Taming the Barbarian (25 page)

“How long have we known each other?”

She shrugged. “Since well before my marriage. Near eight years I suspect.”

“And in all that time do you truly believe I have not become accustomed to your every nuance?”

“Stanford, I—”

“I know of your indiscretion,” he said.

She reared back. “What?”

His expression was somber, his eyes sincere. “As I told you, I had hoped to see you. Thus I traveled to Briarburn last night.”

“No,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “It was late and dark. Still, I could not wait to be with you once again. But before I reached the house…”

He paused.

“Stanford.” She felt sick to her stomach, weak and ashamed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know that. I know,” he said, and touched her cheek. His fingertips were soft and gentle. “And that’s why I forgive you. I know he’s not the sort of man you would choose to wed.” He laughed. “My God, you’re a lady of the first water and he’s…” He let the sentence drop as he slipped his fingers into her hair. “It’s not as if my own record is without blemish.”

“You know,” she breathed, unbelieving. “You were there. And you forgive me?”

“What are my options, Fleurette?” His expression was haunted, but his eyes kind.

“I don’t—”

“Would you be happier if I flew into a rage?”

“No!” Memories reared up, ugly and painful. “Of course not. But…” What would the Scotsman have done? Certainly not stood there and watched while his betrothed lay with another. But perhaps Stanford’s actions were those of true love. Perhaps that was mature… and perhaps that wasn’t what she truly wanted. Despite everything, maybe she longed for passion, for feeling, for heat. “Don’t you care?” she asked.

“Care!” He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as if attempting to close out the burning memory “You think I could see you with—” He paused, drew a breath, and found her gaze with his. ” ‘Tis my caring that makes me forgive,” he said, and suddenly she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. “For ‘tis that or lose you forever.”

“Oh, Stanford.” She touched his face. “I am so very sorry.”

“Just say…” He skimmed his hand down her arm to take her fingers in his. “Just swear you will not do so again.”

She tried to say just that, to promise fidelity, to swear to everlasting faithfulness. But memories of the previous night lingered like scented mists in her mind—the swell of hardened muscles beneath her hand, the roar of emotions, the inexplicable feeling of belonging.

“Kiss me,” she said suddenly.

He blinked, uncertain. “What?”

“Kiss me,” she said, and held her breath as she watched him.

His eyes showed his doubt, but finally he leaned in. His lips met hers. The kiss was filled with tenderness and caring, with promise of forever and eternal security.

She felt nothing.

He drew away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Fleurette—”

“I just…” Her mind was whirling, but one thing was certain; she could not marry this man while she longed for another, no matter the consequences. “I cannot marry you, Stanford. I’m so sorry.”

“Please,” he entreated, squeezing her hands and holding her gaze in his limpid stare. “Don’t do anything you’ll later regret.”

“Forgive me,” she said, and, turning, ran from the garden.

She was astride
Fille
in a matter of moments, galloping madly toward Briarburn. The mare’s hooves beat a quick tattoo against the hard-packed road. But neither speed nor distance would drive Stanford’s forlorn expression from Fleur’s memory.

She slowed the mare to a walk and swiped at her face, smearing tears across her cheek.

What was wrong with her? All these months, all these
years
, she had told herself she had no time for overbearing men. She respected gentle men, kind men, those who could nurture and cherish. Those who weren’t afraid of a woman with strength and drive. But now the truth was out. She cared for neither goodness nor tenderness. Indeed, she was attracted to the opposite— to a man who was barbaric and callused, who wanted nothing more than to overpower her.

But was that the truth of the matter? If Killian had wished to harm her, to take her against her will, he could have done so without effort. Instead, he seemed forever to be beside her when she most needed him, to guard her body just as the Black Celt guarded her home. Memories of the night before filled her mind. Feelings of belonging swamped her, as if she had ever been in his arms, as if she were destined for his touch, his…

Hoofbeats shattered her heated thoughts. She turned in the saddle. A horse raced around the bend behind her, ears flattened back with its speed. In a moment she recognized its rider.

“Stanford.” She breathed his name even as he drew his gelding to a halt some yards away.

“Fleurette.” His voice was breathy, his face flushed.

“Stanford? Whatever are you doing here?”

“I could not let you go,” he said. His expression was mournful now and his eyes haunted. “Not without trying one last time to change your mind. Not without—”

“Please,” she interrupted, unable to bear to hear his words. “Stan, I’m so sorry. Truly I am, but I cannot marry you. Don’t you see? It would be wrong. Selfish. You deserve more.”

“Perhaps,” he said, and smiled wanly. “But I want you.”

She shook her head. “When you’ve had time to think it through, you’ll see that I’m right. You could never forgive me. Not really.”

“And yet I love you,” he whispered. “Marry me, Fleurette.”

For a moment she almost weakened, almost crumbled. But surely she had learned better by now. The wrong marriage was far worse than no marriage at all.

“I can’t. You must understand. For the rest of our lives, I would wonder if you’re thinking about what I’ve done. If you resent me. If—”

“I could never resent you.”

She scowled, baffled and lost. “How can that be? After what you’ve seen. After—”

“After what I’ve seen?” He sighed and, closing his eyes, shook his head with a wistful smile. “Believe me, love, I’ve seen far worse.”

“I can’t believe you…” she began, then paused. “What?” she asked.

“I am saying that I know you killed Thomas, Fleurette. Indeed, I saw you do it.”

“W
hat?” Fleurette’s world was spinning. All was madness. She shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to think. “What are you saying? My husband drowned. We had a… a disagreement, yes. But I didn’t… I wouldn’t…” Her chest felt tight around her heart. “I left him in the boat and walked back to Briarburn alone. I thought he would follow me. But he didn’t. He never came home.” She felt panicky and stiff, as if Thomas were watching her even now, accusing her. As if he knew everything she did. Everything she had done. “He never returned to Briarburn.”

“So you told one and all that he had been drinking,” Stanford said.

She nodded woodenly. “He was intoxicated.”

“Everyone knew he couldn’t hold his liquor.”

“Yes.”

“It was easy for them to believe that he must have become inebriated and toppled into the river.”

” ‘Tis the only explanation.”

“But ‘twas not true was it, my dear?”

“Yes. He—”

“I was there, Fleurette,” Stanford said. His tone was sad and soft, his expression pitying.

“What?” The single word was barely audible to her own ears.

“I was there. In the woods, just out of sight.”

She shook her head, but he continued on.

” ‘Twas a lovely afternoon.” His eyes looked far away, as if he walked a dream. “Not like today.” He shivered. “How I detest the rain. So gloomy. A fellow can neither keep his spirits up nor his footwear unstained. But I digress.” He turned back toward her, almost as if startled to find her there and gave her a wistful smile. “You and your beloved were picnicking on the River Nettle. You had packed a luncheon with your own sweet hands.”

“How do you know that?” she breathed.

“You had packed a lunch,” he repeated “But you had forgotten the wine. Or maybe…” He scowled a little as if thinking. “Maybe ‘twas an act of self-preservation. Thomas was a fine man. God knows I loved him like a brother. But he could be…” He shook his head, as though the truth pained him even now. “Unpleasant when intoxicated. He had already been drinking when you drew anchor. And that is to say nothing of the bottle he brought along.”

Memories crowded in, dark and haunting, smothering Fleurette like a blanket of smoke. “I begged him not to drink,” she whispered.

“I know you did, love. I know,” Stanford crooned, leaning toward her from his chestnut. “And he should have listened. Should have realized you only wanted what was best for him.”

She tried to nod, but her neck felt stiff and her head was spinning. “You were… watching us? Spying on us?”

“Perhaps you could call it that. Perhaps I was wrong to be there at all. But the truth is this…” He paused momentarily and let his eyes fall closed. “Even then I longed for you. Indeed, I had for years. My Fleurette, my lovely flower, so beautiful, so elegant. I tried to deny it. You were, after all, my Clarice’s sister by law and the wife of my very dear friend.” He shook his head. “Poor Clarice.” His eyes shone in the lowering sun. “She could hardly hold a candle to your luminous beauty. Still it was a terrible pity when she died. Except that it gave me more time to be near you. To watch you. You and Thomas.”

Fleurette felt the hair lift eerily along her arms.

“Such a lovely couple. Everyone said so. He cut quite a dashing figure, did he not?” His smile was wistful. “And you… always so demure… so refined. Until that afternoon.”

Terror leaned in with the memories, crushing her, turning her cold. She cringed away as if they were a visible force. “You saw him strike me,” she whispered.

He held her gaze, then closed his eyes again as if the memories pained him. “I did, Fleurette. I did, and I wanted to help you. Truly. But… He was your husband. You were bound to him, both legally and morally. What could I do?” He winced, then gave her a wan smile. “But in the end it matters not, for finally you fought back.”

She wanted to deny his words, but it was too late. The pain was too real, her need to confess overpowering. “I was so afraid,” she whispered. “I thought…” She winced, seeing it all again, his anger-reddened face, his clenched fists. “I was certain he was going to kill me.”

“So you struck him with the oar.”

“I didn’t intend to hurt him.” Her words came out in gasps. “Only to… to stop him, to bring him to his senses.”

“No one can blame you for attempting to protect yourself, Fleurette. Indeed, if anyone is at fault, it is I.”

“You?”

“I knew,” he murmured. “I knew he beat you.”

“No.” She shook her head though she had no idea why The truth was out, and yet the pain of her humiliation was almost too much to bear.

“I saw the bruises, Fleurette.”

She was still shaking her head. “I often fell. I am so clumsy sometimes. ‘Twas—”

“Please, my love,” he entreated. “There is no need to protect him. Not anymore.”

She stared into space, remembering back against her will. Her hands shook on the reins, but she did not care. “Why did he hate me so?”

“Hate you! No,” Stanford argued. “He could not have hated you, my love. No one could. He simply… He was troubled. And the drinking…” He shook his head. “I should have done something. I should have come to your aid.”

She heard him speak, but his words failed to register, for she was back on the river, and she was small again. Small and young and defenseless. The air was warm, the sky a blue so brilliant it all but hurt the eyes, and yet she was cold with fear. Death stalked her. She could feel its breath. And she did not wish to die. Thomas was rising clumsily to his feet, his handsome face distorted with rage. The boat wobbled erratically beneath her as he approached. She clutched the gunwale, trying to steady the vessel, to scoot backward, to survive.

“I tried to reason with him,” she whispered. “I tried to calm him.” He’d not heard her. Not then, not ever. His rage was all-consuming. She tripped over the oar and scrambled backward. “I grabbed it,” she rasped. She could feel the rough wood against her palms once again. “It was heavy, and I was terrified. I swung with all my might. There was a noise.” She jerked at the echoing sound. “And then blood.” It dripped down his face in tiny rivulets, diverted around his nose, darkening his lips. “He looked so… surprised. He staggered back.” She held out a hand as if she could still catch him, could start anew, make things right. But things had never been right, though she’d been too naïve to realize that until it was too late. “I thought he would stop. I thought…” She swallowed, but the terror remained, twisting her gut, shaking her hands. “But he came toward me again.” She was breathing hard. Her muscles ached with tension. “He was so strong. Much stronger than he looked. Much stronger than I.”

“So you struck him again.”

She nodded, remembering. She had screamed, had begged him to think, to be merciful, but he’d kept coming, staggering toward her, drunk, wounded, incensed. She had swung without thinking, without intending to. Indeed, even now it seemed as if it had been someone else. Someone strong. Not her, not the frightened girl with the too-big eyes and the scrawny figure.

“He fell into the boat.” Her voice was very small. She saw it all, as if it were happening again. He’d crumpled slowly, fighting the debilitating weakness. Down against the keel, his fingers splayed harmlessly against the boat’s ribs. “I thought he’d get up. I thought I only had a moment to escape before he recovered.” She winced. “I didn’t think he’d drown. He always seemed… invincible.”

She glanced frantically down the road, remembering her scrambling flight over the gunwale and into the water. It was shockingly cold, despite the heat of the day, but she hadn’t cared. It splashed around her, the droplets shining like crystals in the still air. She’d gasped at the shock of it, then slipped on a rock. Water drenched her face, soaking her, pulling her under. For one horrible moment she’d thought he’d caught her. Terror ripped at her heart. But she jerked to her feet. Mud tugged at her slippers. She was sobbing when she reached solid ground. She jerked about, certain he was behind her. But she was alone. Scrambling up the rocky riverbank, her face wet with tears and mud, she scurried into the woods.