The Rogue (Castle Blackstone #2)

Chapter 5

B irdi awoke to the sounds of hissing Gael, to the feel of large hands pressing on her stomach. Ah, ‘tis him, the Canteran, Angus Mac …she couldn’t remember his other name. He pulled on her arms, up, down, up, down, pushed again on her stomach, and then spun her onto her face. Numb with cold, too tired to breath, she didn’t care. She’d never see her home again so what did it matter? The saddest part of this journey, apart from not seeing colored glass, was kenning that no one would grieve, would miss her.

He pressed on her back, up, down, up, down. He was squeezing the life out of her. Why? She was flipped again; the sun’s glare now bore against her eyelids. It felt good. Warm. He pressed on her stomach again, this time it hurt, and suddenly she was choking, vomiting, and gasping.

Good Goddess, he was trying to kill her!

She tried to defend herself but found her arms were weighted down. Already breathless, she started coughing again. This time it tore, racked, inside her chest.

And he wouldn’t stop pounding on her back. Pound, pound, pound. If she had a rock and the strength she’d cosh him a good one. On the head.

Merciful Goddess, please. Please, make him stop.

“Birdi, lass, are ye alright? Can ye hear me?”

He hauled her onto his lap, raked the hair off her face, and ran a calloused hand over her mouth, wiping the spittle from her lips. He then cradled her to his powerful, heaving chest and began rocking.

Above the sound of his thudding heart, she heard, “Lass, ye scared the shit out of me.”

Sheet? She would have to ask the meaning, later, when she had the breath. Panting and shivering, she had only enough strength to marvel at the heat pouring off the wet man who held her so close, his hands scrubbing her limbs and back in an effort to warm her.

She’d nearly drowned and he’d saved her. He and hale Mary. Another thing she need remember to ask about when her teeth stopped chattering, when she could speak without her throat feeling like she’d swallowed hot coals.

“Ack, Birdi, I swear ye’ll be the death of me.”

She’d be the death of him? ‘Twould more likely be withershins—the other way around—if his hands continued to chafe her skin as they did. But she didn’t complain. Chafing was better than his unmerciful pounding.

“Lass, open yer eyes and look at me.”

She did and found his face only inches away, well within her clearest range of vision. He was staring at her intently from eyes fairer than the mid-summer sky, bluer than a jay’s feather, fringed by long spiked lashes the color of wet bark. Truly lovely. Too bad they were frowning at her. Sadder still, they weren’t hers. She did so dislike her eyes.

She’d seen them once in a looking glass when she’d been summoned to the Macarthur’s keep. She hadn’t realized until that moment that her eyes marked her as different. The Macarthurs—those few she’d seen—had eyes of smoky blue or green. Hers, alas, were the color of snow in shadow. It explained why the Macarthurs feared her so. Graces, her eyes had startled even her, spying them for the first time. So why didn’t they frighten the Canteran?

“Ye’re freezing, lass, I need build a fire.”

Before she could say there wasn’t need—the heat radiating from his chest was certainly warm enough—he sprang to his feet and carried her to his horse. Holding her in one arm with no apparent effort, he reached behind his saddle and pulled down a package. He carried it and her back toward the waterfall.

He laid her down on a grassy spot in the sun, the place where the horse—a huge, slow moving white blob to her burning eyes—grazed. Angus tore into his package and pulled out yard upon yard of deep green, shimmering cloth. He then—to her horror—started pulling up her kirtle.

She squeaked and slapped his hands. “Leave me be!”

“Not until I have ye out of these wet clothes. I dinna want ye catching the ague.”

He again reached for her hem and she swatted his arms. “I can do it myself. Turn around.”

Grumbling, he handed her the shimmering cloth and turned his back.

Teeth chattering, she pulled on her water-soaked sleeves and her arms came free. She glared at his broad back. The nerve of the man, thinking he could strip her without so much as a by-yer-leave!

She yanked her kirtle over her head and quickly wrapped the shimmering cloth over her nakedness.

Fearing Birdi didn’t have the strength to manage on her own, Angus watched her out the corner of his eye. Her chilled skin was almost blue.

When she’d finished donning the velvet fabric he’d

intended as a wedding present for his bride, he faced her. “Are ye feeling better?”

In response, she narrowed her incredible eyes at him and pressed her lush lips into a thin line. One hand slipped out of the yards of fabric. When she fingered the velvet, he grinned. Aye, she felt better. Feeling immeasurably better himself, he told her, “I’ll leave ye to warm in the sun while I gather some firewood.”

The wood gathered and lit by her side, he stripped down to his sark—something he normally didn’t wear liking the feel of air about his nether parts, but now wore in an effort to protect his groin while traveling through forest at night—and donned the second tunic he carried.

He then spread their clothing on a flat boulder to dry in the sun. Stomach growling, he sat down beside her. A healthy pink had returned to her lips and cheeks, and her hair, which she’d pulled from beneath the cloth in his absence, was again starting to billow about her waist in the faint breeze. “Are ye warm yet?”

She nodded.

Wondering if he dared leave her to catch something for them to eat, he murmured, “Ye scared me witless, lass.”

“Myself, as well. Thank ye for saving me.”

“No need. I’m happy I managed it.” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, his back to the sun. He studied the scar encircling her right wrist. It looked like she’d been caught in a poacher’s snare. “Lass, how did ye come to be alone in Macarthur’s forest?”

She pulled the velvet closer. “Minnie died.”

“My condolences on the loss of yer mother. And what happened to yer guards?”

She tipped her head, her brow crinkling. “We had no guards.”

“None?” He couldn’t believe her mother’s stupidity, given how lovely her daughter was. “How long ago was this?”

She nibbled on her lip. “Ten summers past, mayhap more.”

Ten summers? Nay! She’d misunderstood. His Scot, apparently, wasn’t as good as he thought. “Your mother died when you were a bairn?”

“Aye, when I was so high.” She held her hand a yard from the ground.

Nay. She couldn’t possibly have survived on her own for so long. “But how did ye feed and clothe yerself at such a tender age?”

“Minnie had taught me. ‘Twas her way. We had only each other, and so I learned before she died.”

Still not believing his ears, he asked, “And how did she die?”

“A boar gored her.” Birdi’s eyes became glassy. “She’d not died right away. She lingered. I tried to help her, tried to ease her pain as best I could, but the fever still took her.” She again fingered the velvet and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I wonder at times why it happened when it did, before I had grown.”

He brushed the lock that fluttered about her face over her shoulder. “Sometimes there is nay reason why things happen as they do. All we can do is make the best of a bad situation, which ye apparently did.” Though how she had was beyond his knowing.

She plucked at the fabric covering her lap. “Like now.”

He chuckled. “Am I so bad, lass?”

She looked at him, one corner of her lips quirking up. “Why do ye wear the metal shirt?”

Ah, so she still wasn’t yet ready to admit he wasn’t a complete ogre. “To keep from being injured in battle.”

“Oh.” She remained silent for a moment, and then asked, “What is this called?” She patted his bride’s wedding present.

“Velvet. Ladies wear gowns made of it.” Yards and yards of it. Another reason he hadn’t wanted a wife before now. The fabric Birdi fingered—now smudged with mud and liberally covered with pine needles—had been booty, a prize of war, from his campaign in France fighting for Louie against the Sassenach —the English dogs. He couldn’t have gained it otherwise. Its value was more than he earned in a year. “Where did ye live, lass? I didn’t see a croft.”

She eyed him warily for a moment. “‘Tis a wee croft. The villagers built it long ago. I have a soft bed, a table, a cuttie stool, and a fire-ingle.” She smiled for the first time and his heart stuttered. Dimples, lovely deep crevices, bracketed her lush mouth and even teeth. “I have,” she told him, “a down pillow, a posnet, and two kirtles, as well.”

She was so proud of so little his heart nearly broke.

As he pondered how she’d survived, her dimples disappeared. Her eyes narrowed and made a canny shift. To his amazement, she said, “Ye can have it all if ye’ll bring me back to the glen.”

Ah, cunning. He suppressed a grin. “If the matter were so simple, lass, I would, and without so grand a bribe, but it is not possible.”

“But why is it not?” She looked about to cry.

As kindly as possible he told her, “Because it is not safe for such a lovely lass as ye to be alone. Ye could be set upon by rogues.”

“Rogues?”

“Aye, shiftless men who rob and plunder.”

“Ah.”

He nodded. It was enough she understood some of the danger. He hadn’t wanted to discuss the possibility of rape. He touched the scar of her right wrist and she immediately pulled her hand beneath the velvet. “How did ye come by the injury, lass?”

She looked away. “What means sheet? ”

Hearing her mimic his accent as he’d cursed, he gaped at her, heat infusing his face. “Umm…’tis not a word a lady uses, Birdi.”

“Why not? Ye did.”

True, he had said shit, and on more than one occasion but… “‘Tis a curse, lass. I wasna thinking clearly when I said it.”

She frowned, then pointed to the raised and clenched fist and motto embroidered on his chest. “What means this?”

Accepting her reluctance to confide in him, he looked down to where Birdi pointed. “ Vincere aut mori. It means ‘to win or die.’”

“Oh.” Birdi wobbled.

He steadied her and she managed a smile of thanks that didn’t reach her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Had he been in her position he’d have wobbled too. Poor lass.

He rose and checked their clothing. Finding the top layers reasonably dry, he turned them.

His stomach growled, he opened his sporran and pulled out his fishing string with weighted bobber. “I’m going to try and catch more fish. Will ye be alright?”

She squinted at his hands. “Aye. Be careful ye dinna fall in.”

He laughed for the first time since meeting Birdalane Shame. “Ye are a wonder.”

She grinned in lopsided fashion. “Ye dinna ken the half.”

Suspecting she might be correct, he ambled toward the outcropping of rock at the base of the waterfall. In short time he caught three small fish, cleaned them, and brought them back to the fire. As the fish roasted, juices dripped onto the flames and he eyed the straight column of smoke marking their exact location. Deciding they’d be wiser eating half-cooked fish, he stood and kicked sand into the flames.

“What are ye doing?”

“Now that ye’re warm and dry there’s nay need to call undue attention to ourselves. ‘Tis not safe when we’re not among friends.”

Just as the fire snuffed out, Rampage whinnied in warning. Angus spun. Three riders were rounding the river’s bend, riding hard in their direction.

The fine-tempered steel of his claymore sang as he pulled his broadsword from its sheath and yanked Birdi to her feet. “Hide, lass. Back to the boulders with ye. Now!”

“But—”

“Now, damn it. Run!”

Christ’s blood. He stood alone with a half-naked woman at his back. A woman any one of these men would gladly hie off with given half a chance.