The Highlander (4 page)

Sophie sat silently, her attention focused on the two men wrapped in yards of fabric, with legs exposed. A sight such as this—a man's bare legs—was something new to her. They did not dress like the men in France, nor did they resemble the men there in other ways, for they were both more rugged, such that it made her conscious that they were men, and she was a woman, and she needed to cover herself.

There was a sort of physical rawness about them that seemed to permeate everything—an awareness she was never far removed from.

Her attention kept going back to the one called Jamie. With his tanned face, the stubborn chin and high cheekbones, he could have been a gypsy. His hair was long and as black as the night that surrounded them. But it was the smoky-green eyes that captured hers and held her transfixed. They were not the eyes of a gypsy, but the devouring eyes of a man who left no doubt that he was accustomed to being in charge.

She would have to admit that he was devilishly handsome, with classical features and an arrogant nose, which seemed perfectly suited to a man filled with overbearing pride. If she had met him at another time—if the circumstances were different—he would still be full of overbearing pride, she thought.

It was at this point that she realized their gazes had locked, and the way he watched her made her wonder if he was privy to her thoughts, for he almost growled his next words.

"If you are trying to size me up, I can tell you now my heart is as hard as Grampian stone, and if it's my soul you are trying to delve into, it is too dark to see anything...black to the core, it is. That said, I would warn you that you have one last chance to tell me the truth, and if you still persist in not knowing anything, you better pray to whatever god you claim that I never find out differently."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Tavish asked.

"I believe in giving fair warning."

"You obviously believe in playing the bully," she said, and slipped lower into the chair.

"Careful," Jamie said, "you could still find yourself tossed out on your delicate...ear."

Tavish laughed and said, "Don't let him frighten you, lass. He's as harmless as a kitten."

When she did not answer, they both looked and saw she was asleep.

"Get her undressed and into something warm—one of Arabella's gowns, perhaps. Then put her to bed," Jamie said.

Tavish looked aghast. "Me? I brought her here to you. You are the clan chief and the laird of Monleigh Castle. She is your charge now. You undress her."

"I'm about to be betrothed, if you remember."

"I did not ask ye to make love to her, just to take care of her until she's better. Look at it as an act of charity."

"When did you become so shy? It's not as if you didn't spend half your time in Edinburgh undressing lasses."

"At least the lasses there are awake. Undressing an unconscious woman doesna seem right now, does it?"

"You wouldn't really be undressing her, since she's practically naked anyway."

Tavish shrugged. "Then you undress her."

"Has she had anything to eat?"

"Not since I found her," Tavish replied. "We didna stop. I was afraid she would freeze to death on me, so I rode straight through."

"There is some soup left from dinner. It >hould still be warm. Give her a bowl."

Tavish shook his head. "I dinna have time. I need to leave my horse and take one of yours, and then I must be off to Edinburgh. I need to make up for some of the time I lost."

"Your horse is lame?"

"No, just worn down keeping up such a pace, with double the load."

Jamie nodded. "Take one of my horses then, but not Corrie."

"That devil-eyed brute? I would walk first," Tavish said, and turned to Sophie. He placed a hand upon her shoulder as gently as he could, but the moment he touched her she jerked in response and her eyes flew open.

She had that dazed expression as if she did not know where she was.

"I apologize for waking you," he said, "but I must be on my way back to Edinburgh. My brother is the Earl of Monleigh and an honorable man, so you have no worry from that quarter. You will be safe here with him until you are able to travel, then he will take you to Monleigh Castle. Have no fear. He seems fierce, but his heart is good. You will be safe, and well cared for under his supervision. Dinna worry about that."

Tavish slapped his brother on the back. "I will see you at Christmas, then."

"Aye, and bring my horse back when ye come."

Tavish laughed. "If I don't lose him gambling," he said, and slammed the door behind him before Jamie could say anything more.

_Three

How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays about the flame! —John Gay (1685-1732), English poet and playwright.
The Beggar's Opera
(1728)

With
Tavish and his light touch of humor gone, the room soon fell into silence. A tense quiet hung uncomfortably, wafting over her. She
felt
skittish as a newborn colt trying to stand on wobbly legs. She knew he was watching each breath she took, waiting as a spider waits for some insect to land in its web, so it can kill with
the
kiss of silken thread.

She could feel her body stiffen with expectancy. This man unnerved her. There was something about the almost melancholy expression on his proud face that touched her, for it was a look
that
hinted at deep sorrows nobly endured, and
she
wondered if his destiny was a tragic one, or if she was a part of it.

On edge, she sank deeper into the chair, fighting the uneasiness she felt at being alone with him. He was nothing like the fops she knew at court, and he was nothing like his carefree brother. When he entered the room, one was instantly aware of his physical presence. He aroused feelings she did not understand. She could almost imagine his face close to hers, then closer still, until his warm lips were covering hers. Her body trembled and she wanted him to lie beside her, to give her his warmth.

She blinked her eyes and welcomed the return to reality. This was not the dreamy infatuation of a convent-reared girl. The circumstances were far different, just as the two of them were more than simply a man and a woman.

They were two people who could not trust each other. He had his suspicions that she was lying, that she was not what she appeared to be.

And he was right.

But, she also had her suspicions about him, as well. She did not know if he was someone she could trust—in spite of what his brother said— and consequently they were caught in a stalemate, each determined in his own way to prove the other false.

The truth was, she was frightened of him. Even the tone of his voice alarmed her. There was nothing kind or gentle about him. She was in a strange country, fearful for her life, with no clothes, no money, and she feared what could happen to her if he found out who she was. Under any other circumstances, it would have been the perfect time to cry, but tears would not soften him, and she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he terrified her that much. It was best to appear confident and unafraid.

She could see the fire was fully blazing now, but she was unable to tell if it did anything to alleviate her cold, numb state. Yet she welcomed the fire as a diversion, which kept her mind off the fact that she was in this strange place with this strange Scot, completely alone, and completely at his mercy—which she had already decided was something he did not have.

His brother said he was an honorable man, an earl, and someone she could trust. Another glance at the long-shanked body that looked as rock hard as his face, and she wondered about "hat last statement.

He did not look very trustworthy to her.

And it surely looked to her as if he was staring straight at her breasts. Embarrassment rose quickly, and she pulled the plaid higher. He was such a beautiful man—wholly masculine—but beautiful nonetheless. It was a pity he did not have the manners or the disposition to match it.

She wished Tavish had been the one to stay with her. She liked his jovial manner much better. This man was his brother's opposite, for there was nothing about him that was not dark, hard, and as coldly tempered as the swords hanging on the wall.

At last, unable to stand it any longer, she broke the silence. "I can tell by your expression that you are not happy about my being here."

"Aye, I did not come up here to play the nurse. I've more important things to do with my time."

' T never asked to be brought here, you know. If you are going to be angry, be angry with your brother. He should have left me where he found me.

"If he had, you would be dead by now."

"I don't see that my present circumstances are any better. I am cold. My skin is shriveled from so much water. I have been jostled all over creation on the back of a horse, riding in the freezing rain, only to arrive here to be greeted by an ogre. You never asked if I was tired or wanted to retire. I have not been given anything to eat or drink. I have been accused of lying, and having a poor memory, of being a spy. I have been undressed, threatened, ogled and insulted. Compared to all of this, being dead does not seem so bad."

"You would be wise to hold your tongue."

"And you would be wise to learn how to treat a lady," she said, afraid she had angered him now.

Jamie grunted his opinion of her declaration, then said, "I will get you some soup."

' 'Merci,''
she said, trying her best to emulate his irritated tone, and at the same time, immensely thankful that he did not strike her or toss her out into the cold.

If she had not been so exhausted and numb she would have tried to leave, but she was not so foolish as to believe she would make it ten paces before collapsing. Besides, she had just come in out of the cold and rain. She had no desire to turn around and face the elements again.

And where would she go?

While he was gone Sophie remained still, staring into the fire in a daze, looking but not really seeing, while exhaustion played with her mind. Barely conscious of the noise he made banging about in the kitchen, she was almost to the point of using up the entire stock of her mental and physical resources. She felt groggy. Her thinking was becoming muddled, and the thought of death, which had been with her throughout her ordeal, stayed with her, to imbibe her with a kind of drowsy cheer.

Would it be warm and peaceful to be dead?

She was in the twilight of evening, where everything is faint and diffuse, her mind somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, when he brought the soup and put it on a small table that he placed before her.

She opened her eyes and inhaled the fragrant warmth, then realized she was ravenously hungry. Perhaps that is a good sign, she thought, although of what, she had no idea.

Jamie grabbed the spoon and thrust it into her hands. "You can stare at it of course, but it will do you more good if you eat it. You do know how to use a spoon, don't you?"

Without giving him a reply, she picked up the spoon and began to eat.

"I will get a bed ready for you," he said, and grumbling, he left her in the room alone.

Later, when he returned, she was fast asleep with her head resting on her arm. The spoon was still in her hand, but the bowl was empty.

"Och, ye are a wee thing," he said, looking at her. A moment later, he scooped her into his arms, lifting her so easily that she might have been a sack of down.

Sophie stirred in his arms and said with a long, stretching yawn, "I can w...alk."

"You can't even talk. Go back to sleep."

Her head flopped against his shoulder in spite of her determination to stay stiff, with her head erect. She felt as if her bones had grown as soft as her brain. It was simply too much effort to even think.

He slid his hand down, over her derriere. "I think you are getting colder if that is possible," he said in a husky, desire-laced voice that was both teasing and confident.

As a way to get her attention, it was effective. Unbelievable, she thought. Is he trying to shock me? Or is this his way of thawing me out—with heat-impassioned words?