Taming the Barbarian (23 page)

“I…” She paused, breathing hard and shaking her head with a huffed laugh. “I can’t seem to tell for certain, but… Might you be paying me a compliment, Hiltsglen?”

He lowered his brows, disturbed by the unseemly fact that he may have been doing just that. “I am na a man for bonny words, lass. If I say a thing, ye can be assured, ‘tis na meant as flattery, but as a fact unpolished and true.”

“Well…” She chuckled again, but the sound was breathy. ” ‘Tis good to know.” She seemed a bit more herself now, controlled, sure. “Tell me, sir knight, what is your purpose for being here?”

“I would know the truth.”

She pursed her lips and kept her back perfectly straight. “Concerning what exactly?”

“Do ye sleep alone because the memories of yer husband be so fair to yer mind or because they be so hideous?”

“My husband,” she said, her voice perfectly level, her irresistible lips slightly pursed, “was a gentleman.”

“I’ve known those called gentle men,” he said, remembering back. “Indeed, it seems they are oft the cause of great sorrow.”

Her lips parted, and she blinked as if temporarily lost, but she found her way in an instant and brushed a wrinkle from her skirts, as if wishing she could be rid of him as easily. “I believe, Sir Hiltsglen, that you may very well be quite mad.”

He nodded slowly. ” ‘Tis possible,” he said. “Indeed, I’ve thought the same meself in the few days just past, but this I’ll tell ye, lass, I’ve na struck a maid. Na in all me considerable years.”

“Why would you assume—”

“There is fear behind yer eyes when ye speak of him.”

She laughed. “I hate to disagree, but you cannot see behind my eyes, Sir—”

He slapped his palm against the seat, and she jumped, startled from her haughty expression.

“Why na call a bastard a bastard?” he snarled.

“Because he was supposed to cherish me!” she spat, then covered her mouth with a gloved hand and stared at him. Her eyes had gone wide with shock, and her fingers trembled the slightest degree against her rose red lips. For a moment she remained absolutely still, but finally she lowered her hand and leaned back against the cushion behind her.

He said nothing, but watched her in silence, and when she next spoke her voice had gone soft.

“And if he did not…” Her eyes looked lost and haunted. “What did that say of me?”

Sorrow as old as time burned through him, and though he knew he must not, he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms. “That ye had married a fool.”

She watched him, then filled her nostrils and gave him the smallest hint of a smile. “You are a difficult man to decipher,” she said.

“I am what ye see,” he argued. “Na more and na less.”

She shook her head, but her eyes were soft now. “Why have you come here?”

He wished to God he knew. “Tell me of yer husband, lass,” he said.

“Did Kendrick hire you?”

“Kendrick?” he asked and narrowed his eyes. “The…
gentle man
what attacked ye on the night of our first meeting?”

She nodded, then scowled at the memory as if trying to work out the possibilities.

“Would I na have sided with him at the outset if that were the case?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe you are more clever than you look.”

“I know it seems likely,” he said, picturing his own inelegant features. “But I fear ‘tis na true.”

A smile flickered across her candlelit face. She was as bonny as the sunrise, far too beautiful for a battle-scarred warrior such as himself. Far beyond his reach.

“I am what ye see,” he said quietly.

“And what do I see?” Her voice was like music, her scent like a warm garden, and sitting thus, with her golden hair framing her bonny face, she looked all but irresistible.

He tightened his fists and kept himself carefully on his side of the carriage. “Ye see a warrior what will learn the truth, lass, whether ye wish it or nay.”

“The truth?” She exhaled heavily, letting her eyes drop closed for a moment and looking suddenly weary. “The truth is often a slippery thing, Scotsman. Slippery and dangerous.”

“Nevertheless I shall find it.”

She laughed. “Might you think there are some deep dark secrets hidden here?” she asked.

“Mayhap.”

She watched him in silence, her expression somber. “What will it take?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering at her meaning.

“To convince you to leave,” she explained, her chin high again. “And never return. What is it you want?”

He had known another like her in the past. Just as haughty, just as dangerous, and because of that, if for no other reason, he should detest her, and yet it was the furthest thing from the truth. Indeed, he ached with a longing so ferocious it all but consumed him. And yet he knew, even now, in the dark throes of lust, that it would not be enough to lie with her. Nay, he wished to protect her, to hold her, to touch her very soul, but he was not fool enough to admit such horrid weaknesses. For weakness killed.

“I think ye know what I want, lass,” he said, and felt her draw him like a beacon in the darkness, but she was shaking her head, her eyes uncertain.

He watched her in silence for a moment, trying to understand. “Might ye think I want coin, lass?”

“What else?”

He could not help but chuckle, for even now, when he knew she was deadly, he could think of nothing but how she would feel in his arms, in his bed, in the very heart of his life. “Could it be that men have changed so much through the ages?” he mused.

“What?”

“Can you believe I would prefer coin to your…” He drew a careful breath and loosened his fists, letting them lie flat against his thighs. The muscles there were hard with tension. He tried and failed to relax. “Ye are all but irresistible,” he said evenly, “as ye very well know.”

She canted her head as if examining him. “I fear you are quite wrong,” she said. “Indeed, men seem to have little trouble resisting me. My bank account, on the other hand…”

“Ye are beauty itself.”

Perhaps she had meant to go on, for her lips were still parted, but her words had ceased.

“Ye are like ice set ablaze.”

“I just…” She laughed, but her face was pink. “I don’t know what that—”

“Ye are like a goddess of yore. Spirit and wit and beauty so intense I can barely breathe for the sight of ye.”

Her eyes were round and bright in the shifting candlelight.

“And I want naught more than to hold ye in me arms, even though I know ye could well be the death of me.”

“Yer death?” she breathed.

“He did na drown,” he rumbled.

“What?”

“Yer husband, the baron of Briarburn. He did na drown, lass,” he said, and reaching out, touched her face.

“Why do you say that?” she hissed.

“Because ‘tis true. I would but know how it is that he died.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she rasped. “We were on the river. I… I was feeling unwell and left him there alone.”

“Lass, I ken he was na what ye say—”

“You know nothing,” she said, and scooted back, away from him. “He drowned. While I was away. He—”

“Lass.” He reached for her again, but she was already at the door. “Stay back,” she warned, “or I’ll scream for Horace.”

He shook his head. “I’ve na wish to harm yer wee driver.”

“Then go away,” she pleaded, her eyes suddenly haunted. “Go and don’t come back.”

“I canna do that,” he said, and tried to grasp her arm, but she wrenched the door open just as the carriage rumbled to a halt. And then she was gone.

“M
illie,” Fleurette stood in Lessenton Halls’s lovely morning room. “How are you faring?”

“Very well, my lady” said the maidservant, and spread her fingers over her expansive belly. “But as fat as a puppy.”

“Not fat at all,” Fleur argued. “You look radiant. When is the wee bairn due?”

“Bairn?”

Fleur held her breath, but refused to show her mortification. The idea that she was beginning to speak like the barbarian only confirmed the fact that she was doing the right thing. “Baby,” she corrected, and forced a laugh. “When is the baby due to arrive?”

“Four months’ time. Have a biscuit, my lady. Eloise just now took them from the oven.”

“Thank you but no,” Fleur said, and steadied her hands against her skirt. “If I—”

“Lady Glendowne,” Stanford said, hurrying into the room.

Fleur turned toward him with a groomed smile. Her lungs felt tight and her head ridiculously light, as if she couldn’t get enough air.

“How long have you been waiting? I hope ‘tis not long. Millie, you must inform me the minute my lady arrives.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the maid and, setting the tray on a small table nearby, bustled from the room.

“Fleurette,” Stanford said, and reached for her hands once they were alone. “What brings you by at this hour of the day? Is something amiss? I’ve been ever so concerned.”

She laughed. The noise sounded high-pitched and flighty. Not at all like herself, but she wasn’t herself lately. She was someone else entirely, someone frightened and needy. There was no other explanation for her irrepressible attraction to a man wholly unsuited to her. He was a barbarian, for pity’s sake, an overbearing, opinionated warrior who had horned his way into her life. But that didn’t mean she could afford to become accustomed to his ever-protective presence. Having him near was akin to keeping a large bear on a short string. ‘Twas likely none would trouble you whilst you were out for your constitutional, but you would forever rue the day when you caused his ire. For he could devour you without warning.

No, she dare not trust Hiltsglen, but she was damnably weak, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would do just that. If he kissed her again, if he stood as her protector one more time, as brave and solid as a stone, she would crumble like a house of sand. And that she could not afford to do. Thus her journey to mild Stanford’s home.

“Everything is fine,” she assured him. “Whatever were you concerned about?”

“Well…” His expression proved his worry. His hands felt gentle and soft against hers. Not at all like the callused fingers of the barbarian, who took her breath while setting her teeth on edge. “Ever since Amelia’s wedding, I’ve been dreadfully afraid that I disturbed you. That I was too forceful, too—”

“Disturbed me? No. In fact…” She paused. Her stomach turned, but she made herself go on. “In fact, I’ve given your words a good deal of thought.”

His expression froze. His hands trembled. “My words?”

She took a deep breath. “Your… kindly proposal,” she said.

“Fleurette…” he breathed, his eyes wide. “Dare I hope that you’ve…” He shook his head. “Might you be willing to accept my humble suit?”

She smiled and squeezed his hands, though her stomach was still knotted up fast and hard. “Are you certain that is your wish, dearest Stanford?”

“Am I certain…” He laughed and glanced about as if searching for someone with which to share the moment. “Of course I’m certain. My lady…” He dropped spontaneously to one knee. Tears filled his eyes as he looked up at her. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

Shame and worry melded messily with hope and fear. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”

The shadows were as dark as eternity beside the ancient statue of the Celt. Killian remained unmoved, waiting.

The scents of foxglove and oxslip teased his nostrils, and though those fragrances had soothed his tired senses for many long years, anger and frustration still brewed like potent grog in his soul.

But she would come. He was certain of that, and he had learned to be patient. Hours slipped by. From somewhere in the woods a kit yipped. Another answered. An owl swooped down in the still night air, unconcerned by Killian’s presence. A mouse squeaked as it died, then there were footsteps.

Killian knew Fleurette came, though he was unsure how. It seemed as though he could smell the sweet lavender scent of her skin, could hear the quiet rush of her breath.

And then he saw her.

She wandered slowly through the garden, wearing naught by a night rail. It seemed to gleam in the mercurial light of the besieged moon. Mists rose silently from the dell, wreathing her in silver. He watched her come until finally she was there, lifting her gaze to the Celt’s eyes, settling her hand on his thigh.

Killian felt the burn of her touch in his own soul. Gritting his teeth against the weakness of her nearness, he stepped silently forward.

“So ‘tis true then,” he said.

She startled like a frightened doe, almost fled, then settled, watching him.

“Tell me, Sir Hiltsglen…” Her tone was taut, but she remained as she was, the sweet curves of her silvery form almost visible through the fragile fabric of her gown. “Do you ever announce your coming?”

“Tell me if ‘tis true,” he rumbled, and stepped forward, though he knew he should not.

She hustled back, her face pale in the darkness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aye, ye do,” he said, and crowded toward her so that her back was against the statue. “I would but know the truth. Are ye planning to marry yer weak-kneed sop?”

She bristled instantly. “Lord Lessenton is not a sop,” she snarled. “He is a gentleman of the first water. Indeed—”

“Why would ye take another coward into yer bed?”

“He is not—”

“Aye, a coward he is, as was yer husband afore him, and na strong enough to manage the likes of ye.”

“Manage! Is that what you think marriage is?” she growled. “Management?”

“He is not the man for ye.”

“Then who is?” she asked, and laughed out loud. “God knows a woman cannot handle her own affairs. So whom shall I marry, Scotsman? You tell me. Who do you think might be able to manage me?”

He drew a breath through his nostrils and clenched his fists against his thighs lest he reach out and snatch her against his chest. “He is na yer match,” he said simply.

“Well…” She laughed again. “I just happen to disagree.”

He gritted his teeth. ” ‘Twould be like mating yer mare with me gelding.”

“Do I forget, or did you not extol me with the gelding’s many fine attributes.”