Chapter 14
The Hero can be Poet, Prophet,
King, Priest or what you will,
according to the kind of world
he finds himself born into.
—On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History, 1840
Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881)
Scottish historian and essayist
The mist had burned away by the time she awoke, not certain where she was. Then she saw the tanned hands careless on the reins in front of her, felt the warm strength of arms that held her, and heard the name that quietly rode into her consciousness. Alysandir Mackinnon.
He had slowed his horse to a walking pace now, and she wondered if it was to allow her to sleep. Neither of them spoke as they rode over rocks dappled with lichen, scattered between puffy tufts of heather. Nearby, a curlew gave warning, and when they passed, it went flapping out of a tree, leaving only chirping meadow pipits and greenshanks to do the scolding.
She took in the silvery boles that rose like columns into the lofty branches of a grove of beeches, where a gleaming ray of the descending sun had come to rest upon a white trunk. Beyond the grove stretched tracts of brown heath and brilliant whin, with a holly brake interrupting the scene now and then. It was rough country and hauntingly beautiful.
She was wondering if they were going to ride all night when he guided his horse toward a place where an outcropping of stone formed a semicircle around a small clearing. She could hear the music of a waterfall and saw the burn nearby, as it tumbled over timeworn stones. She recalled that in Scotland, one was never far from a burn.
The spongy, damp earth cushioned the sound of hoofbeats. The evening was unnaturally quiet, the light penetrating the trees insubstantial. A breeze seemed to come out of nowhere to float eerily through the pine trees, creaking the branches it passed through.
He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted; only this time, when he lifted her in his arms, he did not carry her anywhere. Instead, he lowered her to her feet, not releasing her but holding her close while he searched her face with a steady gaze that also probed the depths of her eyes, searching, asking. It didn’t take a PhD in psychology to know that he wanted her. She swallowed audibly and looked away, fearing that he might see the same acute yearning for him in her eyes.
“Why are we stopping?”
It was unnerving the way his eyes, his words caressed her, sparing nothing and sending an eddy of pleasure rippling throughout. She supposed she deserved that for unashamedly gawking at his nakedness earlier. She found herself wondering what kissing him would be like and gave herself a mental slap.
Letting him know she desired him would be foolish, for he would act upon it and a loose woman could end up the castle whore, so she gave him a seraphic smile. Then she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, letting him know that if he tried to force his attentions upon her, she would not be receptive to such overtures. She narrowed her eyes as if to say she would not give up without a fight.
“Vae victis. Such bravery, but wholly unnecessary. A man can desire a woman without raping her.”
His words were powerful and the caress on her face infuriatingly gentle. He stroked her cheek and then gently lifted her chin with the curve of a forefinger. The humid breath of the wind caressed her face as tenderly as did his gaze when she looked at him.
Vae victis, woe to the conquered. If he only knew she was conquered already. But she did not have to let him know that. She sighed, thinking the golden tint of late afternoon did nothing but enrich the warm tones of his skin, the high cheekbones, and the silvered gleam in the depths of his blue eyes.
“What would ye say if I said I wanted to kiss ye?”
For a moment, she stared at him blankly, but then his words sunk in and she said, rather flippantly, “I would have to say no.”
“Then I willna ask,” he said and drew her more tightly against him.
Her insides felt like they were floating, and her heart had already risen to her throat, rendering her speechless. No, this can’t be happening. She twirled around with silent dignity, intending to walk dramatically down to the burn to break the spell. In her haste, she forgot about her ankle and proceeded to tumble over the gnarled root of a tree, rolling a couple of feet and landing on her side in a thorn bush. At first, she didn’t think she was hurt. Then she howled in pain. “Yeowwwww!”
He stood in place, observing her. He said calmly, “Bad choice. The cure was worse than the poison. Kissing me would no’ ha’ been so painful.”
In spite of her pain, she laughed, but she stopped when she learned a valuable lesson: In the pain department, thorn bushes rank considerably higher than bracken. Her left side bristled with thorns from hip to ankle, and she felt as though she had been stabbed with a million needles.
She knew she was becoming a great deal of trouble and wondered if he was contemplating riding off and leaving her. When she glanced up at him to get some inkling of his thoughts, he shook his head and dropped down to survey the damage.
“Apparently ye were never told that a gorse bush is to be avoided. ’Tis a valuable lesson ye have learned today, and ye are fortunate the thorns are only on yer left leg. I need to put ye where ye willna get into more trouble.” He reached for her, and she pulled back. “Be still. Do ye want to push the thorns in deeper?”
She leaned back. “Aren’t you going to pull them out?”
“Nae. I will see to my horse and make camp first.”
Her mouth dropped faster than a ripe fig. He was going to see to his horse? And leave her sitting here pricked with a million thorns?
“When I have a fire going, I will boil some water to bathe yer leg. The hot water will make the thorns easier to pull.” He turned to remove the flask of mead from his pouch and tucked it into his tunic. He lifted her carefully, carried her to a ledge hewn from a large rock, and sat her down gently.
He was like no man she had ever met. It was not simply because he was from another century that was wild, passionate, and untamed. No, it was more than that. He did not try to impress her or pelt her with sexual innuendos or play games. And he didn’t seem to define his masculinity through aggressiveness. His virility and courage were as natural to him as his horsemanship.
He removed the flask and handed it to her. “Drink some o’ this while I see to my horse.” When she took a sip, he turned away. He returned shortly to wrap the upper part of her body in his plaid, and she wondered how many women had received such. She drank more mead, thankful once again for its numbing warmth.
As he unsaddled his horse and rubbed him down, she sensed a bond between the two of them, for the sturdy hobbler responded to Alysandir’s slightest command. Once the horse was cared for, Alysandir gathered wood and kindling to start a fire.
She took another drink. “Aren’t you going to tie your horse?”
“Nae.”
“Why not?”
“He willna leave.”
Alysandir used a tinderbox to coax smoking leaves into a fire, adding small chips of wood taken from the interior of a fallen log to bring the emerging flame to life. He added a few logs, and soon the fire blazed. She could feel its warmth reaching out to her. She had never thought to consider a wool plaid and a smoky, peat-smelling fire sheer luxury, but she did at this moment. She shuddered to think what she would be doing now, if he hadn’t come along. She pulled the plaid closer and noticed he seemed amused.
“Ye have the look of a wet cat aboot ye.”
“You don’t look too impressive either,” she shot back, feeling a bit miffed at her bedraggled appearance when he, even battle weary, looked absolutely sumptuous. Oh, fiddle. She was so tired she couldn’t put two thoughts together. The oatcake she had eaten earlier did nothing to stop the awful gnawing in her stomach, and her leg throbbed with each pulse of her heart.
What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath and a warm, soft bed about now. She sighed, imagining the fragrance of crackling clean sheets and skin scented with rose soap. What she settled for was another nip or two of mead. Can one become a mead alcoholic?
She watched him carry a few things from his pouch to the fire, and she marveled at watching a real knight set up camp. It was so much better than one seen in a high-budget film. I wonder what he’d think if he saw Braveheart? Laugh his head off, probably.
She watched him carry a tin of water from the burn and place it on the fire. While it heated, he came toward her. “I will need my plaid to carry the water over here.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You aren’t going to pour boiling water on my leg, are you?”
He gave her a look that said how stupid he thought that question was. “Lie doon, lass.”
She smiled, feeling a bit giddy as she obeyed, and stretched out on the stone, gasping at the brittle slap of cold against her skin. “Hurry. I’m freezing.”
“’Tis to be expected when ye go about naked as a shorn sheep.” He rolled up one end of his plaid and poured the hot water over it, then quickly arranged it over the length of her injured leg. She raised her head, yelped, like a kicked dog, and lay back down. A moment later, she said, “Ahhh, it’s nice and warm.”
“’Tis the mead what warms ye. Lie still, for it will soon cool. I must work quickly.” He peeled part of the plaid back and began to pull the thorns.
She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly together to ward off the pain, determined to show how Texas tough she was. After what seemed hours, she raised her head.
“Ouch! This is taking forever. How many… ouch!… more are there?”
“I ken there will be aboot as many as were poked into yer skin,” he replied.
“Can you translate that into an ouch!… number?”
“Mayhap ten or fifteen.”
“I’ll be dead by then.” She closed her eyes and grimaced with each thorn, howling with the extraction of a few of them.
“Pain can be a guid thing.”
“How so? Owwww! Are you doing owwww!… that on purpose?”
“Nae. That one was in deeper than the others. It was the last one.”
She let out a long breath. “Thank God.” She opened her eyes. “How can pain be good?”
“It can teach ye a lesson. ’Twould be safe to say ye willna fall into a thorny gorse bush again, now will ye?”
“If you are trying to learn how to be humorous, you’ve a long way to go.” She rose up on her elbows. “I might have known you would find another way to poke me.”
“Of that ye can be certain,” he said, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I anticipate the moment.”
You idiot! Her head fell back and cracked loudly against the stone. “Owwww!”
“Yer twin… is she as clumsy as ye?”
“No, and not half as entertaining either.”
“Humph!” He picked up the plaid and carried it back to hang near the fire.
She was feeling a bit tipsy as she watched him fill the tin again and set it on the fire to boil. He added a few leaves, which she assumed were tea leaves or something akin to them. She was shivering by the time he poured some of the steaming liquid into a small tin cup and handed it to her.
“’Tis herbs that will give ye strength and warm yer insides,” he said, and handed her another oatcake.
She wouldn’t have to worry about gaining weight here. She wondered how a warrior such as he could wield a heavy sword and maintain his stamina on herb tea and oatcakes. He stood a few feet away, his feet wide apart and thumbs in the waist of his chausses, with a serious expression on his face—and he looked sexy as hell.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He checked the plaid and, finding it dry, folded it. “Nae, ye didna do anything, if that is what ye mean, but ye willna like what I am aboot to say. I have only one plaid, and that means we will have to share it for the night.”
How convenient. She was too tired to even consider arguing the point. “Fine. Just make sure that is all you intend to share, for I warn you, I will resist.”
He smiled wickedly. “A woman who resists is a woman won, and her passion is equal to the fervor of her resistance.”
“You will realize in the morning just how wrong you are about that.”
He tossed the plaid on the stone ledge and stepped closer. Cupping her chin, he lifted her face until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. She was captivated by the overpowering gentleness she saw there, the softness of his touch.
“Ye are afraid of me? Afraid I might harm ye?”
She intended to say something trivial but stopped herself. His magic closed off any means of escape, just as an enemy surrounded a fortress. She had nowhere to turn. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. He was too overpowering in a gentle way that reached out to surround her like a warm blanket.
She couldn’t lie to him. It did not seem fitting for the time, the place, or the man, and she was just a little scared to have this feeling and not know where it came from or what had caused it. She trembled, but from his nearness, not the cold. She yearned for him to take her in his arms and kiss her until she could not bear it any longer. After all he had done for her, he deserved honesty.
“I’m afraid of what might happen when I’m around you. I’m afraid of what I might do. You are a threat to me… a threat I do not understand. I feel you could surround me with your strength, so much so that I could no longer breathe.”
She turned her head away, feeling a mixture of shame, embarrassment, relief, and dread. She could not continue talking. She had said far too much already. Her fences were down, her defenses penetrated. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and open to attack.
“I don’t know why I’m babbling like this.” She put her hand to her head. “I’m so confused right now and tired. Please, forget everything I said.”
“A compelling thought but fruitless, for those are words I canna forget. Not now and mayhap never.” He reached for her and folded her in his arms. She swayed against him, her resistance easing.
“Don’t pay any attention to me. The mead is making me say and do things I shouldn’t.”
He chuckled. “Aye, I ha’ reached the same conclusion.” With a kiss to her forehead, he said, “My horse needs to rest, and so do I. We will ride again afore daybreak.”
She smiled and felt like she was floating in a vat of warm chocolate. She was exhausted and the mead-chocolate-Alysandir combo made her relax. After all, the last time she’d slept was five hundred years from now. She watched him spread his plaid on the ground in front of the boulder. A moment later, she was on the ground wrapped like a cocoon in the plaid. When he joined her, she thought he would turn his back to her, but instead he took her in his arms.
“Are you going to make love to me now?”
“Do ye wish me to?”
Oh, yes. “I refuse to answer that because it might implicate me.”
“If it will ease yer mind, when I make love to ye, it willna be the mead talking.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank you for being a gentleman and not taking advantage of me.”
“I didna say I wouldna take advantage of ye.”
The man scent of him and the warmth of mead in her veins caused her resistance to recede.
“I will take that kiss now.” Before she could sputter, his mouth was on hers, feather-light. She was unprepared for the rush of feelings created by the touch of his lips upon hers, full and searching, his tongue touching hers, probing, encouraging. The sensation was addictive, carrying both promise and fulfillment, and it settled around her like a cloud of opium smoke.
The touch of his hand at her throat sent a wave of dizziness over her. The words whispered against her cheek made her yearn for more, and she feared he knew that inside, she was a quivering mass of craving desire and aspiring hopes. He lifted his head, his lips brushing against hers again and again, and she felt as if she had been blessed by angels, smiled upon by the gods, exalted and raised to angelic heights.
She sighed blissfully and felt his smile against her cheek. He drew back to study her face in the dying light of the fire, and she wanted to yank him back to kiss her again, but longer this time.
Her breath caught, and she felt the beat of her pulse hammering against her throat. She knew he was going to kiss her again and that it would be a real, toe-curling kiss, the kind she always dreamed about and never had. When his lips claimed hers again, she was undone. His arms came around her, and the world seemed to fall away until there was nothing but the two of them.
She inhaled the scent of him, and something warm and liquid spread through her, more powerful than the mead she’d had earlier. This was the real thing, and it suffused through her veins until she was sure he could hear them hum and vibrate like the strings of a well-played harp. She was on fire, burning for his touch.
“I have wanted to do this since I first saw ye across the meadow wi’ yer legs gleaming in the sunlight, but dinna worrit. I will have ye, but not tonight.” She almost cried out when he pulled back and placed a gentle kiss against each of her eyes. “Sleep now. The morrow will come early, and I wouldna have ye traveling in an overly weary state.” He kissed her eyes again, her nose, her cheeks, and her lips. “Fear not. I will protect ye.”
And she knew he would.
She realized suddenly that she had no idea where they were going. She had assumed, of course, that he was taking her home with him, since his brothers would be bringing Elisabeth there when they found her. But she wanted to be sure.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Caisteal Màrrach.”
“Is that your home, or are you leaving me elsewhere?”
“Ye are wi’ me, lass. I keep what I have. Caisteal Màrrach is my home and where ye will reside.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. Alysandir turned, giving her his back so he faced the fire and the open glen. His sword lay beside him, while a few feet away his horse grazed quietly. She felt warm, peaceful, protected, and safe knowing this man would not harm her, that he would give his life to protect her.
Sometime later, she felt his hand take hers. He pulled her arm around his chest, tucking her hand in his and cradling it against his heart. She melted against him like a double-dip cone dropped on the Galveston seawall in 105-degree weather. She sighed blissfully. Later, when she had time to analyze his gesture, she might think it a signature move that he used with the many women he’d bedded, but now, she was warmed by the tenderness of it.
It seemed a moment later when she felt something nudge her leg. A voice cut into her consciousness. “Lass, wake up. ’Tis time to go.” She opened her eyes to mere slits in time to see the toe of his boot coming to nudge her again. “Make haste, lass. We canna abide here any longer if we are going to reach Màrrach before dark.”
She moaned and hoped this was a dream, but when she was nudged a third time, she knew it was real. “Up wi’ ye now.”
Surely that was a jest. It was so dark that the moon had already gone to bed and the sun was still asleep. She closed her eyes and fell right back to sleep, only to be roused a while later by the nudging of his boot, more firmly this time. “Either ye get up, or I will undress and join ye there.”
She sat up quickly and remembered her accumulation of wounds. She saw the crackling fire and was about to say something grumpy when she heard a noiseless whisper creeping through the trees, rattling the branches, and filling the empty spaces deep within her. Damn you, Black Douglas! What are you up to?
Alysandir handed her a cup of something fresh from the fire and she drank it, not caring what it was. It was hot, and that was enough. She noticed that he was eating something.
“And my oatcake is where?”
She didn’t care if she sounded like a shrew. She was grumpy and sore as hell after her falls and run-ins with gorse and bracken. Her wounds, along with a certain family ghost, were irritating as hell.
Without saying a word, Alysandir tossed her an oatcake. She caught it in mid-air and ate it quickly. Soon, they were riding again and she was lulled back to sleep while strong arms held her as safe and securely as they had done the day before.
When she awoke, the sun was a brilliant orb overhead. It was a good omen. They rounded the top of a gently sloping hill and then continued down the other side until his horse stopped in the middle of a noisy little burn, his fetlocks awash and flanks wet. Alysandir relaxed his hold to slacken the reins. His horse stretched out his neck, stirred and splashed the water with his nose, and then drank deeply.
“Does your family call you Alex?”
“Nae.”
He turned in the saddle, listening, with the palm of his left hand resting flat upon the crupper of his horse. Isobella held her breath, listening, too, but all she heard was the murmuring burn where the water ran over the rocky shallows and the gentle, sucking noise of the horse and the splash of water when he pawed.
“Are ye tired, mistress?”
Their gazes met and held, and a shiver rippled over her.
“More stiff than tired.”
His horse tossed his head a couple of times, jingling the snaffle bit, and then responded when Alysandir nudged him with his spurs and they crossed to the other side. When they stopped, Isobella leaned forward and rubbed the horse’s mane. “Ye like horses,” he said.
“Love them! I have a horse of my own, a gelding named Morrigan.”
“Morrigan, the Celtic god o’ war? This is a fashionable name for a horse where ye are from?”
She smiled. “Not really. It’s a name that appealed to me when I read a book about Celtic deities. And your horse? What is his name?”
“Gallagher.”
“And in Gaelic?”
“ó Gallchobhair, and it means “foreign helper.”
Foreign helper. Warmth suffused her, and she considered his horse’s name to be the second good omen since meeting him. But then, he could mesmerize her by counting horse droppings, for there was such beauty in the Scot tongue and the beautiful lilt of Gaelic that he spoke. She could almost feel his essence reaching out and touching her, for his sense of belonging and family pride resonated with each word, and she knew what it was to envy the strength of kith and kin. His family had lived on this island for centuries.
His roots ran deep and strong. And what of her roots? Thoughts of her own family sliced sharply into her heart. How could she bear never seeing her family again or riding Morrigan or laughing with her girlfriends? And Elisabeth. Were they all lost to her now, too?
She felt tears prickle her eyelids, but she quickly brushed them away and focused on how fortunate she was to have landed smack in the middle of an archaeologist’s paradise. She glanced at Alysandir, who had ridden into her life and saved her.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue. Things were looking very grim before you arrived.”
“Ye have no assurance yer situation will improve now that ye are with me.”
She smiled to herself. Oh, Alysandir Mackinnon, I know all about your family name, your code of honor. Even the blood racing through her veins seemed to be humming with excitement that she had been found by this remarkable knight and no other. It did not occur to her until much later that perhaps this was what the Black Douglas had had in mind all along.