Highland Enchantment E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 477

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1999

Beschreibung

Highland Brides #6 Rachel Forbes had never wed, for none compared to Liam, the love of her childhood. But Rachel was high-born and Liam an orphan, so marriage was impossible. Now grown, a chance meeting unites Rachel with the man of her heart, and it seems their destinies are entwined once more, for Liam is her rescuer and she must keep him by her side if she is to survive. Liam is tempted beyond all reason by Rachel. She has the eyes of a saint, the smooth skin of a princess...and lips he cannot resist kissing. He knows he has no name or family to offer-but given the eternity he has endured without her, does he dare risk the consequences of claiming her innocence and promising her a lifetime of love?

Leseprobe

Highland Enchantment

* * *

Lois Greiman

To Justin,

who has given me nothing but happiness since the day he was born.

Copyright © 1999 by Lois Greiman

Prologue

Burn Creag Castle The Year of our Lord 1509

Lightning forked across the inky sky, slamming white light through the tower's arrow slits. Fire winked in the dragon's ruby heart.

"The dragon brooch!" Shona crooned. "You stole it from--"

Thunder crashed like a giant's wicked fist against the tower, shaking the stones around them and startling the three girls who crouched on the floor in the wavering candlelight. The noise rolled slowly away, leaving the air taut in its aftermath.

"You stole it from Liam?" Shona finished breathlessly. She was the youngest of the three, barely nine years old and trembling in her voluminous, white nightgown.

"Aye." Rachel's face was pale, her sassy lips sober this night. "I took it whilst he slept."

"Tis magic," Shona whispered, seeming transfixed by the silver dragon that looked docile but indomitable against her cousin's palm.

"It cannot be magic," Sara corrected, still holding Shona's small hand in her own.

"But Liam said twas," Shona argued.

"Tis the very reason I doubted," Rachel whispered. "But even Liam must tell the truth sometimes, I suppose. And twas the truth he said when he told me of our great grandmother."

"Ourgreat grandmother?" Sara asked. "But how does he know about our ancestry?"

"I cannot say how he knows," Rachel admitted. "But this is the story he spewed. Long ago there lived a lass in this very castle. Her name was Ula. Small she was, like me, with Shona's fiery hair and Sara's kindness. Her mother died when she was but a babe, and she was scared to be left alone at night. Sometimes she would cry out."

"And her father would come and tell her outlandish stories to make her laugh?" Shona suggested.

"Aye." Rachel smiled. "Aye, he would tell her stories. But still she was afraid. So he called on the best mason in the land to craft a magical stone dragon near her room to protect her."

"He must have loved her so," said Sara, her voice small and wistful.

"They built the dragon out on the roof to overlook the land about," Rachel said. "Now the lass felt safe in the comfort of her quarters. But her father worried that something might happen to him and Glen Creag would fall into the hands of the evil sorcerer. Then wee Ula would be left alone. He knew if such was the case she would be forced to leave her home, and he wished for her to be bold enough to make the journey. So he had a silver amulet crafted. A magical brooch, it was, graced with a blood red gem taken from the enchanted waters of Loch Ness."

"Where Nessie lives?"

"Aye. That amulet would protect Ula wherever she went."

"And this is that very amulet?"

"Aye."

"But Rachel," Sara said, "though I do not understand it, you never believe a thing Liam says. Why do you trust him in this?"

 Rachel closed her fingers over the dragon. "Come here," she whispered, and stepped toward the window. The three clustered together, tilting their heads close. Auburn hair sparked against flaxen and sable. "Look out there."

"Where?"

"Tis dark," Shona said, but suddenly a fork of lightning slashed across the sky, soaking the night in silvery light.

"There!"

"A dragon!" Sara gasped. "How did it get there?"

Rachel drew the amulet closer to her chest. "It must have been there for many long years, but you cannot see it from most points, only from here and from that room beside it."

"Ula's room," whispered Shona

"Tis truly magic, then," breathed Sara.

"Aye," said Rachel, "and tonight we will bend its magic to our will."

"We will?" asked Shona.

"Aye. Tomorrow Sara will return to her home. And shortly after, you will go back to Dun Ard. Tis impossible to know when we shall be together again."

The tower room fell silent.

"I will miss you," Sara whispered.

"And I you," Rachel said, reaching out to take her cousin's hand in her own. "You are the sisters of my heart."

"We will see you soon," Shona said. "When the weather warms..."

"One of us will surely be betrothed soon. In fact, Laird MacMurt asked for my hand—" Rachel stopped abruptly, glancing quickly at the barrels stacked along the curved wall. "What was that noise?"

Every girl held her breath and listened.

Behind the barrels Liam did the same, careful to make no sound, though frustration screamed through his soul. Surely the girls could not be promised at such tender ages—bartered off like so many wooly sheep. Not his wee little lassies. Of course, they could take Rachel. He cared little if she married someone as old as a rock and half as handsome. After all, Rachel Forbes was vain and aloof and when she smiled it made his heart...

She was nothing but a silly girl, he reminded himself. She'd believed his ridiculous stories about magic. She'd actually thought him asleep when she'd snatched his amulet! God's balls, she was a terrible thief! Still, he shouldn't have duped the other two bonny lasses.

"It must have been a mouse," Sara said, then turned her gaze back to Rachel. "Promise you'll not move far from us."

"I'm not going to move away," said Shona fiercely. "I will marry Liam and live forever at Dun Ard."

"Liam!" Rachel said. "Not that wild rogue. You will marry a great laird as will we all."

Liam tightened his fists with a quiet snarl.

"The mice are certainly restless," Shona murmured, glancing nervously toward the wall.

"Please do not leave us," Sara whispered again.

"That's why I asked you to come to the tower," Rachel said. "If the dragon is truly magical it can grant us our fondest desires and bind us together. We will each touch the amulet and make a vow to take care of the others."

"But if we're far apart, how will we know when we're needed?" Sara asked.

"The dragon will know," Rachel murmured, her voice a whisper of drama in the stillness.. Liam rolled his eyes.

"The dragon will make certain we are safe or he will send help," she continued.

Sara nodded. Her expression was somber, but even from Liam's vantage point he could see that she shivered as they formed a circle. "We shall all touch it together."

They did so now. Piling their small hands atop the thing with careful timidity, they closed their eyes in unison.

"My fondest desire is to be a great healer like my mother," Rachel began.

Thunder boomed again. Shona jumped.

"I wish to be bold!" she chirped. "Like Father and the Flame."

"I but wish for my own family to care for," Sara said softly. "My own babes, by my own hearth. Nothing more."

Silence fell upon the room.

"Now we must make a solemn vow," Rachel said.

Shona giggled then fell silent.

"Forever and always we shall be friends. Neither time nor distance shall separate us. When one of us is in need another shall come and assist her, for we that are gathered in this room are bound together for eternity."

The world seemed suddenly utterly still.

"Now we must swear to it," whispered Sara.

"I swear," they vowed.

Thunder crashed. The candle was snuffed out, pitching the tower into blackness. Wild energy crackled through the room.

The girls shrieked in unison.

The portal slammed open. Bare feet pattered down the stairs. The room fell silent. Behind the barrels, Liam lay sprawled against the wall, limp as a doll of rags.

Mother of God, what had just happened? It must have been the storm, of course. Just an errant stroke of lightning let loose in the tower, and those silly girls had surely dropped his amulet in their fright.

He should go find it—shift through the rushes and retrieve it—but his limbs felt weak and his mind strangely boggled.

He'd best leave this place. Now! he decided, and launching himself from the floor, fled down the stairs after the girls.

Silence ruled the world. A crescent moon crept from behind a tattered cloud to smile on the earth below. And deep in the rushes, the dragon waited.

Chapter 1

The Year of our Lord 1520

Liam grabbed his balls and let the knife fall. It sliced through the air, skimmed past his chest, and sank, reverberating, into the pungent earth between his feet. The crowd stared in dumbstruck silence for an astonished moment, then lifted their collective gaze from the quivering handle and burst into applause.

"My thanks," Liam said. Bowing, he tossed his wooden juggling balls over his back. He knew without looking that they landed easily, one atop the other in a bag that hung on an oaken branch behind him. "You are too kind. But now I would ask a favor."

He paused as he snatched the long knife from the earth. Twas one of his favorites, a well-crafted steel he'd taken from a too loud Welshman some years back. The Welshman had had a daughter, the daughter had had a roving eye. Enough said. He wasn't the type to kiss and tell. Kiss and lie, yes. Kiss and run. Definitely.

"I would ask for some assistance," he called, striding along the edge of the crowd. His stage was nothing more than a grassy knoll, but the slope of the hill gave him a slight height advantage over the mob below him. Long ago, he had learned to take his advantages where he could.

"After all," he continued, "a man can only amuse himself with his balls for so long." A few snickers sounded from the crowd. He tossed the knife straight up into the air. It spun wildly end over end, only to land safely in his grip moments later.

He liked the feel of a knife in his hand. It was far preferable to a knife in someone else's hand, for that scenario often boded ill for his continued survival. Perhaps other men were jealous of him, he mused.

True, he was not a particularly brawny fellow, and merry old England had seen more elegant men, but he had certain traits women seemed to find appealing.

Even now a bonny lass smiled at him from the center of the crowd. He smiled back. Evening was fast approaching on market day in the village of Rainich. A fair-sized crowd had gathered to watch him perform, but it was the smiling woman that drew his attention. She was a plump maid, showing dimples and enough cleavage to make a man start cataloging his own attributes in the hopes of gaining some attention. If he wasn't mistaken, she'd been flirting with him for the better part of his act. And if there was one thing he was never wrong about, it was the fine art of flirting.

Liam flipped the knife over his shoulder and caught it casually behind his back. "A man cannot do everything with his own two hands. Eventually he needs a partner," he said, allowing a shadow of a grin and making certain his gaze didn't dwell too long where it shouldn't. Just because the maid was a flirt, did not mean she was attending his performance without an escort. He'd learned that lesson the painful way. "Is there anyone present willing to assist me?"

There were murmurs among the crowd.

"Oh, come now. Surely you are not afraid to consort with the likes of me, even if I am an Irishman." He burred the words as he paced side to side, his back perfectly straight. With each step, his large, horsehide sporran swung, his cape swirled, and his plaid swished against his bare thighs. The advantages to wearing a plaid in England were twofold. One, it drew attention to himself. And as a performer, that was imperative. Two, it fascinated women, and he was not one to disallow further education, even if it involved nothing more than the age-old question of undergarments.

Two adolescent boys had been robustly jostling each other throughout his entire routine, and were now working up their courage to volunteer, but they were not quite the sort of assistant Liam had in mind. "I assure you, tis quite safe," he said. "My assistants are never wounded. Well, not badly.... At the least, they've never lost any noticeable body parts." The boys' mouths fell open, and they stepped back in rapid unison.

Liam grinned and let his gaze rest momentarily on the woman with the dimples. She shrugged. The amount of bosom forced into sight made the blood rush from his head.

"I could help you," she called out.

Liam's grin expanded. "Come forth," he said, and she did, sashaying through the crowd with a wiggle and a bounce. Snapping his hand over his shoulder, Liam sent the knife thwapping into the tree behind him. Then, reaching out, he took her hand to help her ascend the hill. "And what be your name, lass?"

"Mairi," she said, tilting her head at him.

"A bonny name." He bowed over her hand. "Almost as bonny as its mistress. And do you live here in the village?"

"Nay, I've come today to sell pigs with my husband and his brothers."

"Ahh." Liam straightened, one hand behind his back, his expression disappointed. "You have a... Pig"

The crowd laughed. He shrugged, nonplussed.

"You must have made a goodly sum selling your swine."

She gave him a quizzical look, and he drew his hand from hers to display the coin she apparently had given him.

"Still," he said. "I cannot accept this."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Here, I insist. You must take it back." Pressing the coin firmly into her palm, he folded her plump fingers over it, then let his jaw drop and proceeded to pull the same coin from her ear.

He set it back into her hand. It came out her nose, from behind her neck, out the bottom of her sleeve. He could barely move fast enough to keep up with the rain of money, and now the crowd was howling.

Finally, he placed the coin decisively back into her hand then turned to the crowd to bow. But just as he was about to do so, he did a double take. Pivoting back toward the maid, he stared in astonishment, for the large copper was pressed warm and firm between her bounteous breasts.

Her gaze followed his own but instead of shocked dismay, she grinned lasciviously as she spied the coin.

Liam cleared his throat and dramatically wiped his brow. "Mayhap you'd best retrieve that one yourself, lass," he said.

But she canted her head at him, her expression sly. "And why is that, Sir? I thought surely you had the... balls for it."

Far be it from him to pass up such an opportunity, if the lass was willing. Shrugging, he reached forward.

A bellow of outrage interrupted Liam's intent. He spun toward the noise, but he was already too late. A fist slammed into his ear. He careened sideways and hit the ground like a pounded stake, but Liam the Irishman was no babe in the woods. With the lithe fluidity of one who had angered husbands before, he rolled sideways, leapt to his feet, and bolted for cover. But an arm reached out from nowhere.

"You'll not mess with my brother's wife!" someone yelled.

Colors exploded in Liam's head, and from there on things only got worse.

There were shrieks and screams and fists like battering rams.

Bodies as big as small fortresses loomed over him, swinging wildly as he crouched, trying to protect himself. He grunted in pain and glanced up just long enough to see the drink-reddened faces of four angry brothers.

"I meant no offence," he rasped.

But the four were far beyond listening.

Bending his arm, Liam shielded his face. A fist glanced off his elbow, shooting his own hand toward the man's belt. He had only a moment to take advantage of that position before the next blow caught him in the belly, spilling him onto the grass. Darting his hand beneath his cape, he hid away the purloined pouch then curled into a ball to protect his vitals... and his privates. After all, a man had to preserve his best qualities.

A booted foot caught him in the back. He grunted in agony and fought for lucidness, but darkness was descending. From somewhere in another dimension he heard a woman ordering them to halt. So plump Mairi cared for him a little, he thought hazily and slid toward oblivion. But in that instant, oblivion drew back a hair. He lay still and realized with dim relief that no new pains were being vented on his body.

Instead, a gentle hand touched his shoulder. A soothing voice reached his ears.

He concentrated on the softness of it, on the wonderful cessation of violence.

"Are you all right?" A woman's voice, melodious and sweet. So the lovely Mairi had finally gained control of her husband.

"Aye. I am well." His own voice sounded less than melodious, rather resembling the scrunch of metal wheels on gravel, while every inch of him ached with screaming intensity. It seemed as good a reason as any to come up with a likely insult. "They hit like babes."

"A babe am I?" someone roared. From the edge of his swimming eyesight, Liam saw a mountain of a man lunge forward.

But in an instant a fellow in a blue doublet intercepted him. The husband crumpled like a pile of dry chaff. A woman screamed then launched from the crowd to crouch by the fallen man. It was Mairi.

If Liam weren't quite so battered, he might wonder how she could be in two places at once. But as it was, he only accepted the situation.

"What have you done?" Mairi shrieked, her expression tortured as she turned toward Liam.

"Get them out of here." Twas the woman who crouched beside him that gave the order. The woman whose voice, Liam noticed was not as high-pitched, nor as coarse as that of the bonny Mairi. A voice that spoke with authority and confidence. A voice that tugged at some distant memories that he could not quite...

No! It couldn't be. Not here. Not hundreds of miles from her homeland, logic insisted.

Still, logic seemed a dim thing, whereas her presence seemed very real.

He turned to her slowly, but there was really no need for him to see her face. He already knew it was she. Knew it by the feel of the air around him, knew by the electrical jolt he could now distinguish from his other pains.

Still, he couldn't very well simply lie there and pretend she hadn't just saved his life. Twould be rather like refusing to accept the end of the world. So he twisted about slightly, gazed at her through the blood and hair that smeared his vision and said, "I wasn't expecting you this far to the south, Rachel. Is someone ill?"

He watched her eyes widen in surprise. They were fascinating eyes. Otherworldly eyes. And if he felt like being fair, he could understand why, long ago, she had been dubbed the Lady Saint.

Liam was silent as he waited with a certain amount of desperation for the saintly expression to fade. He was not disappointed. Saintliness fled; disapproval set in. He could tell by the slight stiffening of her back, the narrowing of her eyes.

"I would ask what you're doing here, Liam, but the truth seems quite apparent," she said.

"I'll kill 'im! I'll kill 'im!" the husband bellowed.

"I am but spreading peace and goodwill as is my wont," Liam said. He attempted, for one mind-spinning second, to sit up then decided he was quite comfortable where he was.

"Spreading your seed like dust in the wind more like," she countered.

He tried a grin and found to his everlasting gratification and not unwarranted surprise that his face didn't split in two with the effort. "We cannot all be saints, Rachel," he said.

She snorted. The sound wasn't quite as ladylike as her dress and demeanor suggested and prompted a thousand hot memories in Liam's battered head.

"Do you think you could at least try for sanity?" she asked.

"Are you suggesting I'm insane?"

"I'll tear his heart from his chest!" came a distant roar.

"Tell me, Liam, couldn't you have found a smaller man whose wife you might proposition? Or one with fewer brothers, at the least?"

"I didn't proposition her." Not yet, he thought.

"Not yet," she said.

He scowled at her. Twas said that Rachel Forbes had a nasty habit of mucking about in people's brains. He'd never believed a word of it. Still, she did at times give him an eerie feeling. It was one of the many things he'd never liked about her. Dabbing at his lip with the back of his hand, he managed to sit up.

"She wasn't my type," he said.

"Truly?" She gave him a look of surprise, the raising of ebony brows beneath her immaculate white coif. "It looked as if she was breathing to me. And not grotesquely fat."

He tried another grin. It hurt like hell. "Not fat at all," he corrected and rose valiantly to his feet. Unfortunately, the world tilted strangely with the movement, and the earth pitched beneath him like a recalcitrant steed. His knees buckled without warning.

Rachel reached out with instinctual speed, and suddenly her arms were around him.

"Liam!" Her voice was raspy in his ear as she struggled to keep him upright, and in that moment he made the dreadful mistake of glancing at her lips. Damn it all. She may have the eyes of a saint and the skin of a princess, but her lips were the devil's own.

A hundred unwanted feelings washed through him, feelings of need and desire so painful it all but stopped his heart. But reality came quickly, so he pressed more firmly into her and said, "Why, Rachel, I didn't think you cared."

"You've always been wiser than you look," she said, her mouth hardening. "Davin." Her tone was chill as she pulled away her support and turned to a huge blue-garbed fellow who hovered nearby. "Take the Irishman to an inn. See that he has a decent meal and a room for the night."

"I'll rip his balls off!" The threat was distant, but still quite impressive.

"I think the woman's husband may be holding a grudge," Davin said. Liam watched his face for some sign of sarcasm, but his Scandinavian features were no more expressive than a mason's trowel.

"What are you suggesting?" Rachel asked.

"You wish the Irishman to survive the night?"

She remained silent for a moment, her devil's mouth pursed. "My family is rather fond of him."

"Then we'd best see him beyond the husband's reach," Davin suggested.

Rachel scowled, first at her guard then at Liam.

"Very well." Her concession was grudging. "Help him gather his things and see him mounted. But do not let him tarry. We've no time to squander on the likes of him."

Evening lay about them in a dense sheet of gray. Night prodded the gloaming aside, but night could not come soon enough for Liam, for he felt as if he'd been pounded with a battering ram then tumbled down the road in a wine barrel.

He'd insisted that he would be fine if left in Rainich, but Rachel had been determined to torture him with this ride. And Davin, it seemed, was not the sort to listen to an Irishman's arguments when his mistress' mind was made up.

Beneath him, his gelding stumbled for the fifth time.

"God's balls, horse," Liam gritted. "I don't care if I did pay five times your value. Once more, and I'll trade your hide for a poor pair of boots."

Bocan stumbled again. Liam stifled a groan.

"There's a place just ahead, Lady," Davin reported, riding back to Rachel's side. The company of twelve or so blue-clad soldiers stopped to listen. "Water and forage for the horses. Twill be easily guarded."

"Very well. Set up camp."

Dropping his head, Bocan spread his legs and shook himself violently.

Liam grabbed for the pommel and tried to remain lucid as spasms of pain rolled over him. The gelding straightened, bobbed his elegant head, and snorted. Liam considered passing out.

"But first," Rachel said, never turning her gaze from Davin, "you'd best help the Irishman from his steed."

"You're too kind," Liam mumbled.

"Tis a well-known fact," Rachel agreed.

Davin dismounted and crossed the distance that separated them. Liam dragged one leg over the cantle of his saddle, determined to show some fortitude, but just as he was about to step off, the Norseman grabbed him by the back of the tunic and hauled him down. Pain pounded like running hooves across Liam's trammeled body, but he refused to faint.

Davin, seemingly oblivious to Liam's gallant battle, dragged him across the grass.

Pain kicked up in earnest.

"Will this do, my lady?" asked the huge Norseman.

"That will be fine."

With a nod, Davin loosened his grip and tumbled his cargo to the earth.

"Holy bones!" Liam gasped, grasping for consciousness as pain slammed through him. "Why not just have him take a club to me?"

"I considered it," Rachel said. She stood only a few yards away and turned her mare over to one of her men. "But I thought this might be more satisfying."

Liam groaned as he shifted to a sitting position. "Prefer a slow death, do you, Rachel?"

"I doubt you're going to die."

"You might be surprised."

"I rarely am," she said, stepping toward him.

He snorted and forced his gaze away.

"Where does it hurt?"

Liam jerked his attention back to her with a start. "Nay! You'll not use your witchy potions on me."

"Where do you hurt?" she asked again.

She had the perfect diction afforded her by a fine education. Maybe it was that education that made her so difficult, Liam thought. But no, she'd been a pain in the ass since the day he'd met her over a decade earlier. Even now he could remember how she had looked—with her dark hair bound up in scarlet ribbons and her face so...

Well, she'd always had that damned angelic face, he thought, jerking his musings to a halt. It was that face that fooled men every time. Even the post-headed Davin probably considered himself her conquering hero, when the truth was, the lady needed no hero at all. She could slice an adversary to shreds with nothing more than the sharp edge of her tongue, and he had the scars to prove it.

"Does your head hurt?" she asked, crouching down beside him.

He scowled at her. "I've been trounced by four drunken brothers, jostled down the road, and tumbled onto the grass like a sack of moldy meal. Do you think my head might hurt?"

"I think if you cannot bear the pain, you shouldn't do the deed," she said.

"They deserved it," he countered, thinking of the coins he'd stolen from the brother's pouch and hidden in his own oversized sporran.

"Deserved what?"

He realized suddenly that he'd spoken too quickly and shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "They deserve whatever they get."

"What did you do, Liam?" she asked, her tone suspicious and more than a little weary, as if she were his long-suffering mother.

"Me?" He gestured toward his chest, hoping he looked affronted. "Lest you forget, I am the one injured here. I did nothing but perform a wee bit of simple sleight of hand for their entertainment."

Her expression didn't change a whit.

"I am the one wounded," Liam insisted, and wondered if it were too late for him to make a name for himself on the stage. Surely he had the talent. "How could you of all people think I would do something dishonest?"

She stared at him with tired boredom.

"I no longer steal," he said, then grinned. "Unless someone wrongs me... or someone I know... or I someone—"

"Lie back," she interrupted irritably. "I'll fetch my things."

He watched her go and told himself that he didn't want her to fetch her things. He didn't want her tending him, didn't want her near him. Through the trunks of the surrounding trees, he could see the flicker of a fire and the bustle of men as they erected tents and saw to the horses.

"You'll need to move."

Liam jerked around at the sound of her voice. The moon had come out. It shone on her face, highlighting the heavenly brilliance of her eyes, shadowing the delicate lawn of her cheeks like the loving stroke of an artist's brush.

"What?" he asked, and slammed a lid on those; foolish poetic words that reared their ugly heads in his mind. The blows to his noggin must have rattled his thinking. He was hardly the poetic type.

"You'll have to move to the fire if I am to tend your wounds."

"You've no need to bother," he said. "I am quite whole."

He could predict her scowl even before it began, even before her brows lowered and her ungodly lips puckered into sassy disapproval. Lifting the lavender skirt of her gown, she knelt down beside him. "Mayhap you think I have dragged you out here for the pleasure of your company. But I assure you, Liam, I have not. I've no time to waste on your foolishness. So let us see this done."

"In a hurry to get somewhere, Rachel?" he asked.

"Aye. I am," she said, offering no more as she touched his brow. "Does that hurt?"

"Of course it hurts," he snapped. "Where are you going in such a rush?"

"Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?" She moved her fingers upward, skimming them through his hair. A thousand unacceptable feelings shivered through him. He stifled a moan and kept his eyes wide open lest she realize the ecstasy of her touch.

"Shouldn't you have worried about me before?" he asked, managing a grimace.

She scowled, and for a moment he wondered if he saw the edge of guilt in her expression. That mystery aided in his attempt to shove away the raw emotions caused by the touch of her fingertips. She pulled her hand away. He remembered to breathe.

It was clear by her expression that she thought she should have seen to his wounds earlier, but something had made her push on until nightfall. That wasn't like the Rachel he'd known since adolescence She was a healer first and foremost. All else was secondary.

"Why the rush?" he asked. "Is there a babe somewhere that refuses to be birthed without your assistance?"

"Is your vision impaired?"

"Nay," he answered. "Tis not your cousin's babe that waits to be born is it? Shona's? Sara's?"

"My cousins are fine." Her hand neared again. He caught his breath, and then she was touching him again, skimming her fingers light as moondust along the edge of his jaw and downward. Poetry danced like wicked sirens in his mind. "You're lucky. Your face is mostly unscathed. No broken bones there."

"I'm an entertainer." It was difficult to speech, more difficult still to act nonchalant. "I must protect my best assets. At least my best visible assets." He forced a grin. "Else how will I entice those buxom young maids to perform with me? Ouch! God's balls, Rachel!" he scolded, covering his chest with his hand. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"There's blood seeping through your tunic."

"I noticed," he said irritably.

"I thought perhaps you hadn't. There was a buxom maid involved," she said, settling back on her heels.

"I but hope it didn't break her heart that I left so abruptly."

"Last I saw of her, she was hanging on her husband's arm, admiring him for the manly way he trounced you."

"More than probably she's scared of him."

"And you're more than probably a fool!" she countered. They glared at each other for a moment then she exhaled deeply and glanced away. "You'll have to remove your tunic."

"I—" he began, but Rachel interrupted.

"Is my water boiling, Davin?"

"Aye, my lady."

Liam refused to contemplate how she knew the huge soldier was approaching from behind her.

"Help me get the Irishman to the fire," she said. "Then you may find your pallet."

"But..."

She glanced up at the huge warrior. "Liam has long been a friend of my clan. I assure you, I am quite safe."

With a brief nod, Davin bent over Liam. His hands closed like meat hooks around his burden's arms and Liam was wrenched to his feet. The distance to the fire was short. It only seemed as grueling as a journey to the Holy Land. But eventually he was dropped in front of the fire like so much ruined millet.

"You are certain—" Davin began.

"I will be safe," Rachel assured him. "And I need you rested. Go. Find your bed."

Liam watched the huge guard turn, watched his blond head duck as he disappeared into a nearby tent.

"So what hole did this Davin crawl from?" he asked.

"You needn't concern yourself," Rachel said, and wrapping her hand in a scrap of woolen cloth, lifted a pot from the fire. "It seems you have enough to worry on."

"Has some fat earl taken ill? Is Davin his man?"

She poured the water into a pewter mug, then dipped her hand into a huge leather satchel and brought out a doeskin bag. Pulling out a few crispy leaves, she dropped them into the cup, swirled the contents about and set it aside.

"Has Lord Haldane relapsed?" Liam asked, watching her closely.

"When I left the duke he was on the mend," she said, and poured half the remaining water into a wooden bowl. Adding a dram of oil from a tiny jar, she dunked a folded cloth into the bowl and lifted it toward his face.

So she had traveled to London to tend the duke. He had wondered why she was so far from home. "On the mend?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "You traveled all the way to London to see the duke healed, then left before he was completely recovered?"

She said nothing.

"Tis not like you."

She touched the cloth to his lip. It stung, but not unbearably.

"I believe myself far beyond the point where I've a need to explain my actions to you, Liam," she said.

So she was hiding something. But why? In truth, the Lady Saint's actions were rarely anything but saintly, except where he was concerned. Why now would she be keeping secrets? he wondered. But there seemed little point in asking her outright, for it had been a long while since she felt inclined to grant him any favors.

"Ahh." He watched her eyes closely in the hopes of intercepting some unspoken thought as he goaded her. "So you go to meet a lover? A private tryst?"

She dunked the cloth into the water, wrung it out then returned it to his face, where she wiped at the dried blood on his chin.

"Does your father know?" he asked.

Smoothing the rag over his cheek once, she returned it to the bowl.

"Remove your tunic, Liam," she ordered dryly.

He gave her his best shocked expression. "What would your beloved say?"

She lifted her peeved expression to him in an instant. "He would say, I should have left you to the fat-chested slut's husband and his mutton- headed brothers."

Liam stared at her for a moment then laughed with almost painful relief, for she was obviously just as naive as ever. The horrid images of her in another man's arms faded slowly. "You still know little of men, Rachel. That's not what a lover would say atall. He would be jealous. He would ask what you saw in the Irishman that made you take him under your wing. Mayhap he would have even heard of my attraction for women and be doubly jealous. Therefore I'll have to assume there is no lover. And too..."—he shrugged—"you're not the sort."

Removing several rolls of bandages from her bag, she set them beside her before returning her gaze to his. "And pray, Liam, in your wise estimation, what sort am I?"

Her face, ivory pale and princess perfect, seemed little changed from the moment he had first met her in her father's castle.

"You're the marrying sort," he murmured.

Her gaze, sharp as cut amethyst, remained on his for a fraction of an instant then flitted downward as her fingers mixed some evil concoction. "So I am told repeatedly."

The tension that had just eased in his gut, knotted up a hundredfold as the image of her naked appeared again. Naked and ecstatic, writhing in another man's arms, her wicked lips parted as she crooned an unknown name. "By whom?" he asked, forcing the question.

"The man I am to marry," she said.

Chapter 2

"You are promised to be wed?" Liam asked. His tone, he was happy to note, was casual, but his gut had twisted into something akin to a cruel sailor's knot.

She said nothing, her expression unreadable, her fingers quick.

"Rachel," he said, forcing out the word a little too sharply.

"I am no blushing maid." She glanced quickly up. "I am five and twenty years old. Tis well past time I am wed."

Liam clenched his teeth and considered trying a smile, but he was a man who well knew his limitations, and a smile was, just now, far beyond those boundaries. The knot tightened.

"Who?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Tis none of your affair."

Nay. It was not. It was not.But... God's balls! His gut hurt. He jerked to his feet, and reveled momentarily in the bracing pain.

"Someone I know?" he asked.

"Tis difficult to say."

"So that is where you go in such haste," he said, watching her face. "And the hulk? This Davin. He is your... betrothed's man?"

She raised her chin. "I suppose you would not believe me if I said Davin is the one I am to wed."

She had always had a biting sense of humor when the mood suited her. But making him believe she would settle for someone whose station was little above his own was cruel beyond words. Though he hoped with all his misguided soul that she did not know it.

"I always imagined you with someone different," he said with forced civility.

"Oh?"

"Aye. Someone who could breathe and talk at the same time," he said.

"And this from a thief who would wear a plaid in Rainich."

"And why should I not?" he asked.

"Because twill give them only one more reason to trounce you, and you very well know it," she snapped.

Ah, yes. Maybe that was the third reason to wear a plaid in England. But there were decided advantages to remembering one's place in life. He pulled his gaze from her face.

"And that sporran," she added, scowling at the pouch strapped to his waist. Made of fine hide and decorated with long tassels of black horsehair, it was an ostentatious Gaelic display that hung nearly to his knees. "Must you always make a spectacle of yourself, Liam? Must you always wear the brightest plaid, the biggest sporran? Have you stolen so much coin that you need more space to tote it about?"

"You being Scots yourself and you don't know the true purpose of the sporran? Tis not the wealth it is there to hide, tis the wick." She had the tendency to bring out the devil in him, though her cousin, Shona, had always said it was not necessarily a difficult task. "And hence..."—he swept his hand downward to display his sporran's unusual proportions and grinned—"its ponderous size."

She stared at him, her eyes expressionless. "Take off your tunic," she ordered.

Wasn't she even shocked by his language? She was a lady! Naive, soft, delicate. And experienced? The possibility sent tiny shards of pain ripping through him. "I know you are tempted, lass," he said, scowling at her. "But I assure you, I do not need..." he began.

She stepped forward, her lips pursed, her movements quick as they touched the strip of leather that laced up his tunic at the neck. Her fingers brushed his throat. Liam gritted his teeth against the slash of feelings that sliced him from neck to groin. "I'll do it," he said and swept her hands aside.

She stepped slowly back. Forcing his fingers to do his bidding, Liam unfastened his pewter brooch and pulled the ends of the shirt from beneath his plaid. Shards of pain splintering off in every direction.

"Lift your arms." It was an order, given from a lady to a subject.

If he had the wits of a turnip, he would refuse, but she was too close for him to muster any manly fortitude.

He lifted his arms with an effort. Grasping the hem of his tunic, she eased it upward. Her knuckles skimmed his ribs, his chest then paused. Her gaze, bright as liquid fire, caught his. Memories of forbidden dreams leapt in Liam's mind. Dreams of creamy skin, shivery caresses, the sigh of his name from her sweet lips.

But reality was only a moment behind. Crossing his arms against his chest, he knocked her hands aside, grabbed the tunic and tore it over his head, then yanked his arms down to a crashing cord of satisfying pain.

She had already moved away to crouch by the fire.

Silence settled in. His gut loosened enough to allow him to breathe.

"Surely your..." For a moment he could find no acceptable words to call the man she apparently intended to marry, but he reprimanded himself as a thousand kinds of fool and continued. "Surely your lover would take offense if he knew of this."

"Of what?"

"Of..."Liam gestured breathlessly toward his own naked chest, but she shrugged after the briefest glance, as if there was nothing there of even the mildest interest. But it had not always been such. God, no. He could remember a time... He shut off the thoughts in wild panic. "Take offense to this," he said hoarsely. "You and I."

"My laird knows I am called to heal. He doesn't resent that."

"Truly?" He snorted. "How gallant of him."

"Aye."

"Tis not like the English to be so noble."

"I did not say he was English. Sit down."

He remained as he was. "A lowlander then. I wouldn't have thought your father would allow it."

"Sit," she said again. "I've no wish to see you faint standing up."

"Don't you?"

She glanced up finally, her expression peeved. "You mistake me for the lass I once was," she said, and lifted a mug toward him. "Drink this."

He ignored her order. "So you have changed since you last covered my pallet in nettles?"

She laughed. The sound was short and quick. But did he imagine a singing note of tension. "Twas over a decade ago that I visited such revenge on you, Liam. I had all but forgotten."

"I have not. And though you may think me a dolt, I am hardly such a fool as to trust your evil concoction."

"Then I shall have Davin hold you still while I pour it down your throat."

He snorted. "As charming as ever, I see," he said, and sat down, for if the truth be told, he just might faint. And that the saintly Rachel would never forget. "Does the good earl know of your true temperament?"

"I did not say he was an earl," she said, and prodded the mug into his hand. "Drink it all at once."

Liam gazed into the potion. "A bit of powdered bat wing?"

"Saliva from a black adder's tongue."

He glanced up warily, but she merely put a finger beneath the bottom, pressing it firmly toward his lips. "Tis naught but a bit of white willow and meadowsweet. Truly, Liam, I've never known you to be so gullible."

He scowled. The brew smelled distasteful at best. "And what of your marquess? I suppose he is never fooled by your wit?"

"I know no marquess," she said, and tipped the contents of the mug onto his lips.

Liam shivered as it coursed past his taste buds and down his throat. Finally, the mug empty, he said, "You must not have tried to mend his wounds yet, if he still plans to marry you."

"He's not been so foolish as to be injured," she said, and touched her cloth to the wound on his chest.

His muscles recoiled as she washed away the blood.

"A reopened wound?" she asked.

"Aye." It was all he could manage for a moment. But she soon dropped the rag back into the water, letting him breathe again.

"So your beloved is no great fighter," he deduced after a moment.

The woods were silent for a moment, then, "Why do you want to know, Liam?" she asked softly.

"Simple curiosity." He managed a shrug. "Naught else."

"If I tell you of him will you cease your badgering?"

He nodded.

"Laird Dunlock resides some leagues north of here. He is not a young man, nor is he particularly wealthy. But he is a fine man—kind and wise. It has been some years since he asked for my hand." She touched his chest to smooth ointment carefully onto his wound.

"And you agreed?" Liam could not quite manage to raise his voice above a whisper.

"Why should I not?"

Her fingers were feather-soft against his skin, tantalizing him, reminding him of a thousand moments spent in her company.

"No reason," he said.

She nodded as she reached for a bandage. Placing the end over his wound, she leaned forward to wind it about his chest. The scent of her filled his head, conjuring a host of vintage images of her, laughing with her cousins as they practiced their silly feats of horsemanship, somber as she held an ailing babe against her breast.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder, his arm, the tensed muscles of his chest. Shivers coursed through him. He willed himself to remain still beneath her touch.

"No reason you should not marry," he repeated.

She glanced up, their faces inches apart. "Tis so good to know I have your approval, Liam," she said. Settling back, she took hold of his arm. There was a scratch along his biceps, but it was not deep. "I would stitch this, but I won't be here to remove the sutures, and I cannot trust you to see to it properly."

"So I am not invited to your betrothed's holdings?"

"Nay." She didn't glance up as she worked. "You're not."

"Tis not like you to be so selfish, Rachel."

She tied off the bandage.

Their gazes met. A thousand truths raced through his mind. A thousand pleas. A thousand apologies. But regardless of everything, she was still the haughty daughter of a Highland laird, and he was still a bastard.

"Is there anything else I should see to?" Her voice was throaty, as it would sound in the throes of passion, with her clever hands pressed against the heat of his flesh, and her...

"Aye, there is," he rasped, grappling to get a grip on his emotions, to gain some modicum of control. "But your betrothed might well be offended if I showed you."

She rose swiftly and turned away. Liam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remain where he was, but there was little hope of that.

He was on his feet in a moment, following her, moving away from the shifting firelight.

At the edge of the river that rushed by them, she knelt to wash her hands then remained there for a moment before she rose and looked across the wide burn.

"I'll not delay you if you feel the need to leave us this night," she said, not turning toward him.

"I thought it was your duty as a healer to insist that I rest and mend. Why the hurry to see me gone?"

She turned now, her face shadowed and limned by the moonlight. "As you said, my laird might well be jealous. I'd hate to see him challenge you simply because you had the poor sense to proposition a pig-farmer's wife and get yourself wounded."

"Dare I hope you're worried for me?" he asked, hoping his tone evidenced some sarcasm.

"Though I don't understand it, my mother is rather fond of you. Twould be an onerous task to tell her that you've been sliced into a thousand ribbons by my own betrothed."

"So he is an accomplished swordsman?"

"Not particularly," she said. "But I've seen your talents in that arena."

"Some men's wit is sharper than any blade," he said.

"Aye, I saw how cleverly you fought off the husband and his brothers."

He managed a shrug. "I cannot help it if maids throw themselves at me."

"And I cannot help it if you get yourself killed because of your own wandering eye," she snapped, and turned away to walk along the shore.

Liam told himself a thousand times that he should go back to camp, collect his haughty gelding, and leave.

In a moment he had caught up to her.

"So this Dunlock," he began. "He has been wed before?"

"Tis none of your concern."

"I just wonder."

She opened her mouth as if to berate him but finally nodded. "Aye, he was widowed some years ago."

"A short mourning," he said.

"What?"

"He asked for your hand some years ago," he said. "Tis unseemly that he should not have spent some time to mourn his wife."

"Tis hardly your place to judge others' morals, Liam," she said, turning on him.

"I simply worry for your well being and—"

"You don't worry for me atall," she countered hotly. "You simply torment me. And why, I wonder. Why do you insist on bedeviling me?"

Because she made him spout miserable poetry in his mind, made him fell sleepless and hot and discontented. Made him think of a hundred places he would like to kiss, to caress. But he was not such a fool as to tell her. So he opened his mouth to lie, but in that moment a flash of something caught his eye.

He turned toward it, thinking for a moment that it was nothing but the gleam of errant moonlight on the waves. But in an instant he caught his breath.

"God's balls," he whispered.

"What is it?"

Liam wrenched his gaze from the shore. "Tis nothing."

She scowled at him then turned her attention slowly back toward the swollen river. "What..." she began, but her words stopped and she gasped softly as she stared at the silver glimmer beneath the hustling waves.

"Tis nothing," Liam rasped again, but she was already pacing toward it. He dashed after her and grabbed her arm just at the water's edge. "Rachel!"

"What?" They were inches apart, face to face.

Fear gripped him, fear as hard and sharp as a Scotsman's claymore. "Don't touch it."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her mouth rounded as she turned back toward the river. "Do not touch what? What is it?"

"Tis—tis a bad omen," he stuttered.

She stared at him, at the glimmer beneath the waves, at him, and then she laughed and snatched her arm from his grasp.

"Truly, Liam? A bad omen?" she said, and pulling up her sleeve, reached into the water.

The waves seemed to turn to liquid silver for a moment, and then the glimmer was resting in her hand. Even in the darkness, even the first moment he saw it, he knew what it was. Knew in his heart. In his gut. In his soul, if he still had one.

"Dragonheart!" Rachel whispered.

Liam squeezed his eyes closed. Fear turned to terror.

"Liam, tis Dragonheart," she said, amazement in her voice. "But..." She shook her head and skimmed a finger over the dragon's ruby breast. "It cannot be. Many months ago James lost it in Beith Burn. However would it come here?"

He said nothing. The knot in his gut had been stretched tight, as if pulled hard by battling warriors.

Rachel turned toward him. "Mayhap it washed downriver. It could be that the Beith connects with this burn somewhere," she said and scowled. "Are you not surprised to see it?"

He wished he could be. Wished it with everything in him. But he knew too much for that, had spent too many years learning the truth.

"Liam," she said, canting her head at him. "Are you not happy to see it? There was a time you would not be parted from it."

"Twas a long time ago," he intoned.

"It seems to have returned to you," she said, and lifted the amulet toward him.

"Tis not for me!" he snapped and jerked back a pace.

She stared at him, her eyes as eerie as the dragon's inexplicable presence. "You're not afraid of a wee bit of metal and stone. Are you, Liam?"

"Nay," he said, but he failed to pull his gaze from it.

"Could it be you've come to believe your own wild tales?"

Wild tales! If only they were. In fact, he had once thought the stories he spewed were just that. There were, it turned out, few things more frightening than learning one's lies were nothing more than misbegotten truths.

"Its presence here is strange. But I'm certain there's an explanation. Still, if it bothers you I can surely return it to the water," she said, and drew her hand back as if to toss it into the river.

"Nay!" he rasped, and leapt forward. But she had already stopped the movement of her arm and was staring at him. "Nay,” he repeated, and cleared his throat, feeling foolish.

True, the dragon amulet had been crafted long ago by a man known for his mystical powers, and true, strange things happened when it was near. But telling Rachel that he was certain it had come to them under its own power was somehow beyond his ability.

"I don't think it would be wise to be rid of it," he said instead.

"And why might that be?" There was something in her voice. Was it laughter? he wondered, and said nothing.

"Why shouldn't I be rid of it?" she asked.

He gritted his teeth and remained silent. She already thought him a fool, why prove her point?

Finally, with a shrug, she drew her hand back again as if to toss it.

"It has come for you!" he blurted.

Even in the darkness he could see the surprise on her face. Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn't been that.

"And it knew I would be passing by this way? It knew and thus made certain it was in my path?"

No. He had learned too much to believe there was luck involved in this. Dragonheart had called Rachel to him. But he was hardly prepared to tell her that. "Mayhap," he said instead.

For a moment she seemed shocked beyond words, then, "Mayhap it knew you would be passing this way. Mayhap it was you it wanted to be with."

"Nay. It prefers the lassies."

She laughed aloud. "If I did not know you so well, I would almost think you believe it, Liam."

He would give a king's ransom not to believe it, but there was no hope of that. Rachel's cousin, Sara, had possessed the amulet for a while. She had lost it, and some months later it had been found by Shona, far from the place where it had disappeared. And during the time that the women held it, there had been nothing but tribulation. Nothing but hardship, terror and death.

Liam shivered at the thought and said nothing.

"If it is clever enough to find me, it must also be clever enough to know I have no time for this," Rachel said. "I must be on my way with the first light tomorrow, and you..." She paused. "You shall return to propositioning other men's—"

"Nay!" He spoke without thinking, the denial torn from his lips.

"What?"

"I will not be leaving," he said. "I'll be traveling with you."

Chapter 3