Once a Warrior (24 page)

This, of course, was what Roderic really wanted—not Ariella, despite his lust for her. Roderic coveted her castle and her lands, and the slavery of her people. Most of all he craved the ability to defeat any opponent in battle. This was the power he believed the sword would give him, though no one actually knew if the legend of the sword’s power was true.

And this was why he would return.

She heard a sound, soft as a whisper of breath. Turning abruptly, she found Malcolm standing behind her, his face veiled by the night shadows. She had the feeling he had been there for some time.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

“Everyone is,” he replied, moving to stand beside her. “They were excited about their victory, and anxious to celebrate with much ale and wine. If I thought Roderic might be back tonight, I would have ordered them to exercise more restraint.”

Her smile was faint, but Malcolm noticed it. “Why is that amusing?”

“It is the idea of your believing someone else is drinking too much.”

He tilted his head, acknowledging the irony. Then he placed his hands on the low wall and stared in silence at the magnificent landscape surrounding them. “It is beautiful here,” he murmured, wondering why he had never noticed before.

Ariella regarded him in surprise. She had not thought MacFane capable of appreciating anything simply for its beauty. He was a warrior and seemed to evaluate everything only in terms of its military advantage. Was there really a side to him that understood the glory of a perfect night sky casting shadows on the world below?

“Thank you for protecting it.”

He shook his head. “Your clan protected it,” he corrected. “I merely showed them how.”

“You led us to victory,” Ariella persisted. “When we first realized we were under attack, everyone panicked. You calmed us all and made us believe we could repel Roderic and his men.”

He was silent for a moment, considering. Had he really led the MacKendricks to victory? It was tempting to think so, especially after the outpouring of adulation that had followed Roderic’s retreat. For one sweet, brief moment, as they had lifted him onto their shoulders and cheered him, he had almost remembered what it was to be the Black Wolf. He had suddenly felt strong, able, fearless—and needed. But now, in the lonely clarity of late night, he found his battered body aching and his mind longing for the hazy respite of drink.

Hardly the traits of a great warrior.

“Roderic did not expect the resistance he met, which is why he was easy to overcome,” Malcolm pointed out. “Next time he will be more cunning in his strategy.” He paused a moment, then quietly added, “And more brutal.”

Ariella gripped the wall as she absorbed this, trying to take strength from its solid structure beneath her hands. “Perhaps he will not return,” she suggested, knowing even as she spoke the words that the hope was a feeble one.

Malcolm turned to face her. “He will, Ariella. Roderic was once a MacFane. I trained him as one of my warriors.”

“You trained him?” she murmured, aghast.

He nodded. “Even then he lusted for power. He tried to overthrow me, and I banished him. It seems he is still searching for a clan to rule. He was surprised by your clan’s show of strength, but he will come back. What I want to know is, what did he mean when he said you didn’t give something to me?”

She looked away. “I don’t know.”

Her face was lit by a pale cast of moonlight, etching every perfect feature against the darkness. Although her expression was calm, he had the distinct feeling that she did know and didn’t want to tell him. He regarded her intently, contemplating the elegant rise of her cheeks, the long sweep of her lashes, the determined shape of her chin. Her auburn hair was rippling slightly in the evening breeze, grazing the softness of her cheek. She was, in that moment, overwhelmingly beautiful. Because beneath that delicate loveliness was a woman of immense courage and strength. A gently bred laird’s daughter who would hack off her hair, spread filth on her skin and dress as a lad, if that’s what it took to protect her people. A woman who dared fight rather than surrender, regardless of the risks to herself. As she leaned against the moon-washed stone of the parapet and gazed at the forest and mountains beyond, he suddenly understood why Roderic must return.

Had he thought himself even remotely worthy, he too would have fought for her.

Appalled, her shoved the thought aside. His days of being with women were finished, he reminded himself harshly. They had died on that blood-drenched battlefield, when he had been reduced to this crippled, drunken shell. Whatever fragment of spirit or pride that might have survived intact had been eradicated the night he drunkenly led his warriors from his castle, leaving the women and children hopelessly vulnerable to Roderic’s barbarism. The innocent deaths that weighed on his soul were too many to be counted, too heavy to be borne. His actions were unforgivable. No woman could ever want a man who had failed his people so hideously.

Especially not a woman with the exalted ideals of Ariella MacKendrick.

“We must find a laird with a well trained army for you,” he announced suddenly. “I cannot stay here much longer.”

Panic flashed through her. “Why?”

What could he tell her? That it was becoming too difficult, staying in this place where he didn’t belong, watching the people slowly grow to respect him? A place where he was forced to rise each morning and prove himself day after day, regardless of his pain or how much he had drunk the night before? A place where he was filled with purpose and felt almost needed? A place where she tormented him every moment with her beauty and her strength, showing him what he could never hope to have?

It was better he leave soon, before leaving became unbearable.

“I said I would stay until you are safe, and I will,” he assured her. “But you have a traitor within your clan who sent word to Roderic that you are alive. Now that he has seen you himself, he will not wait long to strike again. Your people have become stronger, but they are not strong enough to defeat a warrior like Roderic. You need a powerful laird with an army, and alliances to fortify you if that isn’t enough.”

What he was saying was true, she realized. What she could not understand was why the thought of MacFane leaving made her feel so alone. She had always known he would stay only for a short while. Three months. That was what they had agreed to. The sword must be bestowed before Roderic returned, or her people were in grave danger. Once she had chosen the new laird, there was no reason for MacFane to stay. After all, he didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. She would pay him his gold, and that would be that.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.

“Tomorrow I will speak to Alpin. He may be able to help me find the man who is to lead my people.”

“A man who is exceptionally strong, relentlessly brave, and driven by his innate sense of honor,” reflected Malcolm, repeating the qualities she had described to him.
All the things you believed I once was,
he added silently.

She nodded.

“Those are fine attributes for a laird,” he acknowledged, wondering if he had ever come close to meeting those requirements. “But what about you, Ariella? What do you seek in the man who will be your husband? The man you will share your life with, create children with, and grow old with?”

“I have not considered my own desires,” she replied, gazing into the darkness. “They are irrelevant. All that matters is his ability to lead and protect my people.”

She said it dismissively, but Malcolm was not convinced she believed it. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself. He knew her well enough to realize she did that only when she was afraid.

Or when she was contemplating something painful.

“No, Ariella,” he said, moving closer to her. “That is not all that matters. The man who will be your husband must be brave and honorable, just as you described.” He reached out to brush his fingers against the silk of her cheek, knowing as he did that he had no right to do so. “And he must be respectful of you,” he continued softly, “And he must vow to treat you with the gentlest of care.”

Ariella stared at him, unable to move. His hand was warm against her cheek, warm and strong and powerful. How was it that the hand of a warrior, a hand that had brought death to countless men in battle, could brush her skin with such reverent tenderness? MacFane’s blue eyes were burning into her, and the lines of his face were carved into deep grooves as he stroked her cheek and jaw. She sensed a battle raged within him, a battle he was not accustomed to fighting. His expression was taut with regret and desire, and her heart quickened as she realized she had seen this look before. She knew she should pull away when he gently grasped her chin and tilted it upward. Knew she should protest as he lowered his head. Knew she must say stop as his lips pressed warm and firm against hers.

Stop, MacFane.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into the solid wall of his chest, kissing him with a desperation she had never felt before and couldn’t begin to understand.

Please stop.

He could not hear her. That was why he moaned into her mouth, sharing her desperation as her lips parted and he tasted her deeply.

Please, I beg you, we must stop,
she pleaded, clinging to him as if she thought he could somehow protect her, could save her from the threat of Roderic, and her unknown husband, and the terrible, lonely burden of holding the future of her clan within her palm.
We cannot do this,
she added fervently, holding fast to him as his hands began to stroke her hair, her shoulders, her back, touching her with hungry, painful need, as if he had longed for this moment and knew it might soon be torn away.
I must give myself only to the next Laird MacKendrick.
Why wouldn’t he listen? she wondered, threading her fingers into the dark fall of his hair, pressing herself closer to his heat, his power, his touch, feeling strangely safe as his arms held her tight against him, safer than she had ever been in her life.

Hot desire surged through Malcolm as he kissed Ariella, tasting the sweet coolness of her mouth, inhaling the sun-washed scent of her, feeling the slim curves of her small form beneath the softness of her sapphire gown. It was impossible, what was happening, he understood that, but somehow he could not bring himself to end it. She was kissing him with a desperation that seemed to match his own, moaning into his mouth as she clung to him and crushed herself against him, filling him with a longing more powerful than any he had ever experienced. It was madness, it was hopelessness, it was wrong, it was all these things and more, yet he could no sooner have pulled away from her than he could have plucked the moon from the sky. And so he stroked the narrow length of her back, the slender curve of her waist, the lush flare of her hips, pulling her closer, closer, learning every detail of her, memorizing her so that when he returned to his dreary, barren life, he would have this moment to remember. He wanted her with a hunger that was shocking, wanted to strip her gown from her and lay her against the smooth stone of the floor and take her beneath the silvery blackness of the sky, with the mountains and the loch and everything she loved so dearly surrounding them. But he could never be satisfied with just one night. To have one night, and know he could never touch her again, would be far more tortuous than never to have her at all. And she could not give him more than that, he realized bleakly. Regardless of how sweetly she was clinging to him.

Summoning every vestige of his strength, he reached up and gently broke her embrace.

“Forgive me, Ariella,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. He didn’t know if he was asking forgiveness for wanting her, or for not being the warrior she needed. For not being the Black Wolf.

Her senses reeling, Ariella gazed up at him. His expression was harsh, but she knew it was not anger that lined his face. In that moment she suddenly remembered who she was, and where her responsibilities lay. Appalled by her behavior, she took a step back, as if distance might douse the flames raging between them.

“I—I must go,” she stammered, suddenly anxious to get away, to break free from his overwhelming aura, which was flooding her with need. She had always thought of him as battered and weak, not just physically, but spiritually, a man who had been destroyed by the trials of his life. But as he stood before her, his tall, muscular form chiseled in shadows and moonlight, regarding her with barely leashed desire, he seemed whole and strong and dangerously powerful. An illusion, she reminded herself desperately. But this time she could not quite convince herself.

“Good night, Ariella.” His voice was quiet, yet it was a command nonetheless.

She turned from him and walked away, her shoulders straight, her carriage dignified.
He is not the one,
she told herself fiercely.
Regardless of tonight, he is not the one.

It was this painful, irrefutable truth that forced her to keep walking, instead of turning back and hurling herself into the warm shelter of his arms.

C
HAPTER
10

Her father was calling her.

The sound was faint, as if he were far away, but there was no mistaking the low, gentle timbre of his voice. He called to her with warmth, and even a hint of amusement, as he used to when she was a little girl and had stayed out playing in the woods too long. No matter how late she was, she never feared he would be angry with her. On hearing that sweetly gruff voice, she would gather her skirts in her grubby fists and run as fast as she could toward the castle. Heaving with breathlessness, she would stretch out her arms so Laird MacKendrick could lift her high into the air, spinning her round and round until the world became a vortex of color and light. Her delighted squeals melded with his deep chuckles, causing everyone around them to pause and smile. Finally he would set her down, and she would dizzily stagger a step or two before collapsing onto the sun-warmed grass, watching the sky twirl over her while her father laughed.

Ariella.

She snuggled deeper into the softness of her pillow, remembering.

Ariella, my love, open your eyes.

Her heart pounding, she sat bolt upright.

It took her a moment to accept that there was no one in the room. Voices drifted through the window from the courtyard below, but none were her father’s. Feeling chilled, she lay back down and drew the blankets up to her chin. She listened a moment, as if she actually believed she might hear his rich, lusty voice once more. But there were only the normal muffled stirrings of the castle seeping through the thick stone walls.

He is dead,
she reminded herself numbly. Killed by Roderic’s sword as he tried to protect his daughter and his clan. An honorable, courageous death.

That left a gash in her heart so deep, she sometimes felt she could not endure it another moment.

Surely that was why she had acted so inconceivably last night with MacFane. Seeing Roderic had awakened the hideous, bloodstained memories of the death of her father, of Douglas and Myles, and of all the others who had fallen beneath his ugly avarice. The moment Roderic pressed his sword to Gavin’s throat and challenged MacFane, she had been terrified her clan was finished. Malcolm could not possibly defeat such a fit, highly trained warrior in swordplay. And he hadn’t. True, he had managed to meet him blow for blow, despite his physical limitations. But if Roderic had not decided to stop, he would have eventually worn Malcolm down.

And then he would have killed him.

It was the fact that MacFane had nearly died for her people that had sent her into his arms, she decided. She had been overcome with fear and relief, and she had allowed these feelings to cloud her judgment. A ripple of heat pulsed through her as she recalled his enormous body wrapped around her, hard and unyielding as stone, sheltering her from Roderic, and her memories, and even the terrible weight of her responsibilities. His touch had been restless, hungry, the touch of a man who is consumed with need. And she had returned his caresses wholly, pressing herself against him as she kissed him, enjoying the feel of his broad chest and thickly muscled legs against her own small form. Safe and free. That was how MacFane had made her feel last night.

But she was neither safe nor free. She was bound from birth with a heavy responsibility to her people, and they would not be safe until the rightful laird was found. MacFane had said so himself. The sooner she gave this warrior the sword, the sooner they would be secure and MacFane could leave. Which was what he wanted.

After what had happened between them last night, it was best he left soon.

She threw back the covers and began to dress. It was essential her people begin immediately to prepare themselves for another attack by Roderic. They had managed to drive him away last night, but only because he had not expected any opposition. Malcolm was right when he’d said that next time Roderic would be more cunning in his methods. He was not likely to strike for a while, because he had lost some of his men to capture and injury. But his comment to Malcolm clearly indicated he was worried Ariella would bestow the sword before he could steal it. He would not wait long to return. She must find the next MacKendrick before then.

She hurried downstairs and went outside to find her clan already hard at work. Men were hauling the heavy stones that had been thrown over the parapet back up to the battlements, while the women were busy collecting arrows and evaluating them for damage. Gavin was giving directions to several men who were adding bricks to the lowest section of the parapet, while Bryce and Hugh were examining the gate for weaknesses. No one was training, except for a small group practicing swordplay in a corner. As usual, Angus and Dugald watched these proceedings from their elevated platform, calling out loud suggestions no one gave any notice to.

Malcolm was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, Ariella,” called Angus, waving. “’Twas a fine battle we fought last night, was it not?”

“It was,” she agreed. “We should be proud.”

“That net MacFane designed worked splendidly,” added Dugald. “We captured seven men last night. That ought to make Roderic think twice about attacking MacKendricks!”

“What happened to the men taken prisoner?” she asked.

“They’re locked in one of the storerooms,” replied Angus. “It’s a pity we don’t have a real dungeon to put them in, but MacFane said the storeroom would do fine.”

She gazed around the courtyard, searching for Malcolm. After what had happened between them the night before, she was uneasy about facing him. “Where is MacFane this morning? Has he not risen yet?”

“Why, he’s gone, lass,” said Dugald.

A cold, hollow feeling swept over her. “Gone?”

“Aye,” said Angus. “He left early this morning, taking Duncan and Ramsay with him.”

“He’s paying visits to the clans around us, to discuss the possibility of alliances,” explained Dugald. “He left Gavin in charge of training and fortifying the castle and said he would return within two weeks. Did he not mention it to you?” he asked, frowning.

He had, she realized. Last night he had spoken again of the need to make alliances. And to find a laird with a powerful army, who could protect them.

“I—I didn’t know he would be leaving so soon,” she stammered.

“The sooner we have our laird in place, the better,” commented Angus. “The sword must be given to him before that scoundrel Roderic returns.” He regarded her intently. “Have you still no idea who he is, lass?”

She shook her head.

“Seems to me MacFane could do it,” said Dugald. “I didn’t think so at first, but since he has been here, the lad has proved himself a fine leader. All we need is for his great army to join him, and no one would dare strike us again.” He cast her a hopeful look.

“MacFane is not the one.”

She sensed their disappointment as she said it. It was clear that during the past few weeks her people had slowly grown to admire him. Of course, they were aware of his injuries, and he had not been able to keep his addiction to drink a secret for long. These things no longer seemed to bother them. But her people didn’t see him as he really was. They didn’t know he was no longer MacFane. That he had been cast out of his clan for some terrible crime, stripped of his title and his name, and relieved of the right to command the warriors he had trained and led so bravely as the Black Wolf. That when she had found him, he’d been living as a wild man, drunk, filthy, and unshaven. And that he had come here unwillingly, drawn only by greed.

Had they known, they would have understood such a man could not possibly be the next MacKendrick.

“Come in, Ariella.”

She swung the heavy door open, not at all surprised that Alpin had known it was she. Ivor flapped his giant wings and made a great hooting noise, showing his displeasure at being disturbed. Ariella ignored him as she made her way through the gloom toward Alpin, who was bent over a table, absorbed in the task of sprinkling a silvery dust into a bowl. He chanted something softly and waved his hands, his great white eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Suddenly there was an enormous flash of light, so brilliant, she had to squeeze her eyes shut. When she opened them, all she saw was a screen of smoke.

Alpin had disappeared.

There was a loud cough as his gnarled hands emerged from the swirling cloud, angrily swatting it away. “It didn’t work,” he grumbled, stepping out of it.

“What was supposed to happen?”

“I was supposed to turn into a bird. There was a time when I could do it easily. But there hasn’t been a need these past forty years or so, and I fear I am sadly out of practice.” He sighed. “One must keep these things up, or one loses them altogether.”

“You can try again tomorrow,” she suggested.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, not sounding enthusiastic. “These days I find I tire from the more complicated spells.” He gripped his staff and shuffled over to the hearth, where he began to pour a milky liquid into a small pan frothing with yellow foam. “So,” he murmured after a moment, “he has left us.”

“Yes. For a time.”

“And you are afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of your feelings for him.”

“I have no feelings for MacFane,” she quickly assured him.

He raised a skeptical brow.

“We have a—a friendship,” she conceded reluctantly. “Nothing more.”

“I see.”

Ariella watched him in silence as he reached into a jar marked “Dried Spiders,” withdrew a generous handful of the shrunken creatures, and crumbled them into the pot. A musty odor wafted through the room.

“I was wondering,” she began after a moment, “if you have had any more visions about the next laird.”

“Some. But they have not been clear. It is more a sense of the man, and what he is like, rather than a vision of who he actually is.”

“What is he like?”

“You already know, Ariella,” he reminded her. “We have spoken many times of the man who will wield the MacKendrick sword. You had to be taught so you would know what to look for.”

“I need to hear it again,” she said softly. “Please.”

Alpin thoughtfully continued to stir his pot. “He has an indomitable strength,” he finally began. “Of body, mind, and spirit.”

An image of Malcolm’s battered, weakened body came to mind. That, and his inability to control his need for drink.

“What else?”

“He lives his life with honor and courage,” Alpin added. “He has a deep, inherent desire to help those who cannot help themselves.”

Again she thought of Malcolm, who had not wanted to come here until she had bribed him with gold and promised it would be for no more than three months.

“Anything more?”

“People respect him because he is a great leader. And he has done much to earn that respect.”

Malcolm had once been a great leader, she allowed. But then he had done something so horrendous, he had been driven from his clan.

Thrown out by his own clan for letting the women and children be slain while he was drunk—

“Is that true?” she demanded abruptly.

Alpin looked at her in confusion. “Is what true?”

It was a lie. It had to be. Even so, she needed to be sure.

“Last night one of Roderic’s men said MacFane was banished from his clan because the women and children were slain while he was drunk.” She hesitated, not certain she wanted to hear his answer. “Is that true?”

He regarded her steadily, his black eyes betraying no hint of emotion. “Aye, Ariella. It is true.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, a vain attempt to shield herself from this hideous information. From the moment he had failed to appear when Roderic attacked, failed even to answer her father’s missives, Ariella had known the Black Wolf was not the one. But Alpin had told her she must find him, and so she had. They had gone first to the MacFane castle, where the new laird, Harold, told them Malcolm had been banished for his crimes. But he had not shared with them what those crimes were.

Had she known, she never would have brought him here.

“You are wrong, Ariella,” Alpin said, his voice low. “You were right to bring him here.”