Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) Page 17

  Ian MacAuley’s gaze held fast on Rose’s face. Time marched silently into forever, and then he lifted one unsteady hand to push the shawl from her head.

  Morning light streamed through the window, turning Rose’s hair into a thousand glistening rubies.

  “‘Tis yer daughter,” Leith said, his voice low. “Fiona—found many long leagues from here in the heart of England.”

  Still the old man said nothing, but only stared, as if mesmerized by the vision before him.

  “And here,” Leith continued, taking the tiny tartan from under his arm and unfolding it before Ian’s eyes. “Here is the wee plaid the lass was wrapped in as a bairn. And the brooch…” He paused, lifting the jeweled clasp from its woolen bed. “The brooch ye gave to yer young wife those many years ago.”

  Silence gripped the room for a seeming eternity.

  “Say sommat, auld man,” growled Leith finally, but Rose lifted a placating hand.

  “He cannot,” she said softly. “Can he, Torquil?”

  “Nay. He has na spoken since his fall some days ago. I had hoped yer arrival would …” Torquil’s voice broke.

  “He cannot speak?” Leith asked in disbelief. “After I have traveled all this way, nearly losing the lass to brigands, leaving my brother behind in an unfriendly land?” He scowled. “Ye will speak, auld man,” he vowed, “for ye owe me that much. Ye owe me yer daughter—handfasted to me for a year and a day at the least.”

  Ian said nothing, but remained as he was, staring numbly up into Rose’s lowered face.

  “Father,” she said again and dropped smoothly to her knees beside his bed. Her eyes were for the old man alone, her voice was soft, so quiet Leith could barely hear her, “‘Tis my wish.”

  The ancient laird lay motionless for some time, and when he nodded the movement was almost imperceptible. Fiona squeezed his hand. His gnarled fingers tightened on hers for an instant before he lifted hand away to move it erratically up and down.

  Leith shook his head in bewilderment, but Torquil smiled. “A quill,” he said and quickly produced the necessary implements.

  Again Ian’s gaze held Rose’s.

  She nodded once, slowly, and he took her hand again, but in a moment he placed it atop Leith’s, pressing her palm to his knuckles.

  “It is done then?” asked Torquil solemnly. “They are handfasted?”

  The old man nodded once toward the quill.

  Torquil penned the necessary words before turning the parchment so that Ian might read it. Striking a flame, Torquil melted a bit of red wax, letting it drip onto the document before handing the official seal to the MacAulay.

  Ian’s hand shook as he stamped the wax, but when he lifted his gaze there was the shadow of a smile upon his wan face.

  “It is done then,” said Leith. “She is—”

  “Forbes!” The portal swung open with such force that it rebounded against the wall. In the doorway a man stood with drawn sword, and behind him a half dozen warriors guarded his back.

  “Dugald,” Leith greeted him. Though his tone was casual, he stepped forward, easily shielding Rose behind his great form.

  “Ye will explain yer presence here,” snarled Dugald, sword lifted, “before ye die.”

  “I came at yer laird’s request.”

  “Ye lie!” accused Dugald, but at that moment Rose stepped from behind Leith’s back. She held her head high, kept her expression somber, and when she spoke her voice was low but steady.

  “How dare you threaten bloodshed in my father’s bedchamber?”

  “Elizabeth?” a warrior murmured from behind Dugald. Silence settled for a moment and then the name was whispered by others who craned their necks for a better view of Rose.

  “Nay.” It was Leith who spoke. “She is the auld laird’s daughter—Fiona MacAulay.”

  “Lies!” a woman’s voice shrieked, and suddenly she thrust herself forward, her face a mask of hatred as she stood beside Dugald. “More lies from the Forbes!”

  “Nay, Murial.” Leith’s words were soft, though his eyes were narrowed, his expression cautious. “She is indeed his daughter, and now duly handfasted to me for a year and a day so that there might be peace between yer family and mine.”

  “Peace!” She screamed the word, taking a bold step forward with her hands squeezed into fists. “Ye kill my brother and think to have peace between us? Never!”

  Leith straightened slightly. “I didna kill Owen. In truth he took his own life to—”

  “Nay!” Murial cried, and, reaching out, she pulled a sword from a nearby soldier’s sheath, grasping it in both hands. “Ye shall na defile his name again,” she warned, advancing slowly, blade held tight. “Owen would na have shamed me family so with his death. Ye kilt him as surely as ye lie now—bringing this bitch to me home, proclaiming her kin. But she will die this day!” she shrieked, and flew across the room, sword lifted.

  In one deft movement Leith swept Rose behind him, but before Murial reached them, Ian was out of bed and standing, still and solemn, facing down the enraged woman.

  “Me laird.” She stumbled to a halt, her face going ashen as she let the sword droop toward the floor. “She is na yer daughter,” she whispered.

  The old man lifted an unsteady hand to take the blade from her.

  “The lass has our laird’s blessing,” said Torquil, stepping forward. “And Leith Forbes holds the document saying they are properly handfasted.”

  “Nay,” moaned Murial.

  “Aye. They are bound with the MacAulay’s blessing,” countered Torquil.

  ‘There will be peace,” assured Leith. “For I have na wish to fight the MacAulays.”

  “Get out!” raged Murial, stepping forward again, fists clenched. Dugald caught her, gripping her arm to hold her at bay.

  “Quiet, wife,” he ordered, but Murial was beyond reason.

  “He spews lies about me brother. Lies about the bitch. She is na a MacAulay!”

  Ian’s knees buckled.

  “Laird,” Leith murmured, and slipping forward, caught the old man before he reached the floor. The MacAulay was not a small man, but Leith lifted him easily into the bed, settling his head gently upon the pillow.

  “Ye shall leave now,” ordered Dugald grimly.

  “No. Please,” Rose pleaded, “let me stay with him. I can help.”

  “Ye shall na touch him!” growled Dugald, his grip hard on the handle of his claymore. “Take her away, Forbes, or there will yet be bloodshed.”

  Leith straightened, his eyes clashing with Dugald’s, but finally he nodded. “Come, lass, there is naught ye can do now.”

  For just a moment Rose’s gaze caught Ian’s, and in the depths of his soul she saw him smile.

  “Aye, my lord,” she said softly, and turning, strode from the room, Leith at her side, down the corridor lined with wordless warriors.

  Outside the air was still, as if the entire world waited, and for a few frantic moments she wondered if she would die with a sword in her back. But they gained their horses with no further incident and in a short time they were through the gate then over the narrow bridge that led toward Glen Creag.

  She knew the moment they were spotted, for a high-pitched cry filled the air. A moment later it was echoed farther away, and then farther yet.

  “We are home.” Leith sounded weary, yet relieved, as if he had long yearned to ride upon his own lands again.

  From seemingly nowhere men appeared, dressed in the brown woven tartan of the Forbes and barely visible until they stepped out of the surrounding trees and lifted their fists skyward in a salute of welcome.

  With the passing of that last mile Rose could easily discern the emotions of the soldiers that lined their path. They had gathered to greet a man they respected—a man they honored.

  The stares Rose received were not so simple to read. They were curious, true, but there was more. Animosity? Or merely uncertainty? How much had these people known of Leith’s mission? It had been simple enough
to deduce that the MacAulay clan had known nothing of Leith’s quest to find her— except old Torquil, who seemed to know all.

  Rose wished now that she had questioned Leith more about his people. She turned her gaze slightly, noting the solemn warriors that followed them with their eyes. They were a rugged collection of men, broadly built, some barefoot, while others were shod in shoes of hide and wore varied colored tartan hose that rose to just below their knees. Their plaids were all of the same hue and weave, and though some were bare-chested, most wore loose-fitting, saffron-toned shirts, much the same as their laird’s. Even the brooches pinned at their shoulders were little different from the pewter one that held Leith’s plaid in place.

  Another cry went up and many voices answered.

  Rose’s heart beat heavily in her chest. She’d been raised a simple crofter’s daughter. How the devil had she ended up here, and what awaited her in this foreign land?

  They were climbing now, up a rugged, tree-cropped hill with the speedy white waters of Burn Creag burbling beside them and a hundred barbaric warriors lining their course. A short distance ahead Leith rode on, his back straight, his head rarely turning except to nod in acknowledgment of some spoken word.

  Maise skittered, made nervous by the watchful men and snorting indignantly at her temporary position behind the huge stallion. In a moment Beinn was halted and Maise lifted her delicate muzzle to pull at the bit.

  Rose gave her a little rein, wishing for one frantic moment to be gone from here, away from the sharp eyes that watched them. But there was no stopping them now.

  Maise tossed her head again and pranced up beside Beinn.

  “Glen Creag,” Leith said. Below her lay a mystical kingdom.

  Her lips parted slightly and in that moment she forgot the cluster of men about them. She forgot who she was and who she pretended to be.

  It was not the fact that the entire castle was built of stone that affected her so, for in truth, she was too naive to realize the cost and energy needed to build such a fortress. Neither was it the sheer size of the place that stunned her.

  It was the setting.

  Before them, the land fell away in a rush. At the bottom was a river lined with banks of jagged rock that led down like the huge, rough-hewn steps of a giant.

  And at the very top of the steps was the giant’s castle, built of brown native stone that seemed to reach for the very sky.

  “Your home?” she whispered, and found to her surprise that he was not looking at the castle, but at her.

  “Our home,” he corrected softly, and she swallowed, half-terrified of her own future.

  Leith pressed his mount onward and the mare hurried along behind.

  The bridge they crossed had been hidden from their vantage point on the hill. Wide enough to allow a wagon to pass with room to spare, it creaked under the weight of their horses.

  Ropes the width of a man’s wrist were attached to the far end of the bridge. Rose laid a hand on Maise’s neck, trying to calm the mare while absorbing every strange detail.

  But there was too much. Too many faces, too many voices raised in greeting until finally they came to a halt at the very roots of the towering structure. She slipped from Maise’s back into Leith’s arms and was escorted through heavy timber doors into a huge hall.

  The bustle there was frenetic. Men and women hurried in every direction, carrying tables, raking aside crushed rushes, and scurrying past them in their haste, directed, it seemed, by a small, plump woman with jittery hands and a round face.

  It was that woman who noticed them first.

  “Leith!” Her jaw dropped as her hands flew to her mouth, which formed a pink oval of astonishment. “Leith!” she said again, and suddenly she was catapulting toward him and flinging her arms about his waist. “Me lad,” she crooned, though the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. “Me lad.” She patted his back as if he were no more than a child, and he cleared his throat, seeming ill at ease as he turned his gaze to Rose.

  She watched with fascination and a slight smile. Never had she seen another embrace the formidable laird and she wondered about the woman’s relationship to him. How little she knew of this man, she thought suddenly. How much there was to learn.

  “Ye have returned,” the woman said, finally pulling herself from Leith’s chest with an expression of slight embarrassment. With one hand she tried to right the square of linen that covered her hair but somehow it gave the effect of being forever askew. “There now, I’ve na need to act so silly,” she chided herself. “Of course ye’ve returned.” She took her two fluttery hands in a firm grip as if to admonish herself for such an unseemly display of emotion. But she could not quite stop the smile as her wide, round eyes shifted shyly to Rose. They were brown eyes and not unlike Leith’s. “And ye’ve brought…” She actually giggled. “Yer bride-to-be?”

  For just a moment Rose thought she felt Leith tense beside her. Though she did not know who this woman was, it was clear he did not like the thought of lying to her.

  “We are handfasted.” He settled his arm at the waist of Rose’s green velvet gown again. “So mayhap in time—”

  “Na mayhap,” said the plump woman with a shake of her head. “She shall be yer bride.” She smiled, looking pleased enough to perish from it.

  “Aye.” Leith nodded stiffly. “Me bride.”

  That was it. All he said was “me bride”—like she was so much grain just brought in from the field. Rose considered giving him a good sharp elbow to the ribs to goad an introduction, but the plump woman seemed to need no prompting.

  “Well, lad, does she have a name?”

  Leith’s brows lowered slightly and he shifted his weight, as if made uncomfortable by the question. “Aye, Aunt Mabel, that she does,” he said softly. Most of the laborers had ceased their duties by now and were staring at them in open curiosity. “But we have ridden long and hard, and I would have the lass sup and rest before any introductions are made.”

  “Oh!” Mabel’s hands fluttered again. Her fingers came to a brief rest on Rose’s arm. “Ye must think me a heartless ninny. Of course.” In a moment she was clapping her hands. “Hannah. Judith. The laird has returned,” she declared, as if everyone present had not taken full note of that fact. “With his young bride-to-be.” She said the words with a half-suppressed sigh and a delighted smile. But she straightened suddenly in a businesslike manner, clapping again. “Fetch food up to the laird’s chambers. And ye others,” she said, “ready the hall.” She waved. “Ready the hall. There will be a feast this night.”

  The laird’s chamber was large, its walls covered with bright tapestries, and its window slits tall and generous, but it was the bed that drew Rose’s attention. A sudden weariness had overtaken her.

  She’d slept little the night before, for she’d worried and fretted over her meeting with Laird MacAulay. And now that that meeting was behind her, all the events of the past weeks seemed to weigh down upon her, pressing an ache to every part of her body so that the bed drew her like a fly to honey.

  “Are ye tired?” Leith stood a pace behind her, his back to the door, noticing how her shoulders sagged. She’d handled herself like a battle-seasoned warrior, had survived more in a few short days than most women endured in a lifetime. Aye, she had done much to prove she was indeed a woman of few needs.

  His own needs, however, were neither so few nor so simple, and the sight of his own bed made him ache. But not with fatigue.

  “Rest,” he urged, realizing his tone was a bit tight from the pressure of his surging desires. “Ye are tired.”

  “No,” she lied, not pulling her gaze from the bed. “I’m not tired.”

  Leith shook his head as he stepped behind her. “Surely ye are the most stubborn lass in all Christendom,” he said in husky tones. “Ye are tired.” He placed his hands on her arms and felt her stiffen. Was it the fact that it was his bed that made her refuse to admit her own fatigue? Or was she still insisting she had
no physical needs? Whatever the reason, he found he respected her fortitude while simultaneously resenting her reasons. It was strange indeed how she forever seemed to put his emotions at odds.

  “Sleep, lass,” he urged softly, pressing the warring thoughts from his mind as he turned her gently. “It shall be a long night.”

  Seeing the slight flush of her cheek, Leith realized the full implication of his words. And yet he could not regret his lack of tact. She was so lovely, so tempting, that the thought of bedding her seemed to be forever on his mind.

  “I didna mean that quite as it sounded, lass,” he murmured softly. “But that doesna rule out the possibility, if ye are so inclined.”

  Rose stared into his eyes, saying nothing, and he waited with bated breath. But just as it seemed she might speak, there was a knock at the heavy portal.

  Leith mentally ground his teeth. Damn him to unholy hell if he hadn’t seen a spark of desire in her eyes. Holy Jesu, now was not the time for an interruption.

  “We bring yer meal, laird,” called a timid voice.

  “Aye.” Though he feared his own tone sounded only slightly warmer than a wolf’s growl, the thought of Rose willing and soft in his arms made him want to shut out the world, leaving him to explore the desire he had momentarily sensed.

  But she stepped from his hands like a bird frightened to flight. Leith watched her, noting again the lovely flush of her cheeks, the delicate structure of her face.

  With a silent sigh he turned to the door.

  A servant carried in a large trencher covered with meat, cheeses, and bread. Leith lifted his eyes to Rose where she had seated herself beside the bed on the room’s only chair.

  “Mutton?” he asked.

  Rose squeezed her hands and shook her head.

  “Ye shall waste away to little more than a wisp of hair and bone, lass,” he said, but took a portion of bread and cheese and ordered the second serving girl to bring in bowls of soup.

  A small, sturdy table was pulled before Rose’s chair. On it were placed two bowls of soup, red-streaked cheese, bread, and a huge tankard of home-brewed beer.