Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) Read online

  “Mother of God,” he whispered.

  Beside Rose, Leith drew his brows into a dark scowl. Sweet Jesu! All he needed was Roderic’s return to the castle. As if his life wasn’t difficult enough without his woman-charming brother to confuse matters.

  “Roderic,” he greeted, low-voiced. “Welcome.”

  Roderic failed to answer, for his attention was riveted on Rose’s upturned face.

  “Be ye a bean-sith?” he murmured in husky Gaelic.

  Leith gritted his teeth, counted backward from two, and swore he would not kill him—unless he touched her.

  Rose shook her head with a shrug, painfully embarrassed by the man’s attention. “I don’t speak—”

  “Of course.” Roderic dropped smoothly to one knee, gripping her hand suddenly as he changed his words to English. “The princess of the fairy people would na speak as we.”

  He was touching her, Leith noted, fists clenched and waiting. “Brother.” His voice was admirably steady as he contemplated the other’s imminent death. “Meet me lady—to whom I am handfasted,” he said bluntly.

  Roderic drew back as if slapped, but in a moment he leaned forward again, pulling her hand closer to his chest. “Tell me ‘tis na true,” he entreated boldly. “Ye would na bind yerself to another without giving me a chance to win yer heart.”

  Rose’s mouth opened soundlessly. Never had she been the object of such blatant flirtation and she was ill-prepared to handle it now.

  “Tell me, lass,” he continued, ignoring his brother, who steamed in rigid jealousy beside her. ” ‘Tis na true.”

  “Brother,” Leith repeated, “she is indeed bound to me and well bedded, and if ye dunna take yer hand from her, I shall be forced to wrest it from yer arm.”

  Roderic drew his gaze upward as if from a trance. “Me liege,” he said solemnly, “I didna see ye there.”

  There were enough chuckles to dissuade Leith from committing any crimes he might regret for an eternity.

  “I am returned, lad,” he grumbled low. “With me lady. Fiona Rose MacAulay.”

  “Fiona?” Roderic breathed the name and leaned forward as if to study her beauty. “But, aye. Of course. The lady Elizabeth’s renowned comeliness, born again in the lass. Where did he find ye, Fiona?”

  “I… I…” Rose stuttered, feeling caught between Leith’s granite glare and Roderic’s hard charm, “I was not aware of my heritage until your… brother found me,” she said, trying to subdue her breathing while chanting her memorized lines.

  “Ah, lass, but ye couldna have committed yerself to him so soon,” he argued. “For surely—”

  “She did!” growled Leith, barely keeping himself from catapulting the boy from the nearest window. “And she is mine. Now find yerself a seat and shove some food into yer foolish mouth.”

  Roderic raised his brows before drawing Rose’s hand close to his chest again and laughing aloud. “Me regrets, lady, but I must leave before I am short one arm.” He stood, still watching her face. “But if ye have need of me, I will be just yonder.” Lifting her hand, he kissed the back and stood. “Dreaming of yer beauty.”

  Rose watched him stride away and wondered foggily if fathers regularly locked up their daughters when he rode past.

  Beside her, Leith dared lean a wee bit closer and whispered, “Shut yer mouth, lass, or I will kiss ye here and now.”

  Rose’s teeth met with a snap.

  In a moment Roderic was seated and was soon surrounded by an avid crowd of listeners, for he was well-known for his storytelling.

  Rose sat in silence beside a scowling Leith.

  Anger emanated from him. But why? She had not denied that they were bound by a mutual agreement. She had not denied anything. Of course, she had hardly spoken at all, but Roderic was the kind of man who was apt to rob a woman of her tongue. Even now he was surrounded by women. Did Leith dislike his younger brother or was it Rose’s presence he could not tolerate?

  Perhaps he now regretted bringing her there. Perhaps Roderic’s words had made Leith realize that she would always be the butt of jokes, that she would never fit in.

  Depression settled over Rose like a heavy cloud. She sat unmoving, her hands crossed upon her lap and her shoulders slightly hunched as she watched the camaraderie of those around her.

  Roderic’s tale must be warming up. Though she could not understand his Gaelic words, she could see the rapt interest on the faces of his listeners. Her attention wandered.

  The hall was brimming with Scots. Rose’s gaze skimmed the faces, some young and fair, some old and scarred. At the end of a bench sat a young man, his eyes round as he listened to Roderic’s tale, which came to an abrupt and apparently hilarious ending.

  The hall burst into roars and peals of laughter as each man present seemed to talk at once, giving his own accounting of the tale, praising Roderic for his skill at weaving a story, slapping companions on sturdy backs.

  All but the man with the round eyes, who sat nearly immobile, his hand raised to his throat. Beside him…

  Hand to his throat?

  Rose’s attention drew back to Round Eyes. Something was wrong, though he was ignored by the others, momentarily forgotten by his boisterous friends.

  She could hear no noise from him, could not discern the problem, and for a short time he was hidden behind a trio of men. She craned her neck, trying to see, and in a moment he stumbled into her view, clutching his throat, his face a strange tinge of… blue!

  God’s whiskers! He was choking! She was penned in on all sides by burly bodies but there was no time to waste. Sheer instinct grabbed hold.

  Like a loosed goat she scrambled onto the table and ran down its length. Ale splashed upon her shoes. A trencher of venison clattered to the floor but her eyes were fixed on the choking man.

  He hit the floor with a groping crash. Heads turned. Silence descended.

  Rose launched herself over the last trestle and flew to his side. No respiration! He was blue as a harebell. Sweet Jesus! He was dying! Something must be lodged in his throat. She struggled to raise him to a sitting position, but he was far too heavy.

  “Forbes!” Her voice fairly shook the hall. “Forbes!” she screamed. “Come here!”

  Jaws dropped. People gasped. Eyes grew round in surprise as Leith, the great, intimidating laird of the Forbes, charged through the throng to her side.

  “Sit him up. Sit him up!” she snapped, and he did so, pulling the soldier up by his arms. “There. Hold him steady,” Rose ordered, and, drawing her arm back, she smacked the downed man sharply between the shoulder blades. Nothing happened. “Damn it to hell!” she raged, and, drawing back again, thumped him twice more.

  The wad of venison flew out like a loosed arrow, barely missing Leith’s face. But still the victim failed to breathe.

  “Lay him back down,” she cried, and, after sucking in her lip for one uncertain moment, she leaned over, placed her mouth to the soldier’s—and breathed.

  The hall was silent as a tomb. Every eye was trained on her in incredulous awe.

  It seemed like an eternity before he breathed on his own, and even longer before he opened his eyes.

  His skin was mottled now, his eyes wide and blue as they stared into hers. “Be ye a fairy?” he croaked.

  Rose pushed her hair back with a trembling hand and shook her head.

  “Na a fairy?” he asked incredulously and promptly turned over to spew the contents of his stomach into the rushes.

  Chapter 19

  On the following morning, Roderic was the first to pretend to choke. He grasped his throat with dramatic flair, stumbled about like a drunken lout, and collapsed dead away onto the heather-strewn rushes.

  For one panicked moment Rose tried to go to him, but Leith held her wrist in a firm clasp until one burly soldier knelt beside the downed fellow and threatened to practice the revival technique Rose had employed the night before.

  Roderic arose with a start and a curse, backing away from the gap-toot
hed soldier and muttering a threat of his own.

  Roars of laughter shook the hall, Leith joining in, until Rose could not help but smile as well.

  Later that day two more men choked, three were wounded, and one creative fellow insisted he was possessed by a demon.

  Fiona Rose saw them all, bandaged a few, soothed one, and laughed outright at others, who accepted her amusement with grins of their own, and went on their way with glad hearts. For hers was the kind of beauty that made men happy simply to be near.

  Leith watched the proceedings with a mix of joy and jealousy, for while it was true that the Forbes men were beginning to accept her as one of their own, it was also true that they were getting a bit too close for his peace of mind. But… Looking at Rose’s expression, he realized the truth.

  She was happy. He could see it in her unusual eyes. Could hear it in her laughter. She knew most of the men were unhurt, but also recognized a few potentially serious problems, and mended those men to the best of her considerable ability.

  The land was suddenly abuzz with talk of Fiona’s miraculous feats. She had snatched poor Malcolm from the jaws of death. She was not the snooty, better-than-thou beauty they had thought—but a healer. And a bold-talking healer at that, they said. For with each passing hour the story of how she had snapped orders at Laird Leith was told and retold.

  Leith heard the stories and didn’t know whether to laugh or scowl, for to hear the tale one would think the lass was not only a miracle-worker, but also a harridan who dragged him around by a ring in his nose.

  She stood now, checking the bump on poor Malcolm’s head as Roderic watched. Her fingers were quick and clever as she moved closer to her patient, her breasts mere inches from his head.

  From where he stood Leith saw Roderic’s brows rise.

  “I’m feeling a wee bit of pain in me head too,” he stated blithely.

  “And ye’ll be feeling more should ye get any closer,” warned Leith, moving up beside them.

  “Ah, me liege,” said Roderic with a grin. “I didna see ye there. Strange, but ye seem to be forever close to hand these days.”

  “Aye.” Leith nodded. “That I do, lad, and best ye dunna forget it.”

  The breeze was crisp and clean against Rose’s face. She lifted her chin slightly, filling her lungs with the fresh air and feeling Leith’s presence beside her like a strong tonic. From the top of the ridge where she sat astride her black mare, she could see Burn Creag rush along its rocky course. Trees towered above the white-capped water, dark-green and majestic. Closer, and just below their vantage point, a sheltered valley lay in soft, grass-covered peacefulness.

  Rose breathed deeply, holding Maise steady with the slightest of pressure to the reins. “’Tis a beautiful land, this Scotland of yours.”

  “Ayer” Leith agreed, nudging his stallion closer. Sweet Jesu, she was the picture of youthful beauty. She did not ride perched sidesaddle as he’d seen Englishwomen do, but rode astride, her long, slim legs gripping the black mare with easy strength. Without the slightest difficulty he could envision those limbs gripping him, could imagine the euphoric feel of her womanhood closing…

  Woo and charm, Leith reminded himself angrily. He was here to woo and charm her, not to pounce on her like an oversexed hound. Sweet Jesu, he could not trust himself even to get near her, but he would accomplish this task if it killed him—which it might, he decided, glancing at her lovely face.

  Woo and charm, his mind chanted, and he gritted his teeth and set his mind to his job.

  ” ‘Tis indeed a bonny place,” Leith said, tearing his eyes from her and hoping to appear casual. ” ‘Tis na easy for a Highlander to leave his homeland. In truth…” He looked to the north, remembering old Ian’s stories of long ago. “I have heard of warriors who would fill their boots with the soil of Scotland before they journeyed, so that their feet might never truly leave the land.”

  “And did you stuff your boots so?” she asked, smiling a little.

  “Nay.” He shook his head and found he could not draw his gaze from her face. “I dunna care for dirty feet. But…” He watched her laugh and practically had to slap himself to remember his line of thought. “But ‘twas na easy for me to be gone from this place. Though… finding ye made it well worth the hardships.”

  He meant it was worth it because of the good she could do his clan, Rose thought logically, but looking into his eyes, she thought he seemed to mean something more.

  “How is it that you were able to find St. Mary’s?” she asked, keeping her tone steady as she pulled her gaze from his with great force of will. But what she really wondered was how he could act so casual in her presence when she could barely breathe in his. Did he feel some of the same hair-raising exhilaration when they touched? And what would he do if she asked him to accompany her to the cool shelter of yonder oak?

  ” ‘Twas a long and difficult course,” said Leith, as he too looked away. But not so difficult as keeping his hands from her. Not so difficult as seeing her breasts rise and fall and preventing himself from carrying her to that shaded spot beneath the oak to take the clothes from her body and seek the comfort of her core.

  Their gazes slipped, caught, melded. And for one trembling instant, their thoughts mingled and their breathing stopped abruptly in their aching chests.

  The shady spot beneath the oak beckoned.

  “Rose.” He said her name in a hoarse tone, his face tense. Hers was no more casual.

  “Yes?” she breathed.

  Woo! Charm! Damn!

  He drew a great breath and tried to relax. “We should be getting back. Ye must be tired.”

  “Yes.” She shifted her gaze regretfully to that seductive, shady spot beneath the tree. Yes, she was tired—of aching for his touch, she thought raggedly, then drew her gaze to where her knuckles formed a bumpy ridge over her clenched, sweaty palms. “We’d best return.”

  It was dark. The room was silent. On the far side of the door Leith’s servant, Ranald, slept. On this side of the door, two bodies lay on a velvet-draped bed as far apart as was humanly possible.

  Tonight Leith had dared remove his shirt, for the night was warm. He stared at the wall and considered his options.

  He could lie here night after night, so close he could smell her sweet heather scent, could hear every breath she took as she slept, could imagine every rise and fall of her luscious breasts—and still not touch her. In short, he could lie here and go insane.

  Or he could get roaring drunk.

  Or he could ravage her before she awoke.

  Going insane had its obvious drawbacks.

  Large quantities of intoxicants held little appeal.

  But ravishing her… Leith gritted his teeth, giving that option more consideration. It was a time-honored tradition. To the victor goes the spoils and all that.

  He was the victor. She the spoils. And she was hot for him. So why not?

  Because he was supposed to woo her! Because he was supposed to make her love him, to agree with his plans, to stay forever, pretending to be Fiona. Because he was doing all of this for his clan! Remember?

  No. He would not take her. He was strong. He was Scots. He was laird.

  He was dressed.

  He was…

  She rolled to her back, her eyes closed, breathing softly.

  He was horny! Damn it to unholy hell, he was so ungodly randy he could not bear it.

  His hand touched her hair. It was soft and inviting.

  Beneath her white nightrail her breasts rose and fell. Rose and fell.

  Sweet Jesu, how was he supposed to keep himself from her when she kept breathing like that?

  He could no longer resist.

  He kissed her on the neck where her hair caressed her ivory skin. It was not a hard, passionate kiss, but a gentle kiss that made his rock-hard body tremble and spoke of all the badgering demons that possessed him.

  He was kissing her neck, Rose thought in swirling wonder. What the devil should she d
o now? And … would it be too outrageous if she ripped his clothes off?

  She moaned as his kisses trailed upward along her jaw. His tongue touched the curved ridge of her ear, slid down it. She was breathing hard.

  His teeth nibbled at her, and then without warning he pulled the soft lobe into his mouth and sucked.

  God’s toes! She jerked spasmodically, her eyes flying open.

  “Ye’re awake, lass?” he murmured, so near her ear that she shivered.

  “L-Leith!” It was not difficult for Rose to make her voice sound surprised, as if she’d just been awakened, for in truth it was always a surprise to realize how desperately she desired him.

  “Were ye expecting another?”

  “Nay.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted as he slid closer. “Ye know, love,” he whispered, one hand moving to caress her neck, “ye are beginning…” He kissed that delicate spot just behind her ear, making her shudder with sheer, raging desire. “… to talk like a Scot.”

  “No,” she said, her breath catching as his fingers slipped to the satin ties that held her nightrail fastened.

  “Aye,” he said. “And ye look like a Scot.”

  The tie had come loose in his hand and she swallowed hard. “N-no,” she repeated intelligently.

  “Aye,” he countered, moving on to the next tie. “Yer hair is the red of the holly berries in winter. Yer eyes are the hue of Scottish jewels. And yer skin…”

  “Leith!” Her hands caught his arm to prevent it from moving, for the last tie had already fallen victim to his fingers. She had to stop him before it was too late. Too late, her mind echoed. Then, “Leith…” she whispered breathlessly. “What about my skin?”

  He kissed her mouth then, full force and trembling with urgency. “It’s soft and smooth as drifting snow,” he murmured. “Blessed as white heather.”

  “Leith,” she breathed again, every nerve vibrating with excitement. “I need to … ” She breathed hard and fast. What did she need? Hold, fast, and what? “I need to … “

  “Aye, love.” And he kissed her again.

  Her legs bent of their own accord. The nightrail slipped toward her waist, and her hands, eager and hot and trembling, moved down his muscular body, over the lean, rippled length of his torso and downward.