Rebellion & In From The Cold (35 page)

“MacGregor,” he answered. “Ian MacGregor.”

“Rest then, Mr. MacGregor.”

But his hand reached for hers. Such a small hand, he thought irrelevantly, to be so competent. “Your name?”

“Alanna Flynn.” His was a good hand, she thought, not as rough as Da’s or her brothers’, but hard. “You’re welcome here until you are fit.”

“Thank you.” He kept her hand in his, toying with her fingers in a way that she would have thought flirtatious—if he hadn’t just come out of a fever. Then she remembered he had kissed her when he’d been bleeding to death in her barn, and carefully removed her hand. He grinned at her. There was no other way to describe that quick curve of lips.

“I’m in your debt, Miss Flynn.”

“Aye, that you are.” She rose, all dignity. “And it’s Mrs. Flynn.”

He couldn’t remember a swifter or weightier disappointment. Not that he minded flirting with married women, if they were agreeable. But he would never have considered taking it further than a few smiles and murmurs with another man’s woman. It was a bloody shame, he thought as he studied Alanna Flynn. A sad and bloody shame.

“I’m grateful to you, Mrs. Flynn, and to your husband.”

“Give your gratitude to my father.” She softened the order with a smile that made her dimple deepen. He was a rogue, of that she hadn’t a doubt. But he was also a weak one and, at the moment, in her care. “This is his house, and he’ll be back soon.” With her hands on her hips, she looked at him. His color was better, she noted, though the good Lord knew he could use a good clipping on that mane of hair he wore. And a shave wouldn’t have hurt him. Despite it, he was an excellent-looking man. And because she was woman enough to have recognized the light in his eyes when he looked at her, she would keep her guard up.

“If you’re not going to sleep, you might as well eat. I’ll get that broth.”

She left him to go into the kitchen, her heels clicking lightly on the plank floor. Alone, Ian lay still and let his gaze wander over the room. Alanna Flynn’s father had done well for himself, Ian mused. The windows were glazed, the walls whitewashed. His pallet was set near the fire and its stone hearth was scrubbed clean. Above it was a mantelpiece of the same native stone. On it candles were set and a pair of painted china dishes. There were two fowling pieces above it all and a good flintlock, as well.

The loom was under the window, and in the corner was a spinning wheel. The furniture showed not a speck of dust and was brightened a bit by a few needlepoint cushions. There was a scent—apples baking, he thought, and spiced meats. A comfortable home, he thought, hacked out of the wilderness. A man had to respect another who could make his mark like this. And a man would have to fight to keep what he had made.

There were things worth fighting for. Worth dying for. His land. His name. His woman. His freedom. Ian was more than ready to lift his sword. As he tried to sit up, the cozy room spun.

“Isn’t it just like a man?” Alanna came back with a bowl of broth. “Undoing all my work. Sit still,
you’re weak as a babe and twice as fretful.”

“Mrs. Flynn—”

“Eat first, talk later.”

Out of self-defense, he swallowed the first spoonful of broth she shoveled into his mouth. “The broth is tasty, mistress, but I can feed myself.”

“And spill it all over my clean linens in the bargain. No, thank you. You need your strength.” She placated him as she would have her own brothers. “You lost a great deal of blood before you got to us—more when the ball was removed.” She spoke as she spooned up broth, and her hand didn’t tremble. But her heart did.

There was the scent of herbs and her own lavender fragrance. Ian began to think being fed had its advantages.

“If it hadn’t been so cold,” she continued, “you would have bled all the quicker and died in the forest.”

“So I’ve nature as well as you to thank.”

She gave him a measured look. “It’s said the Lord works in mysterious ways. Apparently he saw fit to keep you alive after you’d done your best to die.”

“And put me in the hands of a neighbor.” He smiled again, charmingly. “I’ve never been to Ireland, but I’m told it’s beautiful.”

“So my father says. I was born here.”

“But there’s Ireland on your tongue.”

“And Scotland on yours.”

“It’s been five years since I’ve seen Scotland this time.” A shadow came and went in his eyes. “I’ve been spending some time in Boston. I was educated there and have friends.”

“Educated.” She had already recognized his schooling by his speech and envied him for it.

“Harvard.” He smiled a little.

“I see.” And she envied him all the more. If her mother had lived … Ah, but her mother had died, and Alanna had never had more than a hornbook to learn to write and read. “You’re a ways from Boston now. A day’s ride. Would you be having any family or friends who will worry?”

“No. No one to worry.” He wanted to touch her. It was wrong, against his own code of honor. But he wanted to see if her cheek could be as beautifully soft as it looked. If her hair would feel as thick and heavy. Her mouth as sweet.

Her lashes lifted, and her eyes, clear and cool, met his. For a moment he could see only her face, drifting over his. And he remembered. He had already tasted those lips once.

Despite his best intentions, his gaze lowered to them. Lingered. When she stiffened, his eyes flickered up. There was not so much apology in them as amusement.

“I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Flynn. I was not myself when you found me in the barn.”

“You came to yourself quickly enough,” she snapped back, and made him laugh until he winced at the pain.

“Then I’ll beg your pardon all the more and hope your husband won’t call me out.”

“There’s little danger of that. He’s been dead these three years.”

He looked up quickly, but she only shoveled another spoonful of broth in his mouth. Though God might strike him dead, he couldn’t say he was sorry to hear Flynn had gone to his Maker. After all, Ian reasoned, it wasn’t as if he had known the man. And what better way to spend a day or two than recovering in the lap of a pretty young widow?

Alanna scented desire the way a hound scents deer and was up and out of reach. “You’ll rest now.”

“I feel that I’ve rested weeks already.” Lord, she was a lovely thing, all curves and colors. He tried his most ingratiating smile. “Could I trouble you to help me to a chair? I’d feel more myself if I could sit, perhaps look out the window.”

She hesitated, not because she was afraid she couldn’t move him. Alanna considered herself strong as an ox. But she didn’t trust the gleam she’d seen come and go in his eyes.

“All right then, but you’ll lean on me and take it slow.”

“With gladness.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Before she could snatch it away, he turned it over and brushed his lips, as no man ever had, over the cup of her palm. Her heart bounded into her throat. “You have eyes the color of jewels I once saw around the neck of the queen of France. Sapphires,” he murmured. “A seductive word.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Never in her life had a man looked at her this way. She felt the heat rush up, from the knot in her belly along her suddenly taut breasts, up her throat where her pulse hammered and into her face. Then he smiled, that quick, crooked shifting of lips. She snatched her hand away.

“You’re a rogue, Mr. MacGregor.”

“Aye, Mrs. Flynn. But that doesn’t make the words less true. You’re beautiful. Just as your name says. Alanna.” He lingered over each syllable.

She knew better than to fall for flattery. But the center of her palm still burned. “It’s my name, and you’ll wait till you’re asked to use it.” It was with relief that she heard the sounds outside the house. Her brow lifted a bit when she saw that Ian had heard them as well and braced. “That’ll be my father and brothers. If you’d still be having a mind to sit by the window, they’ll help you.” So saying, she moved to the door.

They would be cold and hungry, she thought, and would gobble down the meat pies and the apple tarts she had made without a thought for the time and care she had given them. Her father would fret more over what hadn’t been done than what had. Johnny would think about how soon he could ride into the village to court young Mary Wyeth. Brian would put his nose into one of the books he loved and read by the fire until his head drooped.

They came in bringing cold and melting snow and loud masculine voices.

Ian relaxed as he noted it was indeed her family. Perhaps it was foolish to think the British would have tracked him all this way in the snow, but he wasn’t a man to let down his guard. He saw three men—or two men and a boy nearly grown. The elder man was barely taller than Alanna and toughly built. His face was reddened and toughened by years of wind and weather, his eyes a paler version of his daughter’s. He took off his work cap and beneath it his hair was thin and sandy.

The older son had the look of him but with more height and less bulk. There was an ease and patience in his face that his father lacked.

The younger matched his brother inch for inch, but there was the dew of youth still on his cheeks. He had the same coloring as his sister.

“Our guest is awake,” Alanna announced, and three pairs of eyes turned to him. “Ian MacGregor, this is my father, Cyrus Murphy, and my brothers, John and Brian.”

“MacGregor,” Cyrus said in a voice that rumbled. “An awkward name.”

Despite the pain, Ian stiffened and pushed himself as straight as possible. “One I’m proud of.”

“A man should be proud of his name,” Cyrus said as he took Ian’s measure. “It’s all he’s born with. I’m glad you decided to live, for the ground’s frozen and we couldn’t have buried you till spring.”

“It’s a bit of a relief to me, as well.”

Satisfied with the answer, Cyrus nodded. “We’ll wash for supper.”

“Johnny.” Alanna detained her brother with a hand on his arm. “Will you help Mr. MacGregor into the chair by the window before you eat?”

With a quick grin, Johnny looked at Ian. “You’re built like an oak, MacGregor. We had the very devil of a time getting you into the house. Give me a hand here, Brian.”

“Thanks.” Ian bit back a groan as he lifted his arms over the two pairs of shoulders. Cursing his watery legs, he vowed to be up and walking on his own by the next day. But he was sweating by the time they settled him into the chair.

“You’re doing well enough for a man who cheated death,” Johnny told him, understanding well the frustrations of any sick man.

“I feel like I drank a case of grog then took to the high seas in a storm.”

“Aye.” Johnny slapped his good shoulder in a friendly manner. “Alanna will fix you up.” He left to wash for supper, already scenting the spiced meat.

“Mr. MacGregor?” Brian stood in front of him. There was both a shyness and intensity in his eyes. “You’d be too young to have fought in the Forty-five?” When Ian’s brow lifted, the boy continued hurriedly. “I’ve read all about it, the Stuart Rebellion and the bonny prince and all the battles. But you’d be too young to have fought.”

“I was born in ‘46,” Ian told him. “During the Battle of Culloden. My father fought in the rebellion. My grandfather died in it.”

The intense blue eyes widened. “Then you could tell me more than I can find in books.”

“Aye.” Ian smiled a little. “I could tell you more.”

“Brian.” Alanna’s voice was sharp. “Mr. MacGregor needs to rest, and you need to eat.”

Brian edged back, but he watched Ian. “We could talk after supper if you’re not weary.”

Ian ignored Alanna’s stormy looks and smiled at the boy. “I’d like that.”

Alanna waited until Brian was out of earshot. When she spoke, the barely controlled fury in her voice surprised Ian. “I won’t have you filling his head with the glory of war and battles and causes.”

“He looked old enough to decide what he wants to talk about.”

“He’s a boy yet, and his head is easily filled with nonsense.” With tense fingers, she pleated the skirt of her apron, but her eyes remained level and uncompromising. “I may not be able to stop him from running off to the village green to drill, but I’ll have no talk of war in my house.”

“There will be more than talk, and soon,” Ian said mildly. “It’s foolish for a man—and a woman—not to prepare for it.”

She paled but kept her chin firm. “There will be no war in this house,” she repeated, and fled to the kitchen.

Ian awoke early the next morning to watery winter sunlight and the good yeasty smell of baking bread. For a moment he lay quiet, enjoying the sounds and scents of morning. Behind him the fire burned low and bright, shooting out comforting heat. From the direction of the kitchen came Alanna’s voice. This time she sang in English. For a few minutes he was too enchanted with the sound itself to pay attention to the lyrics. Once they penetrated, his eyes widened first in surprise, then in amusement.

It was a bawdy little ditty more suitable to sailors or drunks than a proper young widow.

So, he thought, the lovely Alanna had a ribald sense of humor. He liked her all the better for it, though he doubted her tongue would have tripped so lightly over the words if she had known she had an audience. Trying to move quietly, he eased his legs from the pallet. The business of standing took some doing and left him dizzy and weak and infuriated. He had to wait, wheezing like an old man, one big hand pressed for support against the wall. When he had his breath back he took one tentative step forward. The room tilted and he clenched his teeth until it righted again. His arm throbbed mightily. Concentrating on the pain, he was able to take another step, and another, grateful that no one was there to see his tedious and shambling progress.

It was a lowering thought that one small steel ball could fell a MacGregor.

The fact that the ball had been English pushed him to place one foot in front of the other. His legs felt as though they’d been filled with water, and a cold sweat lay on his brow and the back of his neck. But in his heart was a fierce pride. If he had been spared to fight again, he would damn well fight. And he couldn’t fight until he could walk.