”

“Thank you, Fleurette. Thank you ever so much. I am so happy,” she breathed.

Despite the festivities, Fleur’s mood was dark. What was wrong with her? It was bad enough that she’d let some foolish cravat upset her, but to dash into the woods like a mindless ninny… And then to snuggle up to the barbarian as if he were the answers to her prayers… Had she learned nothing? Men were deadly. And the Highlander… He could break her in two, snuff out her life without even… She shut her mind from the trailing thought. “And I pray you shall always be just as happy,” she said.

“But of course I shall be. Marriage is…” Amelia turned her gaze, finding her husband through the crowd of well-wishers. Tears filled her eyes, and she spread her fingers across the delicate lace that embellished her bodice. ” ‘Tis like an intoxicating magic. Like the first day of spring after a harsh winter.”

“What a lovely sentiment,” Lucille said, appearing from behind. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Truly?” Amelia asked, and abandoned Fleurette to wrap Lucy in an enthusiastic embrace. “I am so very happy to hear you say so. I feared that after your union with Lord Anglehill, you did not feel that way about marriage.”

“Marriage?” Lucy asked, drawing back and looking aghast. “I assumed we spoke of a nice bottle of Chablis.”

“Shame on you,” Amelia chided, but at that moment, her bridegroom appeared. He had buckteeth, the beginning of a paunch, and was already balding. Amelia loved him to distraction.

“Lady Glendowne, Lady Anglehill,” he gave them a bow and beamed at his bride. “I am delighted you could attend this happiest day of my life.”

“Our lives,” Amelia corrected, and hooked her arm through his.

“Our lives,” he agreed, then they were surrounded by well-wishers and pulled into the intoxicated abyss.

“So.” Lucille turned to Fleurette with abrupt aplomb. “How is your Celtic neighbor?”

Fleurette took a glass from a passing tray. “I wouldn’t know,” she said, and took a sip. Her nerves had been a tangle for days. The crushing wedding mob was doing little to unravel the condition.

“What do you mean?” Lucille asked, and relieved the server of another glass. “Surely you’ve seen him. He would be difficult to miss.”

Fleurette skimmed the crowd. She wanted nothing more than to be home, beneath the Black Celt’s soothing shadow. But she closed her mind to that line of thought as well. “He is not what you think,” she said.

“Truly? Because I think he’s a man. And quite an intriguing man at that.” Lucille raised her brows as she took her first sip. “Am I wrong?”

Memories rushed at Fleur like a dark tide: tobacco smoke, hoofbeats in the dark, terror. “Excuse me,” she said, feeling frantic and moving rapidly away. “I think I see Lord—”

“Fleur,” Lucille said, and grasped her arm. “What’s wrong?”

Worries tumbled in her head. Terror knocked at her heart.

“What is it?” Lucy asked. For once, the countess’s face was devoid of the bored mask she often wore at such occasions. Honest emotion shown in her eyes. “Forgive me. Did I do something to upset you?”

“No,” Fleur said, nerves jumping wildly. “Not at all. I simply have to go.”

“What happened?” Lucille tightened her grip, following along. “Was it the Scot?” Her face paled, her eyes widened. “Did he hurt you in some way?”

Fleur shook her head. “No. No, I just…” She was dreadfully close to tears. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty. She turned to the countess with a start. “I don’t know what to do, Lucy.”

“What’s wrong?” Lucille shifted closer and glanced about. “You’re not with child.”

“With child!” Fleur gasped, then lowered her voice and almost laughed out loud. “No. What would make you think… Why would you—”

“Why?” Lucy asked, her tone stunned before she lowered her own voice. “Do you think I’m blind?”

“I’ve never actually considered the—”

“I’ve seen how you look at the Highlander.”

“The…” She huffed a laugh, caught off guard and stunned. “Sir Killian?”

“Is there another?”

“I—” Fleur shook her head, feeling crazy. “You’re mad,” she said, and pulled out of Lucy’s grip, but the countess was not so easy to lose.

“What is it then? Please, Fleurette.” She caught her arm again, her grip firm. “I know I act the fool sometimes—as if I do not care, but… You’re my only true friend in the world. Please, forgive me if I’ve wounded you. I swear ‘twas not apurpose. Let me help you.”

Fleur shook her head. “I can’t… I don’t think anyone can help me.”

“What troubles you? Is it finances? Do you need funds, because I can—”

“Lady Lucille.”

Fleurette shifted her gaze toward the floor, trying to hide her emotions as Stanford stopped beside them.

“How lovely you look tonight. I was wondering—

“Something’s wrong with Flurry,” Lucy interrupted.

“What?” Stanford asked, his tone immediately worried. “What’s amiss?”

“Nothing. All is well,” Fleur said, then cleared her throat and forced a smile. “I’m fatigued is all. It has been a long day.”

“That’s because you work far too strenuously,” Stanford said. “You must let your hirelings take more of the responsibility.”

“I’m certain you’re right,” Fleurette agreed. “And I shall take your advice to heart. But for now, I fear I must return to Briarburn.”

“Leave the festivities already? Surely not,” Stanford said. “You still owe me a dance from Lady Anglehill’s party.”

“I’m sorry, Stanford. Truly.” Her head throbbed with impatience, and her stomach roiled. “Might I repay you later?”

His brow was wrinkled with worry. “Of course if you—”

“No,” Lucy said, pushing them together. “No. Dance with her, Stanford. Find out what ails her.”

“Really, Lucille,” Fleur said, and tried to laugh, but Stanford was already reaching for her hand as he stepped up close.

His voice was soft and kind in her ear.

“Please, my lady, I cannot bear to see you sad. Dance with me.”

“Oh very well,” she said, as if mockingly peeved, and allowed herself to be drawn onto the ballroom floor.

His steps were graceful and carefully refined. He remained silent for a while, moving them easily around the other couples.

“Please tell me I’ve not upset you,” he said finally.

“No, Stanford.” She found his eyes with hers. “Of course not. You’ve been nothing but kind since first we met.”

He sighed. ” ‘Tis a relief,” he admitted. “After you shunned me at Lucille’s soirée I feared—”

“I am so sorry for that,” she said, reaching up and touching his cheek. “You are ever so dear to me. I did not mean to hurt you. I just… I have not been myself lately.”

“Truly?” he asked, and smiled. “Then who have you been? Someone just as lovely I’ll warrant.”

“Thank you,” she said, and gave him a misty smile. “My apologies. I should not act so foolishly at Amelia’s wedding.”

” ‘Tis not foolish at all,” he said. “You are troubled. I can see it in your eyes.”

She shook her head.

“Lucille can see it, and you know she is never wrong. Please, Fleurette, let me help. What is amiss?”

She wanted to deny it, but friends were a dear and rare commodity, not to be taken lightly or lied to out of hand. “It’s just that… I’ve been thinking lately.”

“I shouldn’t wonder, what with all the hours you spend at Eddings Carriage of late.”

She gave him a wan smile. “About Thomas’s death.”

“Oh.” He squeezed her hand. “I am sorry, Fleurette. I should not make light. It simply pains me so to see you sad. Thomas’s passing was a terrible tragedy.”