The Rose and The Warrior (27 page)

“Oh, God,” murmured Roarke, feeling her anguish as surely as if it were his own.

“His eyes never left mine as he sank to his knees,” she whispered, the words raw and halting. “He looked absolutely terrified. But not for himself,” she qualified. “His gaze stayed upon me, and all I could see was this awful fear—for what the MacTiers were going to do to me.” A ragged sob began to choke her.

Roarke drew her even tighter into his arms, trying to absorb some of her pain.

“Two warriors grabbed me then, and instead of killing me they decided to just drag me away from the battle. I screamed and struggled against them—not because I cared what they were going to do to me, but because I could see my da was dying and—” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “I wanted to be with him. I pleaded with them to let me go to him, so I could hold him…be with him…I didn't want him to be alone.” Her words were drowning in tears. “But they just laughed and took me away. And my beautiful, brave da was left to bleed to death on the ground, watching his only daughter be dragged off by two warriors. And he was in agony, because he was terrified of what they were going to do to me and—he was helpless to stop them.”

She ground her face against Roarke's chest. Deep, racking sobs shook her body while her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Roarke did not know what to do except to hold her. His embrace was so tight he thought he might bruise her tender flesh or even crush a bone, but he did not ease his grip.

He thought about the excruciating burden of guilt, and how it could eat away at a soul until there was nothing but a frail shell left where once there had been a whole person. It was an affliction he knew well, for he believed that if he had only been at Muriel's side to help her endure the shocking pain of their daughter's death, he would have helped his gentle wife to find the strength to go on. Melantha was weeping for the loss of her father, but that was not what was destroying her soul.

What was truly torturous was the belief that she had caused his horrible death.

“It wasn't your fault, Melantha,” he told her firmly, pulling her up so he could look into her eyes.

“I killed him,” she protested brokenly. “I defied his orders, and distracted him when he was fighting for his very life. Had I obeyed him and stayed with my brothers, he never would have been killed.”

“Your clan was under attack, Melantha,” Roarke pointed out. “Your father could have been killed at any moment—if not by that warrior, then by the next one who challenged him. And if he had been slain while you hid with your brothers, you would be punishing yourself now for not having fought at his side.”

She stared at him uncertainly, weighing the validity of his argument. And then she shook her head, dismissing it. “He died believing I was about to be beaten and raped,” she whispered. “I wasn't, but that was his last thought as his life drained into the ground.”

“Perhaps,” Roarke allowed, tracing the shimmering path of her tears with his fingers. “But do you truly believe that was all that filled his mind in those last moments, Melantha?” he asked, his voice low and gentle. “Your father was not a man who made war, but he understood the importance of knowing how to defend those he loved. That is why he trained you from a tender age in the art of using a bow and a sword. And in those last moments, he was filled with an overwhelming love and pride at the sight of his beautiful daughter standing on the stairs above him, bravely helping her clan to ward off its enemies.”

She bit her quivering lip, considering his words.

“ 'Tis clear to me your father knew from the time you were a bairn that you were no ordinary lass, and he was determined to see that you were trained to realize the best of your abilities,” Roarke continued, his hand caressing the dark silk of her hair. “Imagine the pride he must have felt seeing you shooting arrows into the enemy, showing not the slightest hint of fear as you fought to protect your home. In his last moments he was overwhelmed with the vision of your courage and your love. It is never easy to die, Melantha, but that is as fine an image as any man could hope to take with him as he leaves his mortal body.”

Melantha regarded him with anxious uncertainty, wanting to believe him, but reluctant to release the guilt she had so painfully endured for so long. “Do you really think so?”

Her tears had stopped, but her eyes were still glittering, making them large and hauntingly luminous. She was unfathomably beautiful to him in that moment, as all the elements of her melded into one gloriously courageous yet achingly vulnerable woman. She was not his and she never would be, and the knowledge filled him with unbearable loss. But in this hushed moment, as she lay cradled against him studying him hopefully, she was as close to being his as she ever would be.

“Yes, Melantha,” he whispered, turning her onto her back and stretching his hard body over her exquisite softness once more.

She rose to meet his kiss, wrapping her slender arms around the chiseled marble of his shoulders. He buried himself inside her and began to move, kissing her tenderly as he quickly roused her once again. He sought to wash away the last vestiges of her guilt, to free her from the torment that slashed at her heart, and in doing so, perhaps assuage some of his own guilt as well.

And so they pulsed together in the flickering candlelight, lost to the splendid fire burning within them, and the aching need that bound their souls into one.

C
HAPTER
9

Melantha sighed and burrowed deeper beneath the warm haven of her covers.

Only the barest hint of light filtered through her leaden eyelids, so she was certain it could not be not much past dawn. Just another hour, she told herself sleepily, nuzzling the feathery depths of her pillow. No one could possibly have risen yet anyway. Another hour, and she would still be among the first to stir within the castle.

A hideous drone shattered the morning stillness, rousing her as effectively as a stake being driven into her ear. Unable to imagine what Thor could be thinking playing his pipes at such an ungodly hour, she heaved back the covers and stalked angrily to the window.

Roarke, his men, and the MacTier prisoners were assembled in the courtyard below, listening with admirable grace as Thor blasted away on his hopelessly damaged bagpipes. Roarke and his warriors were fully armed and their horses were saddled. The other prisoners were not armed and did not have mounts, but it was clear they were also leaving. Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick were at the forefront of the large group of MacKillons who had assembled to bid them good-bye. Melantha watched in surprise as Matthew stepped forward and tentatively offered a folded square of paper to Roarke. The enormous warrior opened it, then lowered himself onto one knee and gently ruffled Matthew's hair.

A terrible chill swept through her. Whirling about, she snatched up the plaid from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, then raced down the corridor, her bare feet flying against the frigid stone floor.

“…and when you look at it, you'll always remember,” finished Matthew, his earnest little face regarding Roarke with something akin to worship.

Roarke nodded gravely, studying the drawings he held in his hands. Matthew's artistry was surprisingly skilled for a mere lad of ten. The first sketch showed Roarke being held upside down by Finlay and Myles as he reached for Matthew and dragged him back to safety. In the interest of modesty, Roarke's plaid stiffly defied the forces of nature and remained squarely covering his backside. But it was the second drawing that moved Roarke beyond the possibility of speech. In it Matthew was standing with his arms wrapped around Roarke, and above it, in simple, childish letters, he had printed a single word.

‘Friends.'

“Do you like it?” prodded Matthew, uncertain of Roarke's silence.

“Yes,” said Roarke, fearing if he said more his emotions would betray him. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“When I get to be older, will you come back and teach me how to fight?” asked Patrick hopefully.

“He's not coming back,” interjected Daniel.

“Why not?” asked Patrick.

“Because he's a MacTier,” explained Daniel. His eyes were intense as he studied Roarke, but they did not seem to harbor the same anger they had reflected from the moment he and his men had arrived. “You're not coming back, are you?”

Roarke hesitated, uncertain how to respond.

“I packed you some extra food for your journey,” said Gillian, shyly stepping forward to hand Eric a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I thought you might get hungry.”

Eric regarded the carefully arranged package in surprise.

“You didn't by chance pack us some of your splendid posset, did you?” teased Donald.

“No,” said Gillian, her gaze fast upon Eric. “But I shall always keep some ready—in case you ever return.”

Her blue eyes were glittering like a sun-dappled loch, so beautiful and so filled with regret that it made Eric's heart ache to look upon her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to tell her not to be sad, that if she wanted him to stay he gladly would, if only she would say the words. But duty required him to follow Roarke, and an unfamiliar sense of propriety told him it was not fitting to drag a maid into his arms before her entire clan, especially when he had no formal claim upon her. And so he simply held her gaze, feeling not at all like a fearsome Viking warrior, but strangely powerless and wholly inadequate.

“Well, then, my brave hero, it seems this is farewell,” said Katie, walking boldly up to Myles. “Now, I'll have your word that you'll not be turning any other lasses' heads with your flowery talk about hips and arms,” she scolded with mock severity.

“I'll not be speaking to any other lasses at all,” Myles swore.

Katie laughed. “That's just what I wanted to hear, never mind that you won't be able to keep your word beyond the first lass who smiles your way after me!”

“Lasses never smile at me,” replied Myles. “Only you do.”

She was about to laugh again, but was stopped by the earnestness of his expression. “Well, then, they're fools,” she said softly. She leaned into him and kissed him soundly upon his cheek.

“Good Lord, what the devil has possessed Melantha?” demanded Magnus in astonishment.

She was hurrying across the grass in her bare feet, her slender form barely covered by the thin chemise floating about her, the plaid under which she and Roarke had lain together clutched hastily around her shoulders. Her hair was a loose tangle of mahogany, and Roarke found himself longing to reach out and touch it, to run his fingers through its impossible softness and gently brush it off her face.

Instead he forced his hands to his sides and regarded her with deliberate calm, giving no intimation of the passion that had raged between them the previous night.

“Here, now, lass, what in the name of St. Cuthbert do ye think ye're doin' flyin' about half-naked when ye should be lyin'in yer bed restin'?” demanded Magnus sternly.

“I—I came to say good-bye,” stammered Melantha, staring at Roarke.

“Of course you did, dear,” said Beatrice, “and now that you've done so, let's get you back inside where it's warm.”

“Let her stay,” objected Thor, wrestling his pipes back up onto his bony shoulder. “I've another tune to play.”

“Your pardon, Thor, but unfortunately there's no time for another of your tunes,” Laird MacKillon said apologetically. “I do believe the weather is about to turn, and these lads must be on their way.”

The early morning sky was choked with clouds and a sharp wind was rising, whipping Melantha's hair against her cheek as she clutched her makeshift cloak even tighter.

“I thought you told your clan three days,” she said to Roarke, wondering if she sounded nearly as desperate as she felt.

“ 'Tis best we go now,” Roarke told her. “The longer we wait, the more time my clan has to grow angry and demand vengeance. The moment I return I will speak to Laird MacTier and stop him from sending any further forces.”

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He was leaving to protect the welfare of her people.

Why then did she feel as if he were abandoning her?

“You are not safe until my men and I are gone, Melantha,” Roarke added gently, sensing her distress. “You know that.”

She inhaled a steadying breath, fighting to maintain some semblance of control as she stood before him. “You were supposed to deliver the Falcon to your laird,” she pointed out. “How will you explain your failure to do so?”

Roarke shrugged. “Unfortunately, I never found him.” He lowered his voice so that the MacTier prisoners could not hear him. “My people only know that the MacKillons captured us—they have no idea that the Falcon is one of them. I don't intend to enlighten them.”

“But what if your laird sends you out once again to capture the Falcon?” she persisted.

“My days of leading such missions are over,” he replied. “I intend to retire to the holding I have been promised as payment for a lifetime of service.”

She could not contain her surprise. “Laird MacTier has built you a holding of your own?”

“He has not built it,” Roarke corrected. “He has a number of properties subject to his control which require someone to protect and manage them. I am to be granted one of those estates.”

Her expression hardened. “You mean homes that have been taken by force.”

“It isn't what you think,” Roarke countered. “These holdings have been acquired over many years, and they are stronger and more bountiful for being in our possession. The people who live there go about their lives just as they did before, secure in the knowledge that they are now protected by the entire force of the MacTier army.”

“How very comforting,” observed Melantha, her voice dripping scorn. “To be guarded by those who attacked you and stripped you of your freedom and possessions. I suppose the only reason your benevolent clan did not see fit to make such an arrangement with us was because they believed there was nothing of value left to protect.”

“I cannot change what my clan did to your people, Melantha,” he said, knowing it was beyond her ability to ever forgive him for that. “However, I am going to try to convince Laird MacTier to send your clan aid, to help replace that which you have lost.”

A bitter laugh erupted from her chest. “Why would he want to help us?”

“Because I will tell him he should,” Roarke replied. “If he refuses, then I give you my word that once I am settled, I will send your people provisions myself. All I ask of you is that you cease your raids on the MacTiers and their allies.”

“Can you possibly believe that I will accept stolen provisions from an oppressed people?” she demanded, incredulous.

“Any estate I oversee will not be oppressed,” Roarke said impatiently.

“They will have been terrorized into submission long before your arrival,” she countered. “You will just continue to hold a sword over their heads, forcing them to obey you out of fear.”

“Your pardon, Melantha, but are you almost finished bidding our guests farewell?” wondered Laird MacKillon. “I do believe the weather is about to turn for the worse.”

Heavy drops of rain began to splat against them.

“Make way for my pipes!” shouted Thor, cuddling his beloved instrument in his arms as he headed back toward the castle. “Stand aside, I say!”

“I am trying to help your people, Melantha,” persisted Roarke, disliking the way things were ending between them. “Why can you not accept that?”

“I don't want provisions that have been stolen from others,” Melantha informed him coldly. “If my people are in need, then we will take directly from those who have stolen from us—not from their victims.”

The rain was falling harder now, soaking her hair and chemise. She pulled her plaid tighter and continued to face him, like some magnificent forest creature who was accustomed to the elements and wholly untroubled by the storm rising around her.

“If you don't mind, lads, I'll be saying farewell now,” said Laird MacKillon, waving as he shuffled toward the keep. “Safe journey.”

“It is gettin' a wee bit damp,” Magnus agreed. “Are ye lads sure ye don't want to wait until the rain is past?”

As he stared down at Melantha, Roarke was sorely tempted to use the rain as an excuse to stay. He had silently bid her farewell when he stole from her chamber early that morning—knowing as he did that if he lingered even a moment longer, he would take her into his arms and never leave her side again. He had hoped she would not waken until after he was gone. Yet he would not have relinquished for anything this moment of seeing her standing before him, rain drenched, angry, and filled with fire.