The Rose and The Warrior (38 page)

Roarke shook his head. “There is nothing you could give me that would change this.”

“Eric—Myles—Donald,” called Laird MacTier. “You owe your loyalty to me before Roarke. Help me now, and you will each receive a fortune in gold.”

“My allegiance has always been to Roarke first,” Eric told him bluntly. “And no amount of gold could compare to the jewel that awaits me at the MacKillon holding.”

“By all the saints, I knew it!” burst out Magnus, nearly releasing his next arrow in his excitement. “Ye may have fooled some with all that savage Viking business, but I knew our sweet Gillian would see through it!”

Colin regarded Eric incredulously. “Are you referring to my sister?”

Eric nodded.

“But she is terrified of you,” Colin protested.

“No.” A peculiar warmth flooded through Eric as he realized he was declaring his intentions before Gillian's brother and clan. “She isn't.”

“Myles,” pleaded Laird MacTier, dismissing Eric, “think of what you could do with all that gold!”

Myles shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I don't need any gold. If you gave me some I would just give it to the MacKillons.”

“I'm afraid our Myles has been struck by the arrow of love as well,” Donald observed, smiling. “Her name is Katie,” he added, as if he genuinely thought Laird MacTier might find this information interesting.

“What about you, Donald?” demanded Laird MacTier, growing frantic.

“Alas, I haven't met the woman who will be my wife yet,” Donald told him. “But thank you for asking.”

Laird MacTier's eyes narrowed on Roarke. “By turning against your clan, you spit upon the graves of your own wife and child.”

“My wife was devoted to both her clan and to me,” Roarke replied, infuriated that MacTier would attempt to use their precious memory against him. “And my daughter was devoted to her mother. Were they alive today, I have no doubt that they would respect me for my actions.”

“You cannot kill me.” His tone was almost pleading.

“I have no intention of killing you,” Roarke assured him. “As long as you agree to my terms.”

Laird MacTier regarded him warily. “Which are?”

“I will have your word that you and your allies will leave the MacKillons in peace, and that you will cease your pursuit of the Falcon and her outlaws.”

“She tried to kill me!” objected Laird MacTier. “Twice!”

“If I had wanted to kill you that last arrow would have punctured your heart instead of your wrist,” pointed out Melantha. “I was merely trying to stop you from killing Roarke.”

“Let us say you will both refrain from trying to murder each other,” said Roarke. “In return for your assurance of peace, the Falcon will cease to prey upon the MacTiers and their allies, and I will spare your life and the lives of your men.”

Laird MacTier hesitated, considering.

“If you do not agree, I shall permit my men and these outlaws to cut you and your warriors to pieces,” said Roarke. “I know that Derek here has managed to raise the ire of at least several members of the Falcon's band. They would take great pleasure in seeing scraps of him scattered throughout these woods.”

Derek paled.

His face contorted with pain and defeat, Laird MacTier nodded. “Very well.”

“You will also renounce any claim upon the holding you gave me—”

“I knew that was too sweet a gift for you to surrender.” His tone was laden with scorn.

“—and you will grant complete freedom to its inhabitants and refrain from ever attempting to conquer it again.”

Laird MacTier regarded him in astonishment. “You're not keeping it?”

“It is not mine to keep,” Roarke informed him, “just as it was not yours to give.”

“Fine.”

“Swear it,” insisted Roarke. “Upon your honor.”

“I swear it!” he snapped. “Upon my bloody honor!”

“Well, now, I'm not sure what good an oath like that is,” scoffed Magnus, “when 'tis a well known fact that ye have no honor.”

Laird MacTier's face turned scarlet with rage. “How dare you!”

“How can we be sure that he will keep his word?” demanded Colin.

“He has no choice,” Roarke told him. “He has made a vow in front of his own men. Were he to break his word, his army would never trust him. Knowledge of his deceit would quickly spread, until all his allies would sever their ties with him, and he would be left isolated and powerless.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Magnus conceded. “But mind my words, ye'll be feelin' more than a shaft through yer wrist if ye try any more foolishness, do ye hear?”

“If you've all finished with your threats, would you kindly let me go before I bleed to death?” asked Laird MacTier.

“I'll remove that arrow if ye like,” offered Magnus, suddenly feeling generous. “Ye'd not be the first MacTier to benefit from my touch.” He winked at Roarke.

“I'd recommend trying to live with the arrow,” Roarke advised dryly. “Your men will be stripped of their weapons and their mounts before being released. As you are injured, you may retain your horse.”

“Thank you,” drawled Laird MacTier, still cradling his dripping arm.

Roarke gestured for his men and Melantha's band to relieve the MacTiers of their weapons.

“I suggest you leave these woods quickly,” he said, picking up Laird MacTier's sword and examining the heavily jeweled hilt. “ 'Tis a known fact that they are filled with outlaws.”

He tossed the sword onto a pile and turned away.

Melantha wove her way through the columns of trees in silence, leaving behind the low rumble of snoring and the smoky scent of dying fires. She had found a small stream to bathe in, and the night air washed over her damp skin as she followed the liquid path through the darkness. Finally the woods came to an end, and she stepped out beneath the crystal-flecked sky.

Roarke sat before an endless expanse of loch, contemplating its shimmering surface. He wore only his plaid, and his black hair was wet and curling against his damp skin, indicating that he had been swimming. He did not turn as she approached, but continued to study the rippling water. Melantha seated herself beside him and wrapped her arms around her knees. For a moment they sat together in silence, neither willing to break the stillness.

“How did they die?” Melantha finally ventured softly.

Roarke kept his gaze upon the ribbon of moonlight dancing upon the loch's surface. “My daughter succumbed to a fever at the age of three, and I was not there to help my wife endure it. She poisoned herself.”

Melantha had always known he had endured a terrible loss. She had seen it shadowed in his eyes the first time she had looked upon him. Even so, she had never imagined his wounds to have been so deep. She had always believed her own suffering to be far greater than anything he could comprehend.

She had been wrong, she realized, feeling selfish and ashamed. The deaths of a wife and child were an agony of which she could scarcely conceive.

“Is that why you wanted a holding of your own? Because you couldn't bear to return to the place where they died?”

“In part,” he admitted. “It was also why I stayed away for so many years. I had failed miserably as a husband and a father. But I never failed as a warrior. As long as there was a battle to fight, then I had somewhere to go.”

She could understand that. Love and responsibility for her brothers had tied her to her clan, but she had sought refuge in the forest. Whether hunting for meat or stealing under the guise of the Falcon, the woods were a place where she could almost escape the pain of her past.

“Magnus told me the holding Laird MacTier gave you was very beautiful,” she said after a while. “He said the hall in which he found you was filled with fine tapestries, and that you drank from silver cups.”

Roarke's mouth tightened with contempt. “We drank from cups the price of which could have fed a child for a month, and slept on soft feather mattresses that made my back ache. And I hated it.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Because it wasn't really mine. Everyone there knew it, and I knew it, and yet we played this idiotic game of their bowing before me and acting as though they respected me, when in fact they utterly despised me.”

“They would have learned to respect you, Roarke—just as my people did. All you had to do was give them time.”

“I didn't give a damn if they learned to respect me or not.”

Melantha studied him in silence. Despite his efforts to denigrate the holding Laird MacTier had given to him, it had been his long awaited reward for a lifetime of dedicated service. The lands had been fertile, the castle solid and handsome. And regardless of what he said, Melantha was certain that eventually Roarke would have been able to win the trust and devotion of the people who lived there. He could have lived a comfortable life of stature and affluence, while maintaining his position in his clan.

Because of her, he had nothing.

“It was everything you have ever wanted,” she whispered, unable to conceal her regret.

He reached out and brushed a dark strand of hair off her temple, then laid his hand possessively along the paleness of her cheek. “No, Melantha,” he murmured quietly, “it was not.”

He lowered his head, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips were barely a breath away from her own when he finished in a rough whisper, “I want you. You and Daniel and Matthew and Patrick, and the wonderful children we are going to create together. That means more to me than all the holdings and tapestries and silver cups in Scotland. Do you understand?”

She stared at him a long, anguished moment, trying to absorb what he was telling her.

And then she threw her arms around him and crushed her lips to his.

Roarke plunged his tongue into the wet heat of her mouth, tasting her deeply, absolutely, while his hands roamed the thick silk of her hair, the delicate span of her ribs, the lush swell of her breasts. He wanted her with a desire that was staggering, to bury himself inside her and make her his, until there was nothing but the clear cape of sky above them and the glorious heat of love between them. He pulled her into his lap, feeling himself harden beneath the coarse wool of his plaid as he began to ease up the fabric of her gown. Melantha pressed herself eagerly against him, splaying her hands across his back to steady herself.

Roarke winced.

“You're hurt!”

“It's nothing,” he assured her, trying to bring her back into his arms.

Unconvinced, she wriggled out of his grasp and moved behind him. A long, dark cut marred the bronzed flesh across his shoulder blade. The wound had stopped bleeding and his dip in the loch had washed it clean, but it would have to be closed nonetheless.

“You need to be stitched,” she announced.

“If you dare turn me over to Magnus, I swear I shall go after MacTier and beg him to take me back.”

“I suppose Lewis could do it,” she speculated. “He's very good at fixing things.”

“Does he knew how to close a wound?”

She hesitated. “I'm certain he could figure it out.”

“Well, he can figure it out on a scrap of cloth, not on my back.” A nagging suspicion began to form in his mind. “Why don't you do it?”

She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the moonlight on the loch.

“Melantha?”

“I never actually learned to sew,” she confessed.

“I see.”

“I was too busy learning how to fight and hunt,” she told him defensively.

“Those are valuable skills,” Roarke agreed. “Unfortunately, it means I am going to have a wife who is adept at slaying beasts and enemies, but not at keeping her family's wounds tended and their clothes from falling apart.” He sighed. “I suppose I shall have to teach you how to sew myself.”

Her eyes widened. “You can sew?”

“ 'Tis a skill every self-respecting warrior needs to have. You would be amazed at what gets slashed on a battlefield.” He pulled her down before him. “Since you lack the ability to close my wound, perhaps you could do something to distract me from the pain and raise my spirits.” He began to press slow, lingering kisses down her neck.

Melantha's hand grazed across his lap. “I would say your spirits have been raised already.”

“You're a saucy lass,” he chided, lowering her against the grass. “I can see that life with you is going to be exhausting.”

She pulled away the rumpled length of his plaid. “You may be right,” she conceded, wrapping her hand around his hardness.

She kissed him as she caressed the length of him with slow, teasing promise, alternating her rhythm and her touch until his entire body was rigid and straining with pleasure. Finally Roarke could bear no more. Pulling himself away, he quickly pushed up the skirts of her gown and nuzzled the creamy skin of her thighs.