The Rose and The Warrior (14 page)

“ 'Twas his features I was commenting on, not his manners,” Gillian responded, sounding mildly defensive.

Melantha stared in surprise at her friend, unable to comprehend what had come over her. Gillian was so shy she nearly started at the sight of her own shadow. How could she possibly be attracted to that scowling Viking?

“He is a MacTier, Gillian,” she reminded her sternly.

“Roarke said he and his men were not part of the raid on our home.”

“It doesn't matter if they were or not,” Melantha argued, although she had secretly been relieved to learn that they were not. “He is our sworn enemy. You must not let yourself think foolish thoughts about him.”

Gillian bit her lip and studied her feet, causing the coppery gold cape of her hair to fall forward. It was a gesture she had adopted as a little girl, and she did it when she felt embarrassed and no longer wanted to participate in a conversation. Melantha instantly regretted her adamant tone. Gillian rarely adopted this defeated stance when the two of them were together. She did not like to think that she had caused her gentle friend any distress.

“Forgive me, Gillian,” she said, putting her arm around her. “I did not mean to berate you. It's just that the MacTiers are our prisoners, and as soon as their ransom is paid, they will be returning to their clan. I just want you to remember that.”

“I know,” Gillian said softly. “And I would never dream of actually speaking to the Viking—he frightens me. But I didn't think there was anything wrong with noticing that he has a strong, handsome face, even if his eyes are always burning with fury.”

“Of course there isn't,” Melantha conceded.

How could she say there was, when she had often thought the same thing about Roarke? She despised him and everything he and his men represented—of that there was no doubt. Yet each time she found herself in his presence it was more difficult to look upon him and not notice his powerful form and uncommonly fine features. His was the face of a warrior—hard, fearless, and on the day she had battled him in the forest, he had even looked cruel. His bronzed skin told of a life spent outdoors, his body heated by the sun and cleansed by the clean, sweet winds that blew across the Highlands. Deep lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes, a testament to his advancing age, and an existence that had exposed him to sights most people only feared in their most hideous dreams. And yet there was an unaffected elegance to him, a straightness of carriage and a calmness of bearing that seemed almost reassuring. His body was granite hard, and she had matched swords with enough men to know that he was every bit as powerful as his size suggested. But there was a gentleness to him as well, and even compassion, although he was loath to let anyone see it. Melantha had felt it the day she had fallen from her horse. He had cradled her head in his lap and called her name, the low timbre of his voice drawing her from the swirling clouds of pain and into the exquisitely rough heat of his kiss.

Shame whipped through her, making her feel small and sullied.

“Are you going to rouse the lads?” asked Gillian.

Melantha fumbled clumsily with her belt, then finally succeeded in strapping on her sword. Her cheeks sufficiently cooled, she lifted her gaze to her three brothers. Part of her wanted to let them sleep, because she knew they were growing and needed their rest. But the possibility that something was wrong dictated that they should be with her. She could not protect them if they were separated from her.

“Wake up, lads,” she called softly, kneeling down to stroke Matthew's cheek.

Daniel groaned and pulled the covers over his head. Matthew rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before opening them to smile at her. And little Patrick continued to slumber peacefully in her bed.

“Come, now, 'tis a wonderful new day and we've lots to do.” Melantha moved to the bed to rouse Patrick. “After breakfast you can all practice your swordplay, and later you can help the men with the repairs to the keep.”

Daniel reluctantly pushed down the covers. “Will you give me a lesson in shooting today?”

“We shall have to see. Right now you must get dressed and come down to the courtyard with me. Laird MacKillon wishes to address the clan, and we have to hurry.”

Patrick sat up and smiled at her with sleepy eyes. His hair was a charming mop of red tangles, and Melantha wondered if she had time to take a comb to it. “Why does he want to talk to us so early?” he wondered.

“Have the MacTiers escaped?” demanded Daniel, sitting upright suddenly. His hands balled into angry fists and his rail-thin body tensed for action, as if he meant to spring from his bed and find them.

Melantha tossed Daniel his tattered plaid. “No,” she replied, not surprised that his first thought had been the same as hers. She and Daniel had long been alike in countless ways, and as the eldest male in their family, he saw himself as far more of a man than his thirteen years would permit.

“Then what does Laird MacKillon want?” wondered Matthew, his little brow puckering.

“The sooner you're dressed, the sooner we shall find out,” said Melantha airily, trying to soothe his fear. She sat beside Patrick and began to attack the nest of tangles with a comb. “Splash some water on your faces and get your plaids on. Gillian, please help Matthew, he has trouble with his.”

A few minutes later the little party stepped into the cool early morning light of the courtyard. Despite Melantha's and Gillian's best efforts, the boys looked rather disheveled. Their plaids were untidily arranged with their shirts rising out of them, and all of their hair had stubbornly resisted the efforts of her comb, until finally Melantha had seriously contemplated taking the scissors to them.

Fortunately, most of the clan had not fared much better in their haste to get dressed at such an untimely hour. Most were yawning and making only perfunctory attempts to improve their appearance—a quick rake of fingers through sleep-tousled hair, a minor adjustment to a loosely draped plaid that threatened to drop to the wearer's ankles at any moment, a smoothing of a gown that had accidentally been donned backward. The entire assemblage looked tired and grumpy, and could probably have done with a little ale and bread to fill the emptiness in their stomachs before being summoned out there.

Laird MacKillon, Hagar, and Thor were seated on a platform at the end of the courtyard, waiting for the MacKillons to assemble. Thor had his sword placed upon his lap and was lovingly running his fingers along its edges, testing its sharpness. Laird MacKillon and Hagar were intently studying a diagram on a piece of paper. They frowned at it for a long moment, then turned it on its side. After some animated discussion, they turned it on its other side. This did not appear to improve matters at all. Finally Laird MacKillon called to Roarke, who was discussing some problem with the curtain wall with his men. At Laird MacKillon's bidding he abandoned his discussion and mounted the platform to study the unintelligible piece of paper. He looked at it barely an instant before turning it upside down. Comprehension crept slowly across the elders' faces. They began to nod their heads and congratulate each other, pleased that they had sorted it out.

Melantha watched as Roarke strode from the platform and resumed his conversation with Eric, Donald, and Myles. His limp was gone, and he walked with easy, confident purpose. Unlike the rest of her clan, he did not appear to be the least bit weary. His saffron shirt and red-and-black plaid were immaculately arranged, and his dark leather jerkin was tightly laced across the solid expanse of his chest. He gazed up at the battlements and pointed out something to Eric, who was adamantly shaking his head. But Roarke did not agree with his warrior. He continued to gesture at the parapet, and then to the towers, until finally Eric seemed to be swayed by whatever argument he was making. Roarke nodded with satisfaction and turned to regard the crowd.

Power emanated from his very core as he surveyed the group, and the lines of his face were set with rigid determination. Melantha stared at him in fascination. She had told herself that Roarke was her prisoner—a dangerous warrior who had been captured in the woods and was now completely at the mercy of her and her clan. But as he stood with his muscled legs braced apart and his powerful arms folded across his chest, she could not imagine him being at anyone's mercy. A faint breeze was blowing through the long black strands of his hair, causing them to brush lightly against the bronzed plane of his freshly shaven jaw. Melantha found herself recalling what it was like to lay her hand against his cheek, how it had felt warm and strong and rough all at once, like a fine layer of sunwashed sand. When Roarke had bent his head and tasted her with his lips, she had longed for the masculine roughness of his skin next to hers, setting her flesh afire as he flushed her senses with heat and pleasure.

“What's the matter with you, Melantha?” asked Daniel, frowning. “You look kind of funny.”

“Nothing,” she replied, tearing her gaze off Roarke.

Gillian looked at her with concern. “You do look a little flushed. Perhaps you should sit down.”

“I'm fine,” Melantha insisted, feeling as if her face were in flames.

“You're all red,” observed Matthew.

“Do you feel like throwing up?” chirped Patrick, sounding excited by the possibility.

“No—I'm fine,” Melantha insisted, wishing they would all just leave her alone. “I probably just need to eat something.”

Gillian and the boys looked at her in astonishment. Too late Melantha realized that she had just succeeded in making them more concerned, for she almost never felt hungry anymore.

“Shall I run inside and fetch you something?” asked Gillian, eager to feed her.

“I could go,” Patrick offered.

“I can run faster,” argued Daniel.

“That's just because you're bigger,” Patrick informed him. “It doesn't make him better than me, does it, Melantha?”

“I never said I was better,” objected Daniel, “but I can run faster. That's just a fact.”

“But I want to go!” insisted Patrick.

“I'm really not hungry,” interjected Melantha.

“Oh.” Gillian's disappointment was obvious.

“I am,” said Patrick, trying to cheer Gillian up.

She put her arm around him. “Then we shall find you something to eat right after Laird MacKillon's announcement.”

“When is he going to speak, anyway?” wondered Daniel impatiently. “I have to go practice my swordplay so I'll be able to fight the MacTiers when they come back.”

Matthew regarded him with alarm. “The MacTiers are coming back?”

“Of course not,” soothed Melantha, casting Daniel a warning look.

“In case they come back,” Daniel amended, understanding that Matthew and Patrick were just babies and could not be expected to understand such grown-up matters.

Laird MacKillon rose slowly from his chair to address his people. “I know 'tis a terrible thing to rouse a body at this ungodly hour of the morning—”

“ 'Tis still night as far as I'm concerned,” grumbled Thor.

“—but it is very important that everyone hears what Roarke has to say.”

“Then let's hear it so we can go back to bed!” suggested Ninian.

The clan laughed.

“As you know, the attack by the MacTiers some months ago has left our holding in rather a bad way,” continued Laird MacKillon. “And Roarke has brought it to my attention that we might not be able to defend ourselves should we be attacked again.”

“Who would want to attack us?” wondered Gelfrid. “We've nothing left since the MacTiers stripped us of everything.”

“I've got this worn pair of boots.” Mungo raised his foot to wiggle his naked big toe. “Perhaps the greedy filchers will be back for them!”

Laughter rose once again from the clan.

“A vulnerable holding will draw an attacker,” Roarke said with flat certitude. “There is always something to be gained, even if it is just a night of revelry and some food.”

Uneasy silence fell over the courtyard.

“When the MacTiers attacked you the first time, they could not be sure if there were riches within these walls, or nothing more than a few rusted swords and some barrels of ale,” he continued, regarding them seriously. “It didn't matter. Whatever they found was theirs for the taking, and it cost them virtually nothing. By now the tale of your effortless defeat has reached other clans, who one day may decide to ride over here and see what remains for them to acquire.”

“You mean steal,” corrected Ninian angrily.

Roarke shrugged. “Call it what you will.”

“By God, if anyone dares attack us again, they'll feel the cold steel of my sword slit their belly!” shouted Thor. He braced his hand on the back of his chair and struggled to rise while lifting his heavy sword. Ultimately the effort proved too much, and he collapsed into the chair, dropped his sword, and dissolved into a fit of phlegmy coughing. “Ale,” he gasped, motioning to young Keith.

The lad obligingly went running to fetch him his drink.

“Better bring a jug of it,” Thor advised, thumping himself on his chest. “If this is my time, by God, I shall not go out in need of a drink!”

“If we're in danger of attack, what are we supposed to do about it?” demanded Gelfrid.

“The MacTiers slew some twenty-six of our bravest men, and tried to destroy our homes and reduce our castle to rubble,” said Ninian. “We're less able to defend ourselves now than we were when they attacked the first time.”

“But we won't be once we get the ransom for these prisoners and secure an alliance with the MacKenzies,” Colin reminded them. He looked pointedly at Roarke. “That's why they're here.”

“It is good that you plan to make alliances with other clans,” said Roarke, ignoring the issue of his ransom. “But it is not enough. No invader is going to send you a missive detailing the day and time of his attack. You must be prepared to fend off an assault yourself, at least until you can get word to your allies and they are able to get here.”