Torn Between Two Highlanders (4 page)

Shivering, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as if he wished she would go away and leave him be. It obviously pained him to speak of it, and he wasn’t going to answer. It would have been cruel to press him, so she resolved to say nothing more about it, and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.

That’s when he murmured, “I killed her.”

Arabella’s blood ran cold. She had seen this man kill—seen him cut through his foes with savagery. Could he kill a woman with his own hands? A woman he loved? Suddenly fearful to be alone with him, she began to sit up. “You killed your wife?”

“Aye,” he said, with a bitter scowl, never opening his eyes. “I never laid a violent hand on her but there are ways to kill a woman by
not
touching her. And I did that.” A little breathless with confusion, Arabella realized he wasn’t going to explain himself. He merely swallowed, then swallowed again. “I’m thirsty.”

“Take some bark tea,” she said, rising to get the cup. “It will help with the pain.”

Grimacing, Malcolm spilled more of it than he got down his gullet. And it pained Arabella to realize that such a big strong warrior was too weak to hold his own cup. She held it for him, even though his dark eyes burned with some emotion she could not name. “T’was the shame that did it,” he finally murmured into his cup. “I don’t like to speak of it. Haven’t spoken of it nearly at all, but—I thought after what they did to her—that my Lorna would not want to be touched, so I kept my hands off her. I suppose I made her feel like a sullied thing. Made her too ashamed to live. They say she fell from that cliff. Lost her way, lost her footing. But I know she jumped.”

These were more words than Arabella had heard the wounded warrior string together before, and they were words that broke her heart. Words that spoke of guilt and pain and heartbreak. Words filled with such regret that they made tears well up in her eyes for him. “Don’t think she jumped, for it is too great a sin.”

“T’was my sin. I s’pose it’s why she haunts me to this day.”

But he sounded glad of it. Arabella had never heard anyone be glad of a haunting before, but he was. She wished that Lorna might be at peace, and Malcolm too. But it was such a sad story that she was sure it would now haunt her, too. “Enough?” she asked, of the tea.

He nodded, pushing upon her hand. Then, after some moments, Malcolm added, “Seeing you as we did, being mauled like that…”

Arabella bit her lip, realizing why he’d told her the story. Why he’d confessed such heartbreaking details to a stranger. “I reminded you of your wife.”

“Aye. I saw not you, but my Lorna upon the ground, and it rattled me to my bones. I canna think how else I would ever be clumsy enough to leave myself open to take such a wound.”

“
Oh
,” Arabella said, softly, because felt somehow guilty for it.

But even knowing now that she was
not
his wife, he reached up for a lock of her hair, and stroked it softly between his fingers. “I’m sorry, lass. We shouldn’t have let them take you and ruin you even if you are a witch.”

Arabella’s throat tightened as the realization of her situation came home to her anew. Given her broken betrothal, there was likely not a man in the clan who would believe she hadn’t been ruined. Not even the men who had put a stop to it believed her. And that made her angry. “I’m not a witch, but I suppose I’m to be taken as a fallen woman no matter what I do or say.”

Malcolm’s eyes half-closed in his pain-addled state. “Worse things to be than a fallen woman.”

Arabella snorted. “What’s worse than being a fallen woman?”

“Being a
dead
woman.” He said it harshly. Bitterly. Honestly.

It was an answer that made her fists curl by her sides, but one that she supposed no other man might be able to tell her with any sense of authority. Well, she certainly wouldn’t be leaping off any cliff-sides. “If anyone should die of shame it should be men who steal women away.”

Malcolm sighed a heavy sigh. “But that isn’t the way of the world.”

“How is he?” Davy asked.

“Still cold and thirsty, but better, I think,” Arabella said, leaning heavily with exhaustion against the door frame. “He was awake and speaking for a time. But now he’s sleeping again.”

Davy stooped to stoke the fire. “When he was awake, what did he say?”

“Not much.”

Davy nodded. “Even when he’s uninjured, Malcolm is a man of few words.”

“Well, he had words enough to tell me I ought to be glad to be alive,” she said, with a sigh. “Even if I’m a fallen woman now…”

Davy winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

Arabella had nothing to say about that. Dark night had fallen and she was so weary she thought she would drop to the floor. But she was hungry, too, and when she heard Davy’s stomach growl, she found a sack of oats to make some porridge.

To her surprise, Davy took the bowl from her.

“They’re not cooked yet,” she murmured.

“I’ll do it, lass. You sit a spell. You have run yourself ragged.”

Startled by the gallantry of his offer, she asked, “You can cook?”

He dimpled her a smile. “How hard can it be? Some hot water, some oats, and a wee bit of salt, am I right?”

She was bewildered by a man whose pride would let him fix his own meals, much less cook for a woman. “Thank you. But you must be tired and hungry yourself.”

“Aye, but there weren’t any flowers in the field so this is the best I can do to make an impression on a bonny lass.”

In spite of herself, she felt her pulse skip at his flirtation. “You’re trying to make an impression upon me?”

“Aye. That was neat work you did with the needle and thread today,” Davy said, with admiration. “I thought you’d swoon away, but you were
magnificent
.”

Magnificent
. No one had ever called her that. And she tried not to flush at his praise. “Wouldn’t have done any good to swoon away.”

Davy grinned. “Nevertheless, I thank you.”

“You needn’t,” she said, sinking down into the chair by the fire. “It’s the least I can do for you both, given what you risked for me. Not that you needed to risk. The poison was already doing its work.”

“I suppose you had the situation well in hand,” he said with a smirk. “And even if you didn’t, well, you have my word that I’ll say you did.”

Arabella’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the story you told your betrothed about how they didn’t have the chance to swive you…you can count on me and Malcolm to support it.”

“It wasn’t a
story
,” Arabella argued. “They didn’t—I wasn’t—”

Davy held up his hand. “Alright, lass. You don’t need to convince me that Donalds are limp-pricked bastards who canna accomplish anything they set their minds to, no matter how evil.”

Arabella drew her knees up under her chin and hugged them, wondering if it was only her anger about everything that was keeping her upright. If she stopped being angry, would she simply fall asleep on the spot? No. There was no chance of that with Davy chattering. “Did I ever tell you about the time that Malcolm and I won a bet using a salt fish we’d hidden in a pond?”

Davy told this, and a number of other funny stories while they waited for the porridge to be done. He was trying to lift her spirits. He was a sanguine sort with a love of adventure if his stories were to be believed. Arabella thought he might stretch the truth here and there, but he had her laughing, truly laughing, by the time the porridge was cooked.

She could only get Malcolm to take a few bites, but when he drifted again to sleep, it seemed not as fitful and deadly as before. When she returned to the main room, she found Davy stretched out on the floor with his back to the door.

“Malcolm’s a little warmer,” she reported, approvingly.

“That’s good,” Davy said, with a forced smile. “Now maybe you can get some rest yourself. You needn’t worry; I’ll stand guard.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Arabella said, wondering how it was he so cheerfully took care of things. Though all Arabella wanted in the world was a good night’s sleep, she slid down next to him and said, “I’ll keep you company.”

“What’s the sense in both of us being tired, lass?”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” she lied.

She expected she was tired enough to sleep a dark, black, dreamless sleep.

“It must be hard to sleep with a broken heart…”

Arabella shrugged. “I never loved Conall. My heart isn’t broken. Just my reputation.”

“Good,” Davy said, with satisfaction. “About your heart, I mean. Not your reputation. Though…”

He trailed off in a way that made her curious. “Though, what?”

“Well, I always thought that if the faeries got up to some mischief and I
had
to be a woman, I’d rather be a ruined woman than a virtuous one.”

Arabella sputtered with unexpected laughter. First, because he was a grown man who worried about the mischief of the faeries. Second, because she could not imagine the muscle-bound, sword-wielding warrior as a woman, even if he did cook porridge. And thirdly, because of what he’d actually said. “Why, pray tell, would you rather be a ruined woman?”

Davy flashed her another of his dimpled grins. “Virtuous women lead such dull lives. Obedient to the man they marry, and dependent, too. I’d chafe under that and buck like a wild horse.”

So would I
, Arabella thought.

But she hadn’t ever considered that there were other options.

“Don’t even let me start raving about the
kertch
,” he continued. “If I were a married woman, I couldn’t bear wearing a strip of white cloth upon my head. T’would be a crime to cover up all this glorious red hair of mine.”

She laughed again, as he meant her to. He said silly things and knew a heavy heart when he saw one. And it made her grateful to have something to laugh about when all she really wanted to do was curl up and cry. It helped, of course, that his mane of hair really
was
quite glorious, and she had the strange urge to run her fingers through those fiery curls. An urge she resisted, saying, “ I s’pose the dullness and the obedience and even the
kertch
is the price to be paid for a woman’s respectability.”

“Too high a price, if you ask me. More choices in being a fallen woman; more adventures to be had.”

Arabella raised a curious brow. “What kind of choices and adventures?”

Davy shared a bit of his plaid with her, to warm her where they sat, side by side. And she thrilled a bit when their shoulders touched. “Well, a
virtuous
lass can enjoy nothing without a man putting a claim on her. No sighs of pleasure for her that aren’t caught up in promises. She kisses only the man she marries without ever sampling the talents of any others. But a ruined woman can kiss whomever she chooses and claim whatever pleasure she wants for herself.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow at these wicked ideas, but all she could think to ask was, “…kissing is a talent?”

“Oh,
aye
,” Davy said, mirth in his voice. “But if you have to ask the question, your betrothed mustn’t have had
any
talent for it. Or did you never kiss him?”

“I did,” Arabella said, starting to blush at her confession.

He slanted her a very interested glance. “And how did you like it?”

Arabella’s blush grew hotter and swiftly burned its way across her cheeks. “It was pleasant…”

“
Pleasant
,” Davy scoffed. “It’s meant to be a wee bit more than that!”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, softly, her eyelids beginning to feel quite heavy, in spite of the fascinating conversation.

He must have mistaken her exhaustion for upset because he said, “I’m sorry, lass. I don’t know what the devil I’m thinking of to be speaking of kisses after—”

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Aye, of course you are. I can make a pallet up for you—”

“No,” she said, her head drooping against his shoulder. “I’d rather…I’d rather stay here if you don’t mind. You’re very warm.”

“My blood runs hot,” he boasted. “Always has. Did I ever tell you about the time Malcolm and I got caught up in the snows?”

She must have fallen asleep during Davy’s tale—probably after the part about falling through the ice and coming up with a fish. Davy’s tales always seemed to involve fish. And she couldn’t fault his storytelling. It was only that she was tired to the marrow of her bones, and the feel of his strong shoulder beneath her head was as reassuring a pillow as she’d ever taken rest upon.

But the strength of him—the warmth of him—all that disappeared in the blackness of her dream. A nightmare, really. She dreamed of the men who tried to rape her. Of one of her captors overcoming her with a kiss that hadn’t been pleasant at all. She felt again the revulsion and terror, the sickly sweet taste of the kiss. And she came awake screaming. Kicking. Fighting as she fought those men, tears streaming down her face.

“Wake up, lass!” Davy shouted, shaking her a little.

“Get away,” she shrieked, still caught in the terror of her nightmare.

“It’s just a dream, Arabella,” he said, softly. Soothingly. “Just a dream.”

As Arabella quaked, her heart racing with the horror of being back there in that clearing with men intent on taking her body and taking her life, she slowly came back to reality. “Oh,
God
,” she cried, wiping the tears away from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Forgive me. I thought…I thought you were…”

“I know what you thought,” Davy said, gently stroking her arm. “But it’s all over now, lass. And so long as we’re with you, you need not fear it again. I would never let them take you a second time. Not while there is a breath left in my body.”

He was so close to her. So comforting. And she nodded, because in spite of the real danger they were in here in this cottage, far from the castle, she believed him.

“Can I get something for you?” Davy asked. “Some milk, some—”

“Would you kiss me?” she suddenly asked, tears still leaking from her eyes.

His lips parted in surprise. “
Kiss
you?”

It would make no sense to him she was sure, but the reasoning was, for Arabella, clear as day. “Today, those men ruined me. Ruined kissing for me anyway. Tainted it, forever. Now when I fall asleep, it’s a villain’s disgusting kiss that I taste. I fear it’ll always be that way every time I close my eyes until the day I die…unless I have a different one to wipe it away. I’d like to be kissed by a man who would lay no claim to me; to be kissed in such a way as to make me forget. Can you do that?”