The Rose and The Warrior (5 page)

“Melantha.”

Her eyes flickered open. Once again the hard edge of her anger had softened, transforming her into a far different girl from the one who had snapped that if he died it would merely save her the trouble of killing him. The woman he held in his lap was as beautiful and enigmatic as she was fragile. They were enemies, but in this shadowy, stolen moment, as she gazed up at him with those magnificent forest-colored eyes, he found he was drawn to her.

It had been nearly two years since he had touched a woman, for the coarse, unwashed whores who had been available to him and his army as he fought on behalf of his clan and King Alexander had held no appeal to him whatsoever. He had all but forgotten what it was like to feel the soft silk of a woman's lips caress his own, to know the sweet pulse of her breath as it fluttered against his cheek, warm and filled with promise. He longed to touch the creaminess of Melantha's earth-smudged cheek, to trace his fingers along the delicate line of her jaw, and rake his fingers through the dark tangle of her hair.

Unable to control himself, he bent his head and captured her mouth with his.

The whisper of her breath froze and her body stiffened, but she did not push him away.

“Get the hell off her, you bastard!”

The words crashed over them like freezing water. Roarke shifted Melantha off his lap and clumsily rose, preparing to face Colin's rage.

“No!”
shrieked Melantha, scrambling to her feet. She threw herself against Roarke, knocking him back a step before turning to face Colin.

“I'm going to kill him!” he vowed savagely, his sword raised.

“It isn't what you think, Colin!”

His eyes grew wide. “My God, Melantha, you're bleeding!”

She raised her hand to her forehead, then stared in confusion at the scarlet staining her fingertips.

“You fell from your horse,” Roarke explained. “You must have struck your head in the fall.”

Melantha turned her gaze to the injured beast. “Morvyn!”

Her mount attempted to rise, then whickered in pain and collapsed to the ground once again.

“Oh, God,” cried Melantha, racing over to him. “You're all right, my sweet lad, you're fine,” she crooned, gently stroking the animal as she surveyed his legs, trying to ascertain which one he had injured. “Colin, please help me with Morvyn,” she pleaded brokenly.

“If you try to escape, I will slaughter your men,” Colin promised Roarke. “Do you understand?”

Roarke nodded.

“ 'Tis his right foreleg,” Melantha reported as Colin knelt beside her.

Colin expertly ran his hands over Morvyn's rapidly swelling leg. The horse whinnied with pain and tried to pull away.

“Easy, now,” said Colin, stroking the horse to calm him. “Rest easy.”

Morvyn studied him a moment, his velvety nostrils flaring with each rapid breath, his eyes dark and filled with suffering. Colin continued to stroke the animal's neck, murmuring low words of reassurance. Finally Morvyn lay back against the ground and permitted Colin to finish his examination.

“Is it bad?” asked Melantha, biting her lip.

Colin eased the horse's swollen foreleg onto the ground. “I fear it's broken, Melantha.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Poor Morvyn must have struck it very hard when he tried to clear this tree.” Colin's tone was low and soothing, as if he were speaking to a distressed child. “His bones are not as strong as they once were, and his leg just cracked.”

“It isn't cracked,” Melantha insisted, laying her hand protectively on Morvyn's sweat-soaked shoulder. “It's just sore and swelling a bit, that's all.”

“He cannot stand, Melantha,” Colin pointed out, gently placing his hand over hers. “He cannot move.” He hesitated a moment before quietly stating, “We've no choice but to end his pain.”

“No!”
She knocked Colin's hand away. “You'll not touch him, Colin, do you understand? Not you, nor anyone else. It's my fault he's injured. I'll tend to him.”

“We've no time for that, Melantha. We have to get these MacTier prisoners back to our holding—”

“The MacTiers can wait,” Melantha interrupted. “It will soon be dark, so we have to stop anyway. We'll make camp right here, and I'll tend to Morvyn, and by morning the swelling in his leg will have eased and he'll be fit enough to stand.”

Colin regarded her with aching regret. “He'll never stand again, Melantha. You must accept that.”

“You're wrong. And I'll not let you kill him when it's my fault for riding him so fast when the light was falling and he was tired. I caused him to miss that jump, Colin,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. “I'll not let you slay him for something that was my fault.”

Roarke studied her. He had thought her cold and unfeeling, but he had been mistaken. The same woman who had shown not the tiniest fragment of concern for him when he had been wounded was now almost shattered by the possibility of losing her beloved horse.

At that moment he would have let her build a cottage around the damn animal and stay here for as long as she wished, as long as it made her happy.

“Very well, Melantha,” Colin relented. He laid his hand with tender familiarity upon her cheek, a gesture that Roarke found both telling and a little irritating. “We will make camp here, and you can tend to him.”

Melantha swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“But if he cannot stand come morning,” Colin continued seriously, “we have to end his misery.”

“He will stand,” Melantha assured him in a small, fierce voice. “I will see to it.”

“So this is where ye be hidin',” said Magnus, emerging through the trees. “We've been searchin' all of God's green earth tryin' to find—good Lord, lass, what's happened to yer head?”

“It's nothing,” Melantha assured him.

“Ye've cracked yer pate and ye're halfway to bleedin' to death, and ye call that nothing?”

“It's Morvyn who has been injured,” Melantha said adamantly. “I need some strips of linen or wool to bind around his leg to stop the swelling. Lewis, have you any extra fabric in your bag?”

Lewis shook his head. “You're welcome to have my plaid, Melantha.”

“Now, there's a sight I don't much care to see,” said Finlay. “Little Lewis's freckled arse polishing his saddle all through the mountains.”

Lewis regarded Finlay with irritation. “Melantha needs some fabric. Besides, my shirt is almost long enough to cover me.”

“I've a better idea, Lewis,” said Colin. “Each of you take your dirks and cut a length off your plaids, but not so much that you can't secure them around your waists. Between the four of us, we should have enough cloth to bind poor old Morvyn's leg.”

“You'll have more than enough between the eight of us,” interjected Roarke.

Melantha looked at him in surprise. “You would spare us some of your plaid?”

Roarke shrugged. “I hate to see an animal in pain.”

“Of course you do.” Colin's tone was flagrantly sarcastic. “That's what you MacTiers are known for—your soft hearts.”

Roarke ignored him and kept his gaze fixed on Melantha. “You may take whatever you need from our plaids.”

“You seem to forget, you're our prisoners,” pointed out Finlay. “We don't need your permission to take something from you.”

“Now, Finlay, let's not be rude,” scolded Magnus. “ 'Tis most obliging of Roarke here to make such an offer. Most obliging.”

Melantha stared at Roarke a long moment. His expression was utterly composed, revealing no trace of the kiss they had shared moments earlier. Her body stirred at the memory. Shame washed through her, making her feel small and soiled.

Had her father been alive to hear that she had not resisted the touch of her clan's sworn enemy, he would have been mortified.

“I don't want your plaid,” she said coldly.

Roarke shrugged. “If you change your mind, my offer stands.”

“She won't be changing her mind,” Colin snarled, glaring at Roarke. “Lewis, cut the plaids and help Melantha tend to Morvyn. Magnus and Finlay, get these MacTiers secured to trees so we can make camp. We will stop here for the night.” He shoved Roarke toward a tree.

Pushing aside her shame for the moment, Melantha focused on the task of helping Morvyn. She ordered Lewis to cut the swaths of fabric he collected from the other men into narrow strips while she went to a nearby stream and filled a leather pouch with water. Then she tied the strips of wool together, dipped them into the frigid water, and carefully wrapped the sodden bandage around Morvyn's swollen leg. He endured her ministrations stoically, although it was clear it pained him to have his foreleg handled. Once the leg was thickly sheathed in cold wrapping, Melantha poured more icy water on it, trying to chill his throbbing flesh and keep the swelling to a minimum.

“Shall I fetch more water for you, Melantha?” asked Lewis.

She nodded. “Fill this pouch, and empty my saddlebag and see if it will hold water as well. Morvyn must be thirsty by now, and I'm going to have to keep chilling this bandage through the night if I'm to get the swelling down. The cold will help to ease his pain as well.”

“How's he farin', lass?” asked Magnus, going over to join her as Lewis left.

“Better.” Melantha gently stroked her horse's neck. In truth she could not discern any improvement, but she was not about to admit that. “I'm certain by tomorrow he'll be able to stand.”

“Of course he will, lass,” Magnus agreed. “A few hours of rest, and old Morvyn will be as fit as ever. A true warrior can't be kept down by something as paltry as a banged shin, ye know. Why, courage runs thick as oatmeal in his veins, just as it did in yer father's.”

Melantha nodded.

“Well, then, how about I clean that nasty nip on yer head?” he suggested brightly. “It seems to have stopped bleedin', so I'm thinkin' I can spare ye my stitches—though I'm happy to give ye a tuck or two if ye'd like.”

“I'm fine, Magnus,” said Melantha, wholly uninterested in the state of her forehead.

“Ye're not ridin' home sportin' a mess like that, or old MacKillon will have me hauled before the council demandin' an explanation.” He dipped the frayed end of his plaid into the pouch of water Lewis deposited beside them. “First they'll be wonderin' why yer helmet wasn't on yer head where it's supposed to be.”

Melantha winced as Magnus daubed at the dried blood. “I was hunting a deer. I only wear my helmet for raiding.”

“Seems to me ye nearly bashed yer skull in, all the same,” Magnus observed. “Which suggests yer helmet should have been on yer head.”

Melantha sighed. It was useless to argue. Ever since she had agreed to let Magnus be part of her band of thieves, the aged warrior had appointed himself Melantha's guardian. Whether they were raiding sheep or attacking a party of unsuspecting travelers, Melantha could always be sure that Magnus was near, ready to fly to her rescue if he decided she needed him. Although often this resulted in his charging forward at inopportune moments, occasionally he actually did help her.

His presence had certainly been beneficial when Roarke was about to cut her head off.

“There, now,” Magnus said, surveying his work with satisfaction. “If ye're lucky, ye'll not have a scar.”

“I don't care if it scars.”

“No, of course ye don't.” Magnus chuckled, shaking his head. “That's because ye're too busy thinking of ways to rob MacTier to be concerned with yer own appearance. If yer father could see ye gallopin' around the woods in leggings and chain mail, he'd be wonderin' just what kind of wild lass he'd raised.”

“He'd be proud,” Lewis interjected loyally as he dropped an armful of grasses by Morvyn's head. “Proud.”

“Well, I suppose he might be at that,” allowed Magnus, his mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “There, now, ye'd best leave poor old Morvyn to rest and get some sleep yerself, lass. There's naught more ye can do for him tonight.”

“I have to keep wetting his bandage to keep the swelling down—but I'll get some rest,” she promised quickly, seeing Magnus was about to argue.

“See that ye do. And eat somethin',” he added sternly, “or I'll open yer mouth and cram the food in for ye.” With that unlikely threat he went and stretched out by the fire.

Roarke lay on his good side with his arms and legs bound, watching Melantha. Despite her assurances to Magnus, she did not eat. Instead she remained by her horse, crooning to him in a low, gentle voice as she squeezed cold water on his injured leg and tried to coax him to eat.

The night deepened to a silver-flecked cape of black before she finally yielded to her weariness. Still, she did not find a place for herself beside the low flames of the fire. Instead she withdrew her sword and curled up beside Morvyn's head, keeping one hand ready upon her weapon and the other lightly resting upon her horse's neck.