The Passionate One (16 page)

“Allow me to
satisfy your... thirst for knowledge. I will recite,” Ash said, shifting a leg
forward, placing one hand on his hip, and spreading the other across his chest.
His heart pumped dully beneath his palm.

The theatrical
stance, the melodramatic timbre of Ash’s voice mocked the listeners, openly
chastising their prurient fascination; and they resented it. They’d counted him
a friend and none looked more aggrieved at his defection than Phillip. Ash
began to recite:

With rapier
drawn, the eldest son

Dragged his
brother up before him.

And brandishing
his blade, death he gave

To the men who
barred his way.

Blood bloomed
thick on the hoary ground

As Scotsmen were
mowed down.

Like a sickle
cuts through wheat,

They died as
one, the clan complete.

When all about had
silent grown

The laird’s young
orphaned daughter moaned.

And the Demon
Earl kneed his stallion near

And bending
low, lent his ear.

“Why saved you my
worthless son from death?”

He queried low,
beneath his breath.

“To save my
brothers,” she replied.

“Whom George
would kill if your son were to die.”

The Demon Earl
then laughed,

A sound so
wicked, the redcoats gasped.

“John of
McClairen’s head now sits on a pike,

Set above
Temple Bar last night.”

The words clogged
his throat, damning and true yet a truth without honesty. The ballad did not
tell how sickened he’d been by his act, how savagely the clan had beaten Raine,
the number of soldiers who died in the confrontation.

“Do you want the
rest?” he asked, praying they would say no. “Some versions tag on a rather
tiresome denouement.”

“Is the song about
you?” Phillip whispered. “Is it true?”

“True?” Ash asked.
Would they believe him if he said no? He wouldn’t risk being doubly hurt by his
recitation. “Dear me, no. I can attest to the fact that my father is no demon.
All too human, just lately evincing signs of gout—”

“Did it happen that
way?” John Fortnum’s honest, homely face was etched with sadness.

“Yes.” His anger
died on seeing the shocked misery of the listeners, leaving behind only
self-disgust. They’d not known what they were doing. He had. He’d punished them
for his own past.

“Rhiannon will be
so hurt,” John murmured. “She thinks you’re such a nice gentleman.”

She was worth any
ten of them. And they didn’t know it. They had no idea they harbored a refugee.
Good, obedient Rhiannon Russell. Willing to trade her freedom for sanctuary.
Yet beneath that dutiful exterior lay a core of tempered metal, forged by war
and its aftermath. But never tested. Hidden here, instead. Like a Spanish blade
that is packed in wool and tucked away in an attic chest. He turned, suddenly
exhausted, and started to leave.

“Best she didn’t
stay to hear this,” Phillip said mournfully. “Best thing she went off to
collect flowers.”

Rhiannon was
alone
in the woods? Ash wheeled around. He strode back to Phillip’s chair, grabbing
him by his shirt and hefting him half out of his seat. “What did you say?”

“Lemme go,” Phillip
cried. “Don’t mind tellin’ you you’re disappointin’ to me. First I find out
you’re some sort of a demon-spawned murderer and now you’re being flat-out
offensive.” He batted ineffectually at Ash’s hands.

Ash shook him.
“Didn’t she go home?”

“Course, not! She’s
Queen of the May. Went to pluck posies in the forest—”

With an
inarticulate sound, Ash dropped Phillip back in his seat. Rhiannon was alone in
the woods after someone had flung a knife at her but a few days earlier.
Without another word, he left.

Chapter Fourteen

It was too nice a
night to go home, and there was no one to go home with, but most important
Rhiannon didn’t know which way home was. The basket hanging from her arm banged
against her hip as she walked. Only weak moonlight illuminated the forest
floor, and a rising, drifting mist obscured any familiar landmarks.

Rhiannon hesitated
and drew to a halt. Perhaps she should have stayed in the square and found
someone to help her take Edith home. But she was Queen of the May, Virgin Queen
of the May, and the Virgin Queen of the May always,
always,
spent
Beltaine night gathering hawthorn flowers for her May Day coronet.

Of course, the
Queen of the May also always went into the woods knowing that the King of the
May would be in hot pursuit. Traditionally the Queen then spent the night
fending off the King’s advances so that the next day when she was crowned with
those pure, white hawthorn blooms the knowledge that she was just as pure kept
her from blushing. And that was important.

Wasn’t it?

Not that Phillip
had ever pursued too hotly or pushed too heavily. He was a gentleman, after all.

But then again, in
past years when they had been king and queen, they had not been betrothed.
Tonight Phillip might have pressed his suit and she, bedeviled by unfamiliar
urges, might have been receptive. But then he’d gone and broken his ankle.

She gazed glumly
down. Unfortunately, just because the King could not fulfill his role, did not
mean she was exonerated of
her
obligations. And, by the Virgin, hadn’t
she done a ripping good job of it? Over a hundred damn flowers filled her
basket.

Realizing her
profanity, Rhiannon frowned. She was a good, decent young lady. She had been
ever since she’d come to Fair Badden. But lately she didn’t feel very “good.”

She didn’t
understand what was happening to her. She seemed to always be edgy and
irritable. The constant need to be “good” had begun to chaff—even with Edith
Fraiser. Only with Ash Merrick did she feel truly at ease.

Perhaps it was
because she owed him nothing, no debt of gratitude, no unspoken vow of
obedience. Not that she didn’t
love
her life here, and Edith Fraiser,
and all her friends, but sometimes it was hard to discern between love and
obligation. She was more... natural in Ash’s company.

And more likely to
do abominably stupid things.

With a groan,
Rhiannon closed her eyes. She would never have believed herself capable of such
outrageous behavior. Ash Merrick had always treated her with gentlemanly
courtesy—even in his kiss. In return she’d had him hunted, tied, and brought
before her like some criminal. Then she’d proceeded to fall over in a drunken
stupor. How he must loathe her.

She hastened
forward as though she could outdistance her memory, humiliation burning her
cheeks. She’d gone some distance when off to her side came the muted sounds of
dalliance, pleading and private as a novena.

The sound stopped
her as effectively as a stone wall. She strained her ears, listening, swaying
slightly on her feet, as the effects of Edith’s clover wine had not yet fully
left her. She couldn’t see a thing. Darkness and mist combined to hide the
figures making those earnest sounds.

She didn’t dare
venture farther and risk stumbling onto a tryst. What if it were Margaret
Atherton and—

She wheeled around,
her head spinning, and began retracing her steps. She’d almost reached an
ancient, spreading hawthorn when a muted giggle reached her ears. Once more,
she stumbled to a stop.

More lovers? she
wondered in despair. The soft provocative laughter moved off but because of the
fog, she was unable to tell in what direction. With a sound of frustration she
sank to the ground beside the tree’s great trunk.

Stupid Beltaine
customs.

She would just have
to stay here, until the mist lifted or the moon grew stronger or some friendly
woodland sprite took pity on her and led her out of this fantastical world of
blue shadows and earthbound clouds, ghostly luminescence and heady night-born
fragrances.

She leaned her head
back against the tree trunk and closed her eyes, letting the magic of the place
bewitch her, creating fantasies she had no right entertaining, things she’d
fought against but now, here, she found impossible to resist. She forgave
herself.

It was Beltaine
night, after all, and she was alone and she did not want to be the Virgin Queen
of the Virgin May. She wanted Ash Merrick.

The moments grew
one into another. The moon rose with benign leisure as images of a dark,
angular face and a hard lean body filled Rhiannon’s thoughts. He was like
Oberon, she thought, king of the sylvan spirits. Aye, Ash Merrick would make a
fit sovereign of dark enchantment. He’d come silently, materializing from the
shadows, a spirit of pure desire conjured into flesh—

“Rhiannon.”

She opened her
eyes, gazing at him without surprise.
“
Oberon
,”
she whispered. Dark forest
prince, black light-devouring hair, and eyes gilded like steel.

He’d been on one
knee beside her but now he slowly straightened. The mist swirled in agitation
as he rose, slipping from his shoulders like a fairy’s cloak and leaving a
dusting of moon-silvered moisture on his pale skin.

“Ash.”

She sighed,
entranced and warmly intoxicated—by wine and want and by the beauty of him. She
smiled and he stepped forward as though drawn. A light laugh escaped her with
the thought that she might draw him with her smile. But she did not believe it
and her smile turned sad.

“You’re safe,” he said.

“I’d thought so,”
she answered, not yet willing to cede her dreams to reality. As long as they
stayed here in this little island surrounded by mist and magic he was hers. And
wasn’t that what Beltaine was at its core? A night of abandonment... to dreams
and wishes, wants and hopes? And she had never before taken advantage of its
magic. She deserved one Beltaine night.

“I’d thought I was
safe,” she murmured again. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

He tilted his head
and the movement placed his face in shadows so that when he spoke his voice
seemed disembodied, carrying through the moisture-laden air with startling
intimacy. “Why is that?”

“You’re here and so
too am I and I doubt much whether that is a safe thing,” she answered simply.

She heard him catch
his breath. “Do you fear I would hurt you?”

“Never.”

A short telling
pause.
“Unwise, little Titania.”

Titania. Oberon’s
queen.
He might have read her thoughts.

“Unwise for whom?”
she asked gazing into the dark shadows that hid his expression.

“Exactly.”

His shirt rose and
fell in deep, increasing measure but in no other way did he move. Intuitively
she knew he would not make a gesture nor say a word, that he was forcing her to
decide what next happened.

Two days hence and
she would be married and belong to another. Two nights hence and he would
leave.

It was Beltaine,
she told herself with frantic insistence. Beltaine existed apart from the rest
of the year. Its revelries were above the laws governing the rest of the days
and weeks. No one was held accountable for what they did on Beltaine night.

The rest of her
life she would be another’s but not tonight.

She wet her lips
with the tip of tongue, her fear of his rejection nearly paralyzing her, her
mouth dry. She didn’t know what to say, how to win him and he stood so
silently, an attitude of fearful expectancy about him.

Instinctively and
utterly without design she leaned forward, her head lifted, and she raised one
hand, palm up, in supplication. “Please.”

She saw a light
shudder pass through his body.

“Please, Ash.”

Abruptly, as though
some cord binding him had suddenly been severed, he surged forward and dropped
heavily to his knees beside her. Roughly, he pulled her up and into his arms.
His mouth fell on hers with undisguised urgency. He bent her over his arm,
holding her there.

With a sob she
wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, holding fiercely to him. He rained
kisses on her mouth and cheeks, hungry kisses, desperate kisses, kisses long
denied and passionate. His free hand moved, roving over her body in trembling
haste, as though collecting the measure of her, the feel and form of her—a
blind man learning to see.

She cupped his jaw
between her hands, hoarding each sensation—the rasp of his beard against her
palms, the silky coolness of his hair between her fingers, the hard angle of
his jaw.