Chapter 18 #2
She covered her breasts, fully visible beneath the damp linen of her sark, with her arms as he turned.
His eyes heated for an instant, lingering on the bare skin of her arms and neck, before he bent and placed his hands on her back, slowly working the ties of her stays.
She held her breath, painfully aware of the warmth of his hands, of every stray brush of his fingers on her back.
Of his breath on her neck. Of his body so close to hers.
It was an altogether too familiar intimacy that her body remembered well. Her skin prickled. From the cold, she told herself. But then why was she so flushed?
God, did he only have to touch her for her to fall apart? Did she so easily forget that he’d lied to her and deceived her from the first moment they’d met? That his seduction had been coldly calculated with one purpose—her dowry? That he was a MacGregor—her clan’s enemy and an outlaw?
She straightened her spine and forced herself to ignore him and not let his touch affect her.
He must have felt her resistance, because he finished quickly, murmured a brusque thanks, and said that he would return soon, leaving her to dress in peace.
Being alone in the forest at dusk, however, even with a fire, was not conducive to a state of peace.
Frankly, it was terrifying. She jumped at every sound, imagining all sorts of horrible creatures lurking behind the trees.
Time passed slowly, tolled by each rustling leaf, each snapped twig, and each oddly timed raindrop that splattered on a nearby rock.
By the time he returned, her nerves were frayed raw and she would have welcomed the devil himself with open arms.
He took one look at her face and apologized.
“It took longer than I expected. With the rain, there aren’t as many hares venturing from their holes.
” He set down his bow and sword and sat opposite her.
After putting the dead animal in front of him, he took out his dirk. “I hope you weren’t frightened?”
“Of course not,” Lizzie said automatically, before seeing his teasing expression. “Well, maybe a little,” she conceded. “I kept thinking of that wolf. Are there any other wild beasts that I should be aware of?”
She turned her gaze as he started to skin the dead animal. Not normally squeamish about such things, she was nonetheless usually more removed from the preparation of her meat.
“You mean other than boars and wildcats?”
Boars and wildcats, dear God! “Aye, other than those.”
He appeared contemplative and then shook his head. “Nay, nothing else I can think of.”
“I’m greatly reassured,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “I don’t mean to make light of your fears, lass, but it’s not the wild animals we need to worry about. They’re just as scared of you as you are of them.”
“I doubt that.”
He laughed again. “I won’t let anything harm you, Lizzie.”
She peered up at him, gazing at the hard angles of his handsome face flickering in the firelight, and could almost believe him.
There was very little, she suspected, that this man could not do.
His strength had always impressed her, but she was only now beginning to learn of its depths.
She’d never met a man like him—tough to the bone, resilient, and resourceful.
He would protect her with his last breath. Even against his own brother.
She’d been too angry to think about it at first, but she was glad Patrick hadn’t killed him. The thought of him killing his brother for her … She shuddered.
“How is your leg?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A bit stiff.”
An understatement if there ever was one, she would wager. “That’s right, I forgot. Hamish said that you don’t feel pain.”
He gave her a long look. “I feel pain, Lizzie. I’ve just learned not to show it.”
Their eyes held, and she wondered if maybe he wasn’t as unaffected by what had happened between them as she had thought. It was some time before she looked away.
The smell of roasting meat a short while later was surpassed only by the first succulent bite. It was the first real meal she’d had in almost two days, and not knowing when she would have another, she ate her fill. It was some time before she stopped eating long enough to speak.
“Good?” Patrick asked, a wry smile on his face.
“Delicious,” she said enthusiastically.
He handed her the skin of water. “If we had something to boil water in, I could make you a hot drink with pine needles.”
“Hmmm. I didn’t realize you were such a talented chef.”
“Necessity breeds many talents.”
She heard the underlying truth behind his jest, a reference to his life as an outlaw, she realized.
What must it be like? A little like this, she’d wager.
Hunted, living on the run, forced to find shelter in the wild.
She felt a moment of compassion before she shook it off with the memory of how he’d gotten that way.
But now that the initial sting of his betrayal had dulled, she was left with many questions. “There’s something I don’t understand.”
He nodded for her to continue.
“I thought the MacGregor had agreed to surrender.”
Something in his gaze hardened. Or perhaps it was just the light from the fire?
“He did,” he said carefully.
“Then why did your brother attack my guardsmen, and why did you change your mind and decide to take me to Dunoon?”
He didn’t say anything, the silence punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fire and the slowing plop of rain on the bows overhead.
“What is it? What won’t you tell me?”
His jaw clenched. “You won’t want to hear what I have to say.”
His forbidding tone gave her a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I do.”
He took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on hers.
“You know that Alasdair MacGregor surrendered under a promise from Argyll to see him safe to English ground—the deal brokered by your brother Jamie. Well, your cousin kept his promise, transporting the chief to England and setting him down upon English soil, only to immediately arrest him and return him to Edinburgh. Alasdair was executed along with twenty-four other of my clansmen a fortnight past.”
Lizzie gasped with horrified disbelief. “You must be mistaken!” Her cousin wouldn’t do something so dishonorable … would he? His hatred for the MacGregors made her pause. But even if Archie were so inclined, Jamie would never be a part of it.
Patrick’s gaze was hard as steel. “I assure you, I am not mistaken. My cousin’s and brother’s heads sit over Dumbarton gate right now.”
Her heart plummeted. “Your cousin and brother?”
“Aye, Alasdair MacGregor was my cousin—twice over. Our fathers were brothers and our mothers were sisters. My youngest brother, Iain, died at his side.”
Lizzie felt ill. She could not doubt him—the ravaged sadness on his face couldn’t be feigned—even if she couldn’t believe the part he’d attributed to her family. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I do not blame you.”
“But your brother does?”
“Aye. I erred in trusting Gregor, but always before I could convince him to see reason. I thought he’d understood. I was wrong.”
She could see something in his expression. “What are you not telling me?”
His gaze was flat as he stared into the fire. “There were risings after the executions. My sister …”
He had a sister. God, she knew nothing about him.
He stopped and cleared his throat. Lizzie felt her heart start to hammer with trepidation. “My sister, Annie, was rap—” His voice cracked, and she put her hand on his arm.
Her stomach turned. He didn’t need to finish. “I’m so sorry.”
He gazed down at her hand and then back up at her face. His expression was as grim as she’d ever seen it. “At Auchinbreck’s orders.”
She pulled her hand away as if she’d been scalded. “No!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “That’s a vicious lie! How dare you make such an accusation!”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at her—almost as if he felt sorry for her.
Lizzie was not na?ve. She knew that men often violated women in the name of war—as a means to humiliate and attack the pride of their opponent. But the thought that her brother could do anything so vile—so cruel and despicable …
God, was it possible?
There had to be an explanation. She needed to see Jamie, he would clear things up.
Lizzie was reeling from what Patrick had told her. No wonder he’d changed his mind about marrying her. If even a small portion of it was true, he had every reason to hate her.
Instead, he’d saved her life and battled his brother to do so.
Her eyes flew to his, suddenly recalling Robbie’s hastily spoken word. “My God. You are chief.”
“Aye, though it’s clear that my brother means to challenge me.”
Patrick Murray, simple guardsman, was really chief of the once-proud clan of MacGregor. The irony would have been laughable if it hadn’t been at her expense. He was every bit her equal in position and in another time might have been a suitable husband for her. “Can he do that?” she asked.
“If the clan thinks I am unfit.”
“But why would they … Oh.” Because of me.
“I didn’t say they would, just that they could. Gregor will try, but I will be able to convince them otherwise.”
In her heart, she hoped Patrick succeeded. He would be a good chief. The qualities that had made him seem like a good husband also made a good leader: smart, strong, controlled, calm under pressure, and a fierce warrior. The type of man others looked to.
But she also knew the danger that position would put him in. It would also make him the most hunted man in Scotland.
He moved away from her toward the opening of the shelter. She noticed that it had stopped raining. “That’s enough talking for tonight. Get some rest. You will have need of it.”
She lay down, using the plaid as a blanket, her head resting on a surprisingly pillowlike pile of moss. She closed her eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. Her gaze kept drifting to the large solitary figure shadowed in the flames. Finally she asked, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“Later, lass. Later.”
Later never came.