To Desire a Highlander (28 page)

Gillian watched him, sure he could never look more furious.

His face was almost as dark as the rocks, his black brows slashed down in an angry line as he tugged and prodded at the trapped wood, muttering oaths as he worked, freeing one piece of driftwood after the other, tossing each one into the sea just as he’d thrown aside her cut-away skirts. That her legs were now all but fully bared scarce mattered. She hardly felt them for the cold—and she didn’t feel her right foot at all, a much greater worry.

Then his big strong hands were on her calf, moving with astonishing gentleness downward to probe and encircle her ankle. She only knew because she saw. And for some reason, the great care he took with her was more troubling than any injury.

“I dinnae think it’s broken,” he said, flashing a look at her. “But it’ll be swelling badly soon. There are some scrapes and cuts that will need tending. You’ll no’ be leaving your bed for a while. And”—he stood, gathering her up in his arms as he did so—“whether it pleases you or nae, I’ll be sleeping in your room from now on. I didnae wish to bother you thusly, but—”

“You’re worried about the ship,” Gillian guessed, guilt pinching her. “If the men return—”

“We’ll hope they didnae see you.” He shifted her against his shoulder, was already striding down the beach for the goat track back up to her window.

“I waved my shawl at them,” she felt obliged to tell him. “They were heading this way.”

“Aye, they veered toward the isle because we were almost upon them.” He started up the path, his steps sure, his firm hold on her soothing. “We’d been chasing them for a while, had hoped to run them onto the reefs. Then the wind changed and the mist thickened—”

“They sped away,” Gillian remembered.

“So they did.”
Praise be the gods,
she thought she heard him mutter beneath his breath.

It was hard to tell because they’d reached the top of the path and the grassy bit of promontory beneath her window. Looking up, she saw his men gathered there, so many of their bearded faces peering down at her that she couldn’t count their number. She did see that they all appeared concerned.

Not a one seemed angry, just eager to help.

Indeed, two men jumped out the window and set to work securing a long rope ladder against the tower wall. Others leaned over the window ledge, reaching down to prepare to lift her from Roag’s arms once he’d climbed high enough.

She was safe.

She was also beginning to feel her injured foot. Her ankle throbbed and a weird sensation now inched up her calf, much as if tiny white-hot needles were stabbing her flesh. For a beat, she squeezed shut her eyes, steeling
herself against the pain, grateful nothing worse had happened. She’d have a few bruises and swellings, but she was alive, and would remain so.

The gods were good.

And so was Roag the Bear, the thought—no, that truth—making her very aware of his big strong arms holding her, the hard, solid comfort of his chest, and the broad shoulder against which she was currently resting her weary, aching head.

Had he truly called her “sweet”?

She couldn’t remember.

They were now level with the window ledge and a ruckus ensued, his men making a fuss, each one vying to be the man to take her from Roag’s arms and ease her through the window. Skog’s barks were frantic, his ancient, age-whitened face suddenly appearing at the ledge, his milky eyes so worried that her heart squeezed. Then Big Hughie had her, carrying her to her bed as Roag hoisted himself over the ledge and then turned to help the other two men up the last few feet of the ladder rope and back into the room.

In a beat, they surrounded her, all of them shaking their heads and asking questions. A few took off at a run, shouting over their shoulders that they would fetch hot water to take her chill, more bed covering and furs to keep her comfortable.

Skog fretted, pacing back and forth until Roag lifted him up beside her.

“Skog…” Gillian tried to rise on an elbow to see him better, but ended up just slipping her arm around his great shoulders, threading her fingers in his scraggly fur.

It was enough.

“Sakes!” One of the men peered down at her as Roag swung his discarded plaid over her, drawing its warmth to her chin. “What befell the lass, down on the rocks?”

“She saw the ship,” Roag told him, his voice coming as if from a distance. “Like us, she took it for a MacDonald vessel. Belike she hurried down the cliff to signal it, thinking they’d carry her away from us. Cannae blame her,” he added—or so Gillian thought, for his words were now even fainter.

She tried to open her eyes to look at him, but she could hardly raise her eyelids. She did manage to squint enough to see him through an odd, shimmering haze. The room seemed to be spinning and growing dark, but she could tell that he’d left the bed and was shooing the others from the room.

It was hard to tell, but she thought she heard him say something about needing to strip away her clothes and look her over for possible injuries, wounds that might be hidden beneath her cold and sodden clothes. Garments that—she did hear clearly—he needed off of her at once, before she took a chill.

Gillian’s pulse quickened.

Despite her weariness, she knew what that meant. He’d already seen her bared legs and who knew what else! Down there on the rocks, in the surf, her skirts had swirled everywhere. And he’d cut away reams of cloth, nearly to her hips. Now… There wasn’t a stitch of her remaining garments not drenched. Getting her warm and dry would entail total nakedness, and she was in no shape to undress herself. She barely had the strength to breathe.

Which meant Roag would do the honors.

She should object.

Instead, she sank back against the pillows, curled her fingers deeper into Skog’s fur. The truth was there were worse things than Roag the Bear seeing her unclothed.

If she’d understood rightly about the ship, she could well have been in much greater peril now.

Roag and his men had saved her. She had nothing else to fear, no reason to be distressed. Roag had even vowed to spend his nights in this room, guarding her should the ship and its men deign to sail back and seize her, if they’d even seen her.

It didn’t matter now.

Only one thing did, and in a way it was much more frightening.

She might be safe from marauders, but who would protect her from her own heart?

She didn’t know.

How strange that she didn’t care.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
t was good of you to bring us up here.” Lady Gillian glanced at Roag over her shoulder, her eyes lit in a way that made his heart race uncomfortably.

Concern also pinched him, for it’d been little over a fortnight since she’d injured her ankle. Yet in fourteen days and nights, she’d healed well, the bruising and swelling were gone. Even her slight limp had passed. Besides, fresh, brisk wind and salt air was good for anyone, so he waved aside his worries.

Unfortunately, there were others.

Roag frowned, shoved a hand through his hair.

He shouldn’t pay any heed to how glorious she looked here on the crags above his tower, the sea shimmering behind her, the mist whirling around her like a fine, luminous veil.

The truth was…

Rarely had he seen a lovelier sight.

He also knew of no one else who fit better into this
elemental seascape. She belonged here, and in ways he could never hope to achieve. Almost as if the wind, rocks, and sharp sea air pulsed in her blood, a part of her as surely as the beating of her heart and every one of her indrawn breaths.

“I will not forget these hours,” she said, turning back to the sea.

“The pleasure is mine, lady.” Roag watched as she stood at the cliff’s edge, not seeming to mind the afternoon’s rawness, or the spit of sea spray that surely stung her face.

Far from it, her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if she savored the chill, damp air—which he could tell that she did.

She might not like him, but she loved his isle.

He was sure of it.

Her joy in wild places was evident as she looked out at the sea below them. He also saw it when she turned again, this time glancing past him to peer about Laddie’s Isle’s highest bluff. Her eyes shone still and her cheeks were red from the wind. Gloaming was nigh and her words—
It was good of you
—were the same she’d offered him so often for more than a fortnight.

He’d heard them when he carried her evening meal up to her room, each time he tended the tiny coal brazier, and whenever he fetched fire-warmed, cloth-wrapped stones to place in her bed, keeping her warm and comfortable as she’d recovered from falling on the rocks.

Just now she delivered her thanks with the same cool politeness. As usual, her gaze wasn’t on him, but elsewhere. This time gliding over the wild dark sea and the swirling mist that seemed to never leave this stark, rock-strewn promontory.

Roag angled his head and watched her.

The appreciation on her face was the look some women wore when eyeing a lover.

Then she turned to Skog’s carrying basket, the large wicker creel with its leather straps that had once been two of Roag’s most prized sword belts. When her gaze lit on it, her expression softened, changing to one that slid through him with the ease of a knife cutting butter. Regrettably, it also plunged straight into his heart, making him feel terrible.

He frowned, sure that he had no reason to suffer the guilt that plagued him.

Much as it cost him, he hadn’t touched a hand to her. He might’ve slept in her wee chamber since the mishap on the shore, the sighting of the enemy dragon ship, but he’d done so wrapped in his plaid and sprawled on the floor. Not in her narrow, lumpy bed beside her. He hadn’t even peeked as she’d undressed each night, much as he’d been tempted.

His men also treated her kindly and with respect.

He was good to her raggedy ancient dog.

As if she’d read his mind, she left her perch on a large, flat-topped boulder near the drop-off and went to stand beside Skog’s empty carrying basket.

The old dog himself ran hither and thither in the blowing grass that grew knee-high on the moors that stretched from these precarious heights down to the gently sloped landing beach on the far side of the isle from his tower. He’d been bringing Skog up here for days, and the beast already had a favorite circuit. Indeed, he was wearing a track in the grass, for he enjoyed running from one preferred marking spot to the next. If, of course, one could call Skog’s jerky, stiff-legged gait a run.

It didn’t matter.

Only that the beast took his exercise. And that he enjoyed the brisk sea air and getting out from the cold, cell-like room Lady Gillian had chosen as her own.

“It is especially kind of you to carry Skog up here each day,” Gillian said then, still not looking at him. “It is good for me, too,” she finished, just as he’d known she would.

The problem was that being with her here wasn’t good at all.

Not for him.

It was torture having her so near and desiring her as he’d come to do these last weeks.

When she wasn’t near, he felt her presence as if she stood beside him, tempting and enchanting him.

Even now, the truth was, he kept these cliff-top vigils because of his duties. He came up to the headland to scour the waves in all directions, waiting and watching to see if a foe crested the horizon. He wasn’t a man to shirk his responsibilities. He demanded absolute dedication to missions from his men. He held himself to the same tenets, always.

Yet Lady Gillian distracted him.

He drew a tight breath, pulled a hand down over his face.

He hadn’t wanted to be swayed by her.

But he had been, and so badly that each night when he joined her in her horrid wee chamber, he needed all his restraint not to pull her into his arms and kiss her. If he looked deep into his soul, he wanted to do much more than merely kiss her.

Such were the thoughts that tormented him.

Yet he held back, revealing nothing of his desires.

While inside…

His chest tightened now, a sharp yearning wrapping round him like a vise, stealing his breath and minding him that he had no business wanting her.

For sure, he shouldn’t care for her.

Losing his heart to her old dog posed an equally pestiferous dilemma, for aged dogs didnae stay with a soul forever. This one was bound to leave his world anyway—as soon as he and his men finished their work here.

Hoping that would be soon, he strode over to her, not really caring if she saw his scowl.

It served him well if she continued to think he was vexed by her presence.

In truth, he was.

His reasons had just shifted.

“I was glad to bring you, lass,” he admitted, just standing before her loosening his tongue, opening his heart. “No one can stay hidden away in a miserable wee cell of a room all the day long,” he added, stepping round in front of her to block the worst blast of the cold sea wind. “No’ you, and no’ your auld beast, who likes it up here.”

“We both do.” Her gaze went to her dog, now sitting in the lee of an outcrop of broken boulders.