The Highlander (13 page)

Once she was back in her room, she stood with her back to the door, her eyes closed, gasping for breath.

As he walked toward the fountain, Jamie watched her run the entire distance to the lodge, having decided to let her go. He could not allow her disobedience, and knew she had to sort through all of this by herself.

She would not welcome his intervention now. She was too angry at him, and her feelings were too raw.

No, he would not chase her.

Not this time.

That did not mean he did not want to go after her. He wanted her too much, and he thought of little else than making love to her. No matter what he did, he could never erase the memory of her slender nakedness, the yielding alabaster of her breast, the little panting cries that came from deep in her throat.

She was an enigma, a distraction, a mystery, a headache, and as stubborn a lass as he had ever encountered.

And she sure as hell was not a lady's maid.

She could have been a courtesan, save for the fact that he knew somehow that she was untouched.

She ought to be married...

But not to him.

She would probably be a good wife...

To someone else.

He should let her go...

But not just yet.

Desire for her pierced him like an arrow, and the shaft had driven deep into his heart. Her image was always before him, shining and bright as a candle in the dark, until the looming shadow of distrust doused it.

He could not love
a
^1-
woman he did not believe.

Restlessness seized him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He laid his head back and inhaled deeply, needing the return of orderly control. He felt out of balance. He would probably stay that way until he knew what she was hiding. He wanted to help her, but she had to trust him enough to let him into her life.

He could not correct the wrongs if he did not know what they were.

Never in his life could he remember being in a situation like this, where he had no answers, or worse, did not even know what the questions were.

He would have continued ambling along, lost in his own musings, if he had not noticed something shining from the bottom of the fountain.

When he fished it out, he saw the
fleur-de-lis
on the chain. He knew it had to be the same one Sophie wore around her neck. His first thought was it might have slipped off her neck due to a broken clasp, but when he saw it was broken in the middle of the chain, he knew it must have come off by force.

But how?

And why?

He could think of no apparent reason for her to rip her necklace from her own neck and toss it into the fountain. Yet, there was no one else here who could have done it.

He dropped it into his pocket, curious as to why she had thrown it in the fountain instead of taking it with her, for he was certain it had to hold some special memory for her, otherwise she would not wear it.

Damn puzzling, infuriating woman that she was.

_Nine

Quarrels would not last so long if the fault were on only one side. —Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680), French writer.
Reflections, or Sentences and Moral Maxims (1665)

Sophie locked the door and then, for good measure, she kicked it.

He was the most infuriating man she ever had the displeasure of meeting. She hoped she never saw him again, and to prove her point, she pushed the trunk away from the foot of the bed and shoved it against the door.

"There," she said as she dusted her hands, and wished that she could dismiss him just as easily.

Her heart was pounding, both from exertion and from anger. Still in her cloak, she began to pace the floor, cursing him in French and calling him every vile name she could muster.

When that did little to ease her passionate fury, she threw back the doors that led to the balcony and stepped outside.

The wind was rising and began tearing at her cloak, blowing it back over her shoulders. She placed her hands on the balustrade and turned her face into the wind to feel the sting of snow, wanting the physical pain to match that which she carried inside, not knowing it was her own tears, and not the snow, that turned her face wet.

She brought her hand up to her hair and felt its stiffness, and wondered what it would be like to lie down and slowly freeze to death. She had been told that it was a painless death—you simply went to sleep and never woke up.

Of course, she had had a good inkling of what it was like the day Tavish found her and brought her here. One had to endure a lot of aching cold and shivering before reaching the point of falling asleep, and that was enough to send that thought on its way.

Sacre bleu!
She had never felt so desolate.

She could not return to France for her cousin, King Louis, would say she had insulted his honor, and he would immediately send her to England and Rockingham. She could not remain here, for the English would surely find her before long.

Yet, where could she go?

She had lost everything...her clothes, her money, her past, her future...everything, when the ship broke up on the rocks. Today she had learned the English were patrolling the roads, and she was not so naive as to think they were not looking for her.

She had committed a grievous affront in the eyes of two countries. They would not let her get away with it. They would want her brought to task, and they would find her.

It was only a matter of time.

Lost in her own grief, she did not hear him approach, and had nO inkling he had even come into the room until she felt a warm presence against her back, and knew instinctively that it was Jamie.

"How did you get in here?"

"I have a key to the door. As for the trunk, it is easily pushed aside."

He put out his hands to grip her shoulders and, turning her, pulled her against him. He caught her chin beneath his forefinger and turned her face up to his. When he kissed her, his hands went under her cloak and a shower of snow swirled around them as he held her against him, tightly, as if he feared he would lose her if he let go.

If kisses were books, this one was an epic, for it was long, educational, adventuresome and impressive, and she was a heroine of sorts for surviving its onslaught.

His lips touched the hollow of her throat.

She swallowed and swayed against him, unprepared for the sudden surge of feeling that washed over her at the feel of his tongue touching hers, probing, encouraging, tempting...

She understood now what he meant when he said "Warming my bed is much more binding than leaving a lass locked in her room, yearning for the unattainable."

Her hands dug into his arms as the world seemed to fall from under her feet. A warm, liquid heat pulsed through her body, humming like the husky tones of a violoncello. Her flesh burned beneath the touch of his hand, and she found herself wanting to get even closer to him, needing the comfort and the protective hardness of him.

She was vaguely aware of the sound of the wind hissing through the doors as he closed them, leading her into her chamber.

"Sophie...why were you standing out there? You are soaking wet, at least in the places that are not frozen stiff. What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

He removed her cloak and dusted the snow from her head. He left her for a moment, only to return with a length of cloth. Neither of them spoke as he gave his attention to drying her hair.

After a while he made a satisfied sound, apparently pleased with the results. He then wrapped it around her head, turban style, before he began to briskly rub her hands to warm them.

She was barely aware when he stopped rubbing and began kissing the tips of her cold fingers, one by one, and her thoughts began to pull away from him and back to another time.

"I remember someone...my grandmother, I think. She used to do that."

"What? Kiss your fingers?"

"Out"
She nodded and her head fell against his chest. He pulled her close and rubbed her back briefly before he picked her up and carried her to the chaise in front of the fire.

He stirred the embers and put on more logs, then drew the fur coverlet over her, lifting it long enough to join her and take her in his arms.

He kissed her cheek. "Tell me what bothers you, besides your anger at me."

She no longer felt angry and tried, without success, to find the words to put it all into perspective, but her thoughts seemed incapable of connecting with the words jumbled in her mind.

He kissed her lips softly. "Why carina ye trust me?"

Tears burned and blurred her vision. She wanted to tell him. She needed to tell him and feel the assurance that he would protect her. Yet, she could not tell him, although it grieved her. Her future, even her life, was at stake.

She could not be too careful.

She did not answer but asked him a question instead. "Are you going to make love to me?"

"Yes, but not right now." He had such a beautiful smite—one that drew attention to his perfect teeth, as a frame enhances a portrait.

She studied his eyes, fascinated with the mossy, yellow-green color. She wanted to speak, but the knot in her throat would not budge, and the breath lay trapped somewhere in her lungs.

She doubled her fists and pressed them hard against her stomach, and rolled toward him. She was tired: tired of running, tired of lying, tired of trying to fight archaic laws, tired of thinking she could outsmart the might of two powerful countries. She wished she was a child again, or that her father had not died, or that she had been born ugly, or at least the daughter of paupers.

She wished wishing would, just once, solve her problems.

She began to cry then, because it was too hard to talk, to think, or to give him any inkling of what she had been through, and what she feared might happen to her when they caught her.

Now everything was doubly complicated, and the frustration pounded like a hammer in her brain. She knew she was coming under this man's spell, as surely as she was falling in love with him. And that in itself, was another complication.

She tried to tell him she was sorry, that she was not normally a woman prone to lies, deception or tears, but the words tore at her throat and she felt as if she was bleeding inside.

Her eyes burned, arid her nose, too. Her head ached, and her body was so cold she was numb. The only feeling she had at all was the raw burning at the place at her neck where she had ripped the chain away.

She swiped at her nose and began to shake her head. "This is all so pointless. I cannot stay here. This is not my home. I am a stranger, in a strange place, among strange people. Even the food is strange. I need to go...somewhere, and that is when the frustration sets in, because where do I go? Why don't I know where that place is?''

"Tell me. Tell me where you want to go and I will take you there. Tell me what you are afraid of, why you cannot remain here. With my last breath, I will protect you. Tell me and I will find a place for you. A place where you feel comfortable and safe. Do you want to go home... back to France?"

She shook her head. "No."

"What is happening to you?"

She started crying again. "I don't know. I don't know," she repeated, and buried her face in her hands.

"Cry then, for it cleanses a woman's heart in a way a man cannot understand."

That only made her cry harder.

How dare he understand women so well.

Yet he did understand, and he held her and let her cry, not asking any more questions, choosing instead to let her cry until there were no more tears to shed.

When she reached that point at last she felt better, but drained and achy all over. So here she sat, with her swollen eyes and her red nose.

Wouldn't it be wonderful, she thought, if she could wake up right now and discover this was only a nightmare?