Bride of Lochbarr Page 8

  An arrow shot past them and he quickly set her down and shoved her behind him as he bent to retrieve his sword.

  “Stop, you dolts! You’ll hit Marianne!” Nicholas shouted.

  Seizing upon that, she stepped out from behind the Scot. “Stay close to me,” she commanded.

  He grabbed the back of her shift. “You stay close to me,” he ordered, hauling her against his powerful body.

  She didn’t protest. All that mattered was getting away safely, and as long as she was close to him, the archers wouldn’t dare shoot.

  They started toward the merlon and the other rope. She kept her gaze on the anxious archers, aware that Nicholas was probably rushing to the wall as fast as he could go.

  “You first,” she said when they reached the second rope.

  She ignored the fierce frustration in the Scot’s eyes as he hesitated. “Didn’t you hear Nicholas? They won’t shoot at me, but they’ll do their best to kill you.”

  With a parting, angry look, he went over the wall.

  What if he abandoned her?

  “Wait for me at the bottom,” she cried, the words as much a command as a plea.

  Nicholas’s head appeared at the top of a ladder propped against the stones. She grabbed the second rope and started to climb down. She could barely close her aching hands around it, but she fought her fear and concentrated on gripping it.

  “Stop them on the other side of the wall!” Nicholas called out.

  More soldiers, some of them holding torches, poured out of the gatehouse like a swarm of bees. Yet there was still time to get away, if the Scot’s horse was close by, and as fast as he claimed.

  She was nearly at the bottom when the Scot caught her around the waist. Without a word, he swept her into his arms and carried her toward a horse barely discernible beneath a willow.

  She didn’t object or demand to be put down; the soles of her feet were too tender and she knew she’d barely be able to walk, let alone run.

  “Where are the rest of your men?” she asked, anxiously scanning the trees.

  “There aren’t any.”

  He’d come all by himself?

  He must be mad…or else he’d realized there was less chance of one man getting caught than if there were many.

  He set her on the back of a horse behind the saddle, its cantle jamming into her stomach. Then he mounted swiftly, in one fluid motion.

  She wrapped her aching arms around his waist and held on for dear life as the Scot kicked his heels. The horse leapt out of the cover of the tree and before Nicholas’s mounted soldiers were out of the castle, Marianne and the Scot galloped out of the village and away from Beauxville.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHE WAS LIVING A NIGHTMARE. Her exhausted arms were as heavy as one of the castle stones. Her teeth chattered from the cold, and her bare feet were numb. Of course, it had started to rain, a bone-chilling drizzle that soaked her shift and hair, bare arms and feet. Clouds covered the moon, and Marianne wondered how the Scot managed to see where they were going.

  His horse stumbled—maybe he couldn’t see—and she nearly slipped off its rump.

  “I can’t hold on much longer,” she murmured, trying to grip the Scot tighter about the waist.

  “We haven’t much farther to go.”

  Go where? she wearily wondered as they rode along a narrow path through a small cleft in the hills, with sheer rock above and a rushing stream below.

  His home, she supposed, wherever that was. She’d never asked Nicholas.

  Probably some collection of rude huts. At least there’d be a fire, and a blanket. She hoped.

  She moaned softly and leaned her head against the Scot’s wet back, the smell of damp wool in her nostrils. She shouldn’t have gone with him. She shouldn’t have thrown her future away because she’d been afraid of what would happen to her if she stayed.

  Surely she could have convinced Nicholas that she hadn’t wanted Adair Mac Taran to come to her bedchamber. That they weren’t lovers and she was still a virgin. Somehow.

  The Scot pulled his horse to a halt at a fall of water about eight feet wide. It rushed into a pool several feet below, where the water frothed and gurgled, the sound loud in the night. A mist of spray filled the air.

  “We’re stopping here?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She grabbed the cantle as he dismounted, but the loss of his body made her sway and she had to fight to keep her balance.

  “There’s a cave behind the falls where we can spend the night. Your brother and his men won’t find us there. We have to go in on foot because the entrance is too low to go on horseback.”

  She hesitated, unsure if she’d be able to stand on her cold and painful feet, and if she wanted to risk a night alone in a cave with him.

  “You still don’t trust me, is that it?” he asked, annoyance and frustration in his voice.

  “No, I don’t,” she retorted.

  “Then you’re welcome to stay the night out here, but heaven help you if your brother’s soldiers come upon you and he’s not with them.”

  “My brother’s men wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Maybe not, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve seen what Norman soldiers will do to a defenseless girl.”

  “I’m not a girl.”

  “So much the worse, maybe. I’m not going to stand here and debate you, my lady. I’ll give you my word that I won’t hurt you. If that’s not good enough for you, you’re free to go and I’ll leave you to your fate. You decide.”

  “I’m sure my brother’s soldiers wouldn’t harm me, but there are those cattle thieves roaming about, and I have no idea where I am, so I’ll have to stay here until daylight. However, if you attempt to kiss me again—”

  “I’ll gladly give you my word I won’t do that. You may be a beautiful woman, but your heart is as cold as the water in that river, and after tonight, I’ll be glad to be rid of you.”

  “Very well, then, I accept your offer,” she said with all the dignity she could muster, despite the circumstances.

  Holding the cantle, she eased her leg over the back of the foam-flecked horse. The Scot put his hands around her waist. She wanted to protest, but as she slowly slipped to the ground, wincing when she had to put her weight on her sore feet, she was glad of his support.

  Until his gaze raked her body.

  With her soaking shift clinging to her, she might as well be naked. She should make him look away, except that without his strength to hold her, she’d fall.

  He turned around. “Get on my back. I’ll carry you. That way, I can lead Neas, too. He won’t come easy. He hates caves.”

  So did she, but once again, she had no choice, unless she wanted to be left alone and unprotected.

  She put her arms around the Scot’s neck, gripping her right wrist with her left hand. He put one hand on her buttocks and hoisted her upward. She shifted, wrapping her legs about him as best she could.

  Bending over slightly with her weight, he grabbed his horse’s reins and started for the waterfall. The way was slippery and he staggered a bit. She immediately envisioned tumbling down the side of the chasm to the surging water below and held on that much tighter.

  The Scot muttered something she didn’t understand.

  “Loosen your hold,” he said in French, his voice louder. “I can’t breathe.”

  Against her will, for they were closer to the water now, she did as he commanded.

  The clouds parted enough to let out a little moonlight, and what she saw increased her dread. The water was swift, and the floor of the ledge gleamed slickly wet. She could also see the lip of rock the water passed over, and the hollowed-out space behind. Looking at the falls from any other angle, you wouldn’t see that indentation.

  She closed her eyes and held her breath as he drew closer to the falling water, every step slow and careful. The roar of it was loud in her ears, like a running herd of horses overtaking her. A heavy stream of water washed over her elbow as th
ey passed to the side and beneath the falls. Her other arm grazed damp rock.

  What if the force of the water tore her from him, or made him fall?

  “You won’t slip?” she felt compelled to ask.

  “Not if you’re quiet and don’t distract me,” the Scot replied through clenched teeth.

  The short journey seemed to take forever and then the sound of the roaring water changed, echoing oddly. She opened her eyes and discovered they were on the other side of the falls, in a passage of gray, wet rock.

  The Scot muttered something and tugged on the reins, for just as he’d said, his horse had balked and hadn’t come behind the waterfall.

  “I’ll get down,” she said, letting go of her wrist. Grasping his shoulders, she slid to the ground. She managed to lesson the agony of her sore feet by leaning against the cold, slimy wall.

  The Scot said nothing to her as she shivered, her teeth chattering; all his attention was on his horse. He was patient with the beast at first, trying to coax it, but soon he was muttering curses under his breath, or so she assumed those foreign words were. Finally, through a combination of soft words, swearing and a consistent pulling of the reins, the horse came under the falls, stepping as delicately as a fine lady dancing.

  The Scot said something that sounded like a short thankful prayer, then led the horse past her. “Come on. Not much farther now.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was addressing her, or his horse. Nevertheless, biting her lip, with one hand on the wall, she followed as best she could.

  It was certainly drier than outside, and much darker. Not a ray of light penetrated the charcoal-like blackness. What if there were holes or pits? The Scot seemed confident of where he was going, but she wasn’t particularly reassured.

  And what if there were bats?

  The horse stopped, and so did she, listening. Mercifully, it wasn’t the sound of flapping wings she heard, but the Scot feeling around for something above his head, sending little tumbles of stones to the ground.

  “Ah, here they are,” he said softly, his voice holding both triumph and relief.

  In the next moment, she heard a familiar rasping sound, and a spark flashed, telling her he’d been looking for a flint.

  The spark flared into torchlight, and the scent of pitch and smoke filled the musty air. She could see past the horse now, to the Scot holding a torch. In addition to the bruise she’d seen on his face before, there was a trickle of blood from a cut beside his left eye.

  With his matted hair and injured face shining in the torchlight, his wet clothes clinging to his muscular body, he looked even more like a savage.

  She told herself to be brave and proud as a Norman woman ought to be.

  “There’s a cavern a little way farther,” he said gruffly. “It’s more comfortable there.”

  A cavern comfortable? She shuddered to think what his idea of “comfort” must be.

  Clenching her teeth so she wouldn’t cry out or make any sound at all, she gingerly crept forward. She tried to ignore her painful feet, how cold she was, her wet and clinging shift and her fear of bats.

  After going about twenty feet, she rounded a corner and found herself in an enormous chamber, with a pool at one side that had been created by the damming of water that trickled down the wall. The wet wall gleamed as if it was paved with diamonds, and the air was fresher, too. On a ledge about waist-height to her left was a battered wooden chest.

  The horse was eagerly drinking at the pool, while the Scot stood waiting for her, holding the torch aloft.

  When he saw her, he set the torch in a rusty metal bracket that had been attached to the rock wall. Below it was a circle of stones with the blackened remains of a fire at the bottom. Beside that was a pile of wood, probably as damp as her shift.

  She watched as the Scot went to the wooden chest and threw open the lid. He took out some straw and bits of twig. Then he went to the circle of stones and crouched, and made a little pile of the straw and twigs in the center. He pulled the flint from his belt and moved one of the rocks closer to the straw. He struck another spark. Smoke began to curl up from the straw in a lazy swirl. He bent down and started to blow on the small flame. More of the straw and twigs began to burn.

  “Bring me some bigger twigs from the box,” he ordered as he stayed crouched by the fire.

  Wanting to get warm and dry, she hurried to obey, making her way to the ledge as best she could and biting back curses of her own. He glanced at her impatiently.

  Then he looked at her feet and frowned. “You’re bleeding,” he said, straightening. “I didn’t realize you’d hurt your feet. Sit down.”

  He spoke without gentleness or kindness, but she didn’t care. She was too tired, too cold and her feet hurt too much to answer, so she simply sank down where she was, perching on a rock.

  He went to the chest, pulled out some sticks and threw them on the fire. “You should have said something.”

  “And what would you have done if I had?” she asked, too weary and miserable to censor her words. “Climbed back to my chamber and fetched my shoes?”

  He didn’t answer her question as he rummaged in the chest. He pulled out a wineskin and shook it, making its contents slosh. After setting it down, he began to take off his shirt.

  She inched away from him. “What are you doing?”

  “Making bandages,” he said as he pulled the wet shirt over his head. He darted her a suspicious look. “What did you think I was going to do?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to give him any ideas. And she shouldn’t be getting any ideas, except for what she ought to do when this terrible night was over.

  Scowling darkly, he yanked the knife from the belt around his waist. “Have no fear, my lady,” he said. “You’re completely safe with me. If I hadn’t already given you my word, I wouldn’t touch you now for all the gold in England.”

  She should be relieved, but his tone made her feel…offended.

  He frowned as he slit the hem of his shirt, shoved his knife back into his belt and began tearing the cloth into strips with quick, angry motions. “That upsets you, does it?”

  Looking up at her, his gaze traveled over her body, more leisurely than before, then returned to her face. “You’re used to teasing men, I suppose.”

  Blushing despite her angered pride at his insolent scrutiny, she straightened her shoulders and wrapped her arms about her body. “I never teased you. I never did anything to encourage you.”

  “No? I can think of something.”

  She flushed, sure he was referring to that damnable kiss in the mason’s hut. What a mistake that had been! She never should have given in to a moment’s desire. “Stop looking at me like that. Did no one ever tell you that it’s rude to stare?”

  “I can’t help it.” He strode to the pool. “I’m a man.”

  He certainly was.

  She silenced that mischievous inner voice, the one that also kept telling her she should be relieved he’d come to rescue her and thankful for his help, not complaining and worrying about what the future might hold.

  The Scot plunged some of the strips of cloth that had been his shirt into the water. The muscles of his naked back rippled with the effort, and his skin glowed bronze in the light of the torch.

  Savage, indeed. But undeniably masculine. Compelling, as no Norman had ever been to her. Her body warmed as she watched him, in a way that had nothing to do with the fire he’d kindled in the circle of stones.

  She mentally shook herself as he rose and walked back to her. He wasn’t some nobleman wanting to court her; he was the man responsible for putting her in this terrible situation, in this horrible cave.

  Still holding the strips of wet cloth, he grabbed the neck of the wineskin and pulled out the stopper with his teeth, then spit it out beside her, making her jump. He poured some of the liquid on the cloth. “Come the morning, I’ll take you to Lochbarr. There you can eat and get some clothes, and I’ll have someone return you to Du
nkeathe.”

  He made it sound so very simple. But it wasn’t. Not at all. “I can’t go back to Beauxville. Nicholas thinks you and I are lovers.”

  The Scot stopped dribbling the liquid onto the cloth and glared at her. “Tell him we’re not and never were.”

  “He won’t believe me. I was in my shift, after all, and I never called the guards.”

  “You mean that even if you swear to a thing, he won’t believe you?” the Scot demanded.

  She flushed and tried not to be ashamed that her brother would jump to such a swift and hateful conclusion. “Would you believe your sister under such circumstances?”

  “If I had one and she swore to me it was the truth, yes, I would,” he said with complete conviction. His eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason he’d suspect you were entertaining a lover in your bedchamber?”

  She glared right back at him. “I’m an honorable woman,” she declared, which is what she should have said to Nicholas instead of fleeing. “I’ve never invited a man into my bedchamber, and you shouldn’t have presumed to interfere.”

  The Scot said another word that sounded like a curse as he knelt in front of her and took hold of her foot. “I’ll have to remember to ask for permission the next time I stick my neck out to rescue a woman.”

  “Especially if she doesn’t require your help,” Marianne retorted. “Not all women are as weak and helpless as you seem to think. I don’t know what silly girl made you think—”

  His fingers tightened around her ankle.

  “Ouch!”

  As she tried to pull free, his hold loosened a bit, but he didn’t let go. “Those cuts should be cleaned. Now stay still and let me—provided I have your permission, my lady.”

  She didn’t need his insolent sarcasm, or his less than gentle ministrations. She was about to refuse when he put the wet cloth against her foot. She cried out at the stab of pain. Tears started in her eyes.

  “Hurts, I know.” His expression softened a little. A very little. “But it’s necessary.”

  Splaying her hands on the rock behind her, leaning back, she clenched her teeth and vowed not to make another sound, or twitch and wiggle, as he washed her feet. She also wouldn’t think about his strong hand gripping her bare ankle.