Chapter Fourteen
Logan set down his axe and squinted in the sun at the riders approaching. He wondered why his cousins were arriving so late in the day, but then he saw his youngest brother Ealar’s raven mane beneath his hood and he understood. They’d likely waited for Ealar, who was never on time for anything.
He knew exactly why his brother was here. It riled Logan up to think of his parents sending Ealar to check on him. Was Logan a child? Or the youngest instead of the eldest?
He wiped his face and neck on a small cloth tucked in his belt and waited for the riders to reach him.
When Ealar’s mount grew close enough, he leaped from the saddle with the limberness of a lad of ten and eight.
“Brother,” he greeted stoically, coming forward in his belted plaid and bare knees.
“’Tis good to see ye choppin’ wood. Jamie told me ye were usin’ yer left arm, but Logan, choppin’ wood?
” He pushed out a slight, short laugh that very few witnessed.
It was a good thing since it made him appear even more resplendent than he already was.
Logan didn’t know what had made his little brother so void of emotions, especially happiness. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was usually as cold as his icy gray-blue gaze.
Ealar was an excellent reader from an early age and was often found reading, writing, and reciting morbid poetry. Oddly, he was the only one of Ismay’s bairns without a trace of red in his hair. The only one with skin as fair as fine porcelain.
“What are ye doin’ here, Ealar?” Logan already knew, but he wanted to hear it from Ealar and make him squirm a wee bit.
He should have known better than to try. Ealar didn’t squirm. “Would ye rather our mother had come?”
Stepping around Logan, he spread his gaze over the house and then around the glen. “Jamie told me aboot yer guest. Where is she?”
Before Logan answered him, he aimed his darkest glare on Jamie. His cousin properly cringed in his saddle.
“Miss Woodburn is pickin’ herbs with another lass Jamie nae doubt also told ye aboot. She will return soon, and when she does, ye will behave honorably.”
Ealar cast him a hurt look. “When do I no’ behave honorably?”
Ignoring his brother’s question, Logan moved on to Ewen dismounting. “Did ye get what I asked fer from my sister?”
“Aye.” Ewen rifled through his saddle bag and, finding what he was looking for, handed a small pouch to Logan. “She said ye owe her ten suppers and a wish of comparable value or more.”
Aye, Logan thought with a chuckle, that was his sister, May, the middle-born, a clever little bratling—always trying to negotiate and get others to grant her wishes.
Following in the footsteps of her father, May Cameron was a cattle raider and a thief, robbing travelers on the road.
She usually robbed the rich, providing her with valuable items she could then use to trade for something she wanted.
“A wish and ten suppers?” he asked, doubting anything in the pouch could be worth so much. He pulled two items from the pouch: a smooth wooden comb inlaid with gold and abalone, and a small mirror to match.
“She said the mirror is from Venice,” Ewen let him know.
Logan nodded to himself. These were costly items to be sure. Such things didn’t matter to him, but ladies liked them.
“Yer sister also said to tell ye that she has the hairbrush that matches the set, with boar bristles and inlaid in gold and mother of pearl. If ye want it, ye must promise to build her a house here beneath yer mountain.”
Logan scoffed. “’Tis no’ my mountain.”
“Yer sister disagrees,” Ewen countered.
“Buildin’ a house is no’ an easy task. All that work fer a hairbrush?”
“She showed it to me,” Ewen confessed. “’Tis quite impressive—but…”
“But?” Logan urged.
“’Tis more a gift fer a bride,” Ewen muttered. “’Tis no’ the kind of gift ye give to someone who wants ye dead.”
“She doesna’ want me dead,” Logan reassured him with a warm smile, knowing who he meant.
“What has changed, Logan? That kind of passion is difficult to subdue.”
“No’ if I create a diversion.”
Ewen’s mouth hung open, but before he could ask Logan what in blazes he meant, his cousin turned and walked back to the house.
As expected, Jamie was helping himself to the leftover food by the time Logan stepped inside the doors to the Main Hall. Ealar was busy looking over this thing or that. Steafan entered after him and Ewen, after that.
When he saw him, Ealar put down the jar of herbs he was examining and looked at him. “I am to ask ye why ye are keepin’ the woman here with ye. Alone.”
Logan knew who wanted to know, and he knew if he didn’t tell his brother what his mother wanted to know, she would appear at his door next.
“She is part of the booty fer the collapse of Dunley Keep. I am responsible fer her.”
“Bring her to the castle,” his brother remarked, pointing out the obvious.
“She doesna wish to go there and I dinna trust her aroond the Camerons.”
“But we should trust her aroond ye?” Ealar asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and wisdom beyond his years. “I understand our parents’ concerns.”
“’Tis no’ as simple as that,” Logan defended.
“She is a Covenanter’s daughter,” Ealar reminded him.
“So? Have we no’ killed enough people under Charles because they protested his supreme rule?”
Ealar’s gaze went dull on him. “Ye have been off the battlefield too long, brother. Now, ye’re grantin’ wishes to May in exchange fer costly gifts fer a lass who poses such a threat to our kin, ye’re afraid to bring her to Tor.
Nae matter what she calls herself, Covenantor or Royalist, she wants to see Camerons dead.
That is what is important. So, tell me again, why are ye keepin’ her here with ye? ”
“We killed her kin, Ealar. Her parents. Her brothers. She has hatred fer us, of course, but I’m workin’ on riddin’ her of it.”
He heard a sound behind him and turned to see the lasses entering the Main Hall. Miss Woodburn was carrying a basket under her arm.
Her gaze settled on him immediately, as if she was thinking of him and anxious to see him. Or was that what he wanted to believe?
She blushed a bonnie shade of pink when he smiled at her and then she looked away. Straight at Ealar.
Logan expected her to catch her breath or blush a whole new shade of pink at his brother’s good looks, but her gaze on Ealar was pure ice.
“Ye must be Miss Woodburn,” his brother said, unfazed by her glare and proving it with his bold gaze. “I have heard much aboot ye.”
“’Tis all true,” she replied woodenly, and then without waiting for his introduction, she walked off to put away the herbs she’d picked.
“Pardon me, Miss,” Ealar followed her and held out his hand to take her basket. “May I take a look at what ye picked?”
Logan’s instinct was to protect his family, but now, he felt a stirring to protect Miss Woodburn as well. Although would it not be wise to check the herbs? He certainly didn’t want her to poison his brother, and right now, she looked as if she would.
He wanted to trust her, but was he willing to risk Ealar’s life?
He went to her and stood at her side, then he took the basket of herbs from her. He wasn’t a fool, blinded by a lass—who had once found a way to make all her father’s guardsmen sleep.
Now that Logan knew Miss Woodburn a little better, he suspected she had spiked their water or ale. But why had she done it? Was it to sneak down to the dungeon and…mayhap help her father’s prisoner? It would explain his dreams of her.
Holding her basket of herbs, he set his tender gaze on her. How heavy her guilt must be to carry, and how much she must hate him for it all.
He dipped his gaze into the basket. He knew herbs and plants by sight, having to know in order to camp and cook outdoors in times of battle.
During her excursion with Helen, Miss Woodburn had collected wild garlic, dandelion leaves and roots, wild marjoram, thyme, and juniper. Nothing deadly. He handed the basket to his brother, took Miss Woodburn by the wrist and left the Main Hall.
He pulled her gently to the front door, opened it, and left the house and everyone in it. He didn’t speak, nor did she as he led her toward the mountain.
Finally, she tugged him to a stop. “What are ye doing, my lord?”
He turned away from the mammoth Nevis and looked into her eyes. He always thought of Ben Nevis as home—until he looked into Elspeth Woodburn’s eyes. “I want to be alone with ye.”
She looked away and down at his fingers around her wrist. “Why?”
He moved his fingers down to her hand and held it instead. “Lass, I—”
“Why would ye defend me to yer brother?” she asked, leaving her hand in his. “Now he is going to think—”
“Let him think what he likes.”
“Nae,” she argued, pulling free of him. “I dinna want him or anyone else to think we care for each other.”
“Why no’, bonnie El?” he asked earnestly. Was he wrong to think she no longer hated him?
He smiled at her. He had no choice, no control over his facial muscles. Not when she looked like a dainty pixie waiting for a breeze to come and sweep her away.
He wanted to reach out and take hold of her to keep her close. “Stay.”
“What?” She squeaked and blinked her huge eyes at him.
“Stay here with me,” he said deeply, his words coming from someplace within. He moved closer to her and prayed she wasn’t about to stab him with a carving knife.
“With ye?” she repeated on a whispered breath as he moved closer still.
He nodded and basked in her warm breath as he dipped his head to hers.
“Let me win yer love.” He put his index finger under her chin, lifting it, and leaned in to kiss her.
He wanted to. He felt as if he was born to kiss her.
To love her. “I know ye were there with me in the dungeon. Let me make it all up to ye.”
She didn’t pull away or resist him when his mouth covered hers.
For a moment.
But in that moment, Logan’s heart nearly burst from the fullness he felt.
His legs nearly gave out under him—and it would have been the first time in his life that they did.
Her lips were soft and yielding, while the scent and slight taste of wild thyme would forever haunt him if he never kissed her again.
She broke their kiss and touched her fingers to her lips as she stepped back, away from him. “Nae, I canna.”
His heart lurched, but it didn’t break. He wouldn’t give up on her. “Fergive me, then.”
“Mr. Cameron?” she said in her soft feminine voice.
“Do ye expect me to ferget it all? Ferget my family and what tragedy befell them because of ye? Every horrible thing I have been through is because of ye. It doesna matter what yer crime was—if ye were not there spying on me, my whole life would have been different. Do ye understand that? If ye do, how can ye ask me to stay?”
“I dinna expect ye to ferget anythin’, lass,” he told her. “But a wound ye will never ferget still heals. I know what my actions have caused. If I could, I would change the past, but I canna. I can only try to make yer life better now.”
She shook her head. “I dinna want yer pity. Stop giving it to me.”
“Ye dinna need to carry so much on yer shoulders, El.”
“Stop calling me that!” She pushed away from him.
“Tis yer name,” he reminded her with a smile.
“’Tis intimate,” she countered.
He tried to keep his smile from growing.
She was a fighter, but he was not her opponent.
She was. She was fighting with everything in her to hate him for what he’d caused, but it was only to mask her guilt for what she’d done to Dunley’s protection that night.
She hated him so that it would keep her from remembering how much she hated herself.
Poor fae.
“I will call ye Lass, how aboot that?”
“Fine.”
“Ye can call me Logan.”
“Nae. I will continue to call ye what I have been calling ye; Mr. Cameron, infuriating man, guilty fool, handsome ro—” She stopped, her mouth hanging open before she snapped her lips shut.
His smile softened on her with the deepest affection. “Ye think me handsome?”
She closed her eyes, breathed out, then opened her eyes and looked at him. “’Tis not as if ye didna know that ye’re hand—handsome. I am sure the women in yer life tell ye often enough. This is nae different.”
Should he tell her the women in his life are his mother, sister, and cousins?
“Aye,” she went on. In fact, it was as if she couldn’t stop, “yer hair is like a horse’s mane of glossy sable in the Highland wind.
Yer gaze reveals emotions that are less armored than that of a more common man.
” She stopped when her gaze dipped to his mouth.
She stared at his lips for a moment then looked away and closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to praise his lips.
He laughed softly into his fist.
That snatched her attention back to him. “My humiliation amuses ye?”
“Let me offer ye some amusement then,” he said, growing slightly more serious.
“Ye’re like a dandelion blown bare by the wind, delicate and resilient.
Yer eyes are haunted with pain too deep to utter.
They are flames and I am unable to resist flying into them, even if I get burned.
And yer lips…” he looked at them and then back at her, “will be mine.”
He had offered to amuse her, but seeing her laugh at his declaration stung. “Verra well, then,” he said, pretending to brood. Pouting often worked for Jamie. Mayhap, it would for him, as well. “Keep yer lips to yerself.”
She didn’t follow him as he hoped but laughed even louder.
When he heard the sound of her filling the vale, he let it fill him, as well. Like sunshine spilling over the gloom, her merriment washed away every thought, save one. He would show her he spoke the truth.
He turned back to her and, joining in her laughter, went to her and took her in his arms.
“May I kiss ye, lass?” He took the risk of her refusing him. And the risk was high. But he didn’t think she would.
She offered him the slightest nod. He almost didn’t see it. He bent his head to hers. His heart accelerated while his breath slowed and deepened. He wanted to kiss her and still the passage of time so that he never had to let her go.
Her lips were warm as he molded his to hers. At the gentle coaxing of his tongue, she parted her lips and took him in.
“Cease!” she commanded, breaking free of his embrace.
When he let her go, he watched her back up.
“What are ye doing to me?”
“Same thing ye’re doin’ to me, ’twould seem.”
“I am wretched,” she lamented.
“Why?” He wanted to promise never to touch her again if it made her feel so terrible.
“Because I liked it.”