Highland Jewel E-Book

Lois Greiman

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

Seitenzahl: 490

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1994

Beschreibung

"Greiman's writing is warm, witty and gently wise." --New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn To bring a generations-old feud to an end, the gallant and sexy warrior, Laird of Forbes must return the long-lost daughter of his now dying enemy to Scottish soil. But what if the young child perished in infancy 17 years ago and there is, sadly, no daughter to return? A warrior improvises…and finds a beautiful imposter to bring back to his native land. The beautiful Rose Gunther has decided to be neither impressed, nor scared by the arrogant Scotsman who whisks her away from her English convent. But try to resist her attraction to the powerful Leith she may, she can't deny how utterly helpless she is in resisting his sensuous touch…

Leseprobe

Highland Jewel

Lois Greiman

Copyright © 1994 by Lois Greiman

To the Dream Team—

Cary, Jane, Nellie, Nora, Sharon, and Susan,

who help me celebrate the joys,

mourn the disappointments,

Chapter 1

The Year of Our Lord 1491 St. Mary's Abbey, England

The grave marker was hewn from quarried stone. Arched at the center, it was slightly tilted and infested with gray-green lichen that shadowed its surface like the untended beard on a warrior's craggy face.

The tombstone beside it showed little variance from the first and although Leith Forbes had no need to read the inscription, he did so nevertheless, feeling a dull ache of pain at the knowledge of the child's passing.

Touching the etched words for a moment, he tightened his jaw before expelling his breath and settling back onto his heels. He'd traveled a long and winding course to come to this spot, had left his kinsmen and home for a quest that granted no more than a view of this weathered tombstone and a sympathetic word from a holy woman.

Leith clenched his hands about the small bundle of tartan the abbess had given him.

"For you,"she'd said simply. "Perhaps it will lighten your old lord's sorrow some small whit."

But it would not, of course. Only the girl could ease their troubles—only the girl, live and whole.

Leith dug his fingers into the soft baby's blanket. It was red and blue plaid, barely large enough to cover Beirut's saddle, and inside the woolen was the brooch with its amethyst jewel set into the unmistakable double-knotted scroll of the MacAulay clan.

It was the brooch the MacAulay had given his lovely English bride. The brooch she had taken with her when she'd fled Scotland with her infant child.

A single obscenity slipped from Leith's lips. He rose abruptly. Perhaps it was unseemly to curse on hallowed soil. But sweet Jesu, he had endured much—only to find that both mother and child had died seventeen years earlier, before the lass' first birthday.

Damn it to hell! He clenched his fists again. Damn Elizabeth MacAulay, he cursed silently, then rubbed a hand across eyes smarting with the dry pain of disillusionment.

Turning stiffly, he strode a short distance away.

Blue-petaled harebells grew in scattered clusters, and he paced to the nearest, plucking a few to grip them in calloused hands and stare at their incongruous cheerfulness.

Damn Ian MacAulay, the wily old bastard who had sent him on this quest, promising his own daughter as Leith's wife, promising peace between the clans. Damn the hot Scottish blood that flowed in his people's veins.

And damn himself for failing them!

Turning back, Leith walked slowly to the child's grave and bent, gently laying the blossoms before the mossy stone.

"I canna blame ye for yer own death, wee one," he murmured grittily, "but I would that ye had lived." For a moment his shoulders slumped with the weight of heavy responsibility. "Betwixt us two," he added, touching the grave marker reverently, "we could have vexed yer sire greatly."

He remained a moment longer, but straightened finally. It would do no good to mourn a babe who had died long ago, a babe he had never met. And yet the thought of a true-born Scot dying far from her homeland wrenched his soul. None should endure such a fate.

And neither should he tarry here. Hardly did England welcome its Scottish neighbors with open arms. Even with King James IV's efforts for peace between the countries, it was unsafe. James was a new king, a better king, striving to improve the lives of his countrymen—even the lives of the Highlanders. Indeed, he spoke the Gaelic, a fact that set him apart from the former monarchs, a fact that made Leith believe now was the time to press for peace, to join efforts with the king himself to create a difference in his Highland clan.

Turning his face from the gravesite, Leith noticed the pink-stained sky on the western horizon. There would be little enough daylight left to travel by. They should leave immediately, yet he felt some indefinable urge to remain for a time, perhaps indeed to mourn the passing of the babe who might have spared much bloodshed.

Walking down the verdant slope, Leith allowed himself a moment without conscious thought, letting his weary muscles relax. It was warm and still beneath the shelter of the trees and he drew a heavy breath, noticing for the first time the fresh green of spring.

Birds sounded their familiar cries—the flute-like whistle of a golden oriole, the penetrating call of a nuthatch issuing from dense upper branches. The slope became steeper and a lochan appeared finally, the water of the small lake dark and waveless in the diminishing light.

He rested here, settling wearily upon the weather-softened leaves to stare at the lochan below. It was a bonny spot, where he could well imagine he was yet in the Highlands, listening to his sister's fair voice as she sang. Before her death, before the feud between the clan Forbes and the MacAulays.

There had been a time when the two tribes had been united in spirit, when a Forbes need not fear for his life should he cross to MacAulay soil, but that peace was no more. It had been shattered by Eleanor's death.

Dear Jesu! Leith tightened his fists, letting his eyes fall closed as he remembered.

He had harbored such hopes for this quest—had longed to right the wrongs, erase the pain. But there was no hope now.

Long ago he had met the mother of the lost child. She had been English and new to the way of the Scots and the MacAulays. Even as a lad Leith had been left speechless by her beauty, awed by her regal demeanor. But there had been a sadness upon her, a melancholy he could sense and still recall.

She had hated Scotland, hated the loneliness, hated the marriage that brought her there. And so she had escaped, finding her final resting place here.

Would the daughter have felt the same? Would she have preferred death to Scotland? Or would she have been the bond needed to heal the hatred?

It was dark when Leith awoke, and the air was still, like the muffled memory of a dream. Awareness shifted into his senses and he opened his eyes. The lochan below lapped quietly at its sandy shore, moving restlessly and glittering in silvered points of moonlight.

It seemed a magical place, soothing somehow, but he had already spent too much time here.

A movement arrested Leith's attention and he turned his gaze.

It was a woman. Or was it? She was dressed in purest white and beside her was the sleek, dark shape of a...

He shook his head tentatively, trying to clear his mind, but the scene did not change. Still the woman remained upon the sand, and at her side was a wildcat.

Sweet Jesu, it could not be. Wildcats were not pets, but independent fighting beasts, revered for their strength and ferocity. Indeed, they were the very symbol of the Forbes.

A noise issued from below, rumbling up from the sleek cat as the woman placed her hand gently to its head. Purring! Sweet Jesu, it was purring and rubbing close against its mistress' robed leg.

Leith felt the magic like the sizzling shock of nearby lightning.

Never had he seen a bean-sith, but this must surely be one. In his youth he had heard many tales of the fairy people. Long had it been since he had hoped to view one in the flesh.

She spoke.

He could not hear her words, for they were meant for the cat. Her tone was soft and melodious, like a dove's dulcet cry through the fog of morn. Leith straightened slightly, letting the magic sear his senses as he endeavored to see more clearly through the foliage before him.

The moon had slipped above the uppermost branches of the trees, casting its gilding light upon the unearthly creatures by the lochan. He saw the fairy lift her robes. Her feet and legs were pale and bare, shapely and mesmerizing as she touched her toes to the water.

Cold! It would be cold as winter on a windswept mountain, Leith surmised. Yet the figure did not draw immediately away but walked for a while through the water, lifting her robes high enough to expose her knees and a scant few inches of lovely thighs, and beside her, through the glassy liquid moved the cat.

A fairy woman and her familiar. Eerie and frightening. Yet Leith was not frightened, for the magic seemed to surround him too. He clenched his fists, feeling an instinctive desire as old as time. Indeed she was of the fairy folk for she drew at his senses, seeming to wrestle his will from him. Need reared its insistent head. Too long had he thought of naught but his people, too long had he neglected that which made him man.

Not drawing his eyes from the gilded fairy, he sat silently upright. Little more than ten strides separated them, but the distance was crowded with leaves and bracken and she failed to notice for she spoke to her familiar and raised her hand.

The cat lifted its head, listening, and then it was off, bounding through the water to disappear into the darkness.

Stepping from the silvered lochan, the fairy looked quickly about. With one smooth motion she pulled the wimple from her head. Masses of burnt-crimson hair cascaded down her back in wild abandon, catching light like moonbeams on rubies.

Leith felt his breath catch in a hard knot. She was a celestial image, a picture of purest beauty, and he half-expected her to be joined there by a unicorn of ivory hue and deep-chested power.

The rope about her waist fell away. Her hands lifted.

Sweet Jesu! Leith's heart seemed to still in his chest. Naked, she stood upon the silken sand—like a goddess revealed to him alone.

Hard need gripped him with sudden urgency. Primitive yearning twisted like a well-placed dirk in his gut.

She was as straight as a reed, as supple as a sapling, caressed by hip-length hair and illumined by enchanted moonbeams. Shadow and light limned her delicate form, hiding and enhancing. Her back lay like a smooth glen that sloped down to the curve of twin hillocks, and when she turned he saw the sister peaks of her taut breasts.

She was a supernatural being, but did legend not say that the Highlander had sprung from matings with such creatures in the dawn before time? 'Twas an honored tradition, said his unconscious mind.

She stretched, lifting her slender arms toward the moon, reveling in its magical light. Inviting him to come to her?

Yes. Of course. In all his six and score years he had never been granted a view of a fairy. But now, at his darkest hour, she was revealed to him. It was destiny. On some primal level he felt her call to him, entreating him. Begging him to take her. As one in a trance he rose. She held his future in her magical hands and he had been led here to join with mis mystical being—to let her cure the ills of his clan, to heal the wounds that he could not.

Aye! She was the answer.

He stepped forward, drawn by invisible bonds.

A branch scraped against Leith's doublet, causing the fairy to lift her face. It was pale as moonlight in the darkness; her gasp was sharp and startled.

Do not fear,Leith wished to tell her, for he would not harm her. Destiny moved him, drawing him onward, but a snarl from behind him jerked at his attention.

He tried to push the sound from his mind, to concentrate on the fairy, but the snarl sounded again, closer now and more deadly.

In one swift movement he turned, dropping a hand to the bone handle of the dirk at his side.

A dark shadow crouched not far away. It snarled again, its fangs just visible in the darkness. Leith steadied his stance, gripping his weapon, every sense focused on the battle he would wage for the fairy goddess.

But from below a rustling noise brushed up from the sand of the lochan and running feet pattered speedily away. The dark shadow of the cat rose, twitched, and was gone, like nothing more substantial than the furtive whisper of a frightful dream.

Drawing a deep breath, Leith forced his muscles to relax and turned slowly. The fairy was no longer there.

On the pale, crescent stretch of beach, footprints were frosted onto the sand. Near the water's edge the glitter of metal caught Leith's eye. Pacing to it, he squatted. Finding a coarse chain, he scowled, lifting it slowly to let it drift through his fingers until he felt the rough wood of a small cross bound in brass wire.

"Sweet Jesu!" He whispered the words aloud, his gaze caught fast on that humble symbol of Christianity. It was the distinctive cross he hadseen on the ladies of Saint Mary's Abbey, the cross each of them had worn about their necks.

Leith's gaze lifted to follow the gilded footprints.

So the enchantress was not a fairy.

She was a nun!

Chapter 2

God's toenails! Bloody hell! Damnation! Rose Gunther sank silently to her knees. After she'd spent half a night in open-eyed terror, the day had been no better. Pure fatigue had made her late for morning prayer. Pure terror had stretched her nerves to the breaking point.

Beside her, eleven pious women prayed in silent devotion. Rose prayed in abject desperation!

How had she lost the cross of St. Mary's Abbey? And why in heaven's name hadn't she noticed it right off? Not that she could have returned to the lake anyway. For what if her instincts had been true? What if a stranger had indeed been lurking in the dark woods—watching her shameful disrobing?

And what of her dreams? What of the dark, masculine figure that had haunted her sleep? He had seemed so real. So close. So disturbing and yet alluring, like a forbidden fruit.

She shivered, wondering at the eerie feelings that had invaded her peace. Had those frightening moments on the beach been no more than a product of her too-vivid imagination? But no—Silken had snarled as he always did if a stranger approached. The wildcat had been waiting by the lake, almost seeming to know she would come. But of course he could not know. She had not even known herself. Probably Silken spent many nights by the lake and it had been mere coincidence that brought them there together. Whatever the reason, it had been so very good to see the cat again and ever so lucky for her that he had warned her of another's presence.

But what now? Even if, by some miracle, the abbess didn't notice her loss, someone was bound to find the cross. What would happen when the goose girl wandered along the lakeshore, as she was wont to do, and found a fat gander pecking irreverently at the wooden cross bound with brass wire? What then?

It would be a simple matter of elimination. What lady of St. Mary's was missing her cross? And why had it been found taking a dip in the cold water of the nearby lake?

Why indeed?

She should have stayed safely within the confines of the stone walls, should have spent her time in fasting and prayer. Rose opened her eyes to narrow slits, studying Mary Catherine, who had a strange habit of swaying back and forth as she prayed. Her rosary hung securely by her hip and upon her sturdy chest rested the unique cross of their order.

Rose bit her lip, remembering her Uncle Peter's amazing sleight of hand. He could have whisked that chain from Mary Katherine's neck without...

God help her! Rose crossed herself with speedy desperation. She was devil's bait. That’s what she was. Considering pinching a sister's cross! It was scandalous. Still... She slitted her eyes again, watching the little cross sway seductively with Mary Katherine's movement.

But surely the theft of a cross would be frowned upon, both in heaven and here in their humble abbey, for in truth the Lady Abbess had yet to forgive Rose for her sojourn onto the roof. It had been a harmless little jaunt really, though perhaps she should not have tried to scale the side of the abbey, even though the squirrel had ventured down that way. The animal had been the most peculiar color—almost white with just a patch of red in the center of its chest. It had sorely piqued her curiosity and she had seen no harm in investigating such a unique creature.

She'd been within arm's length of the pale squirrel when she'd lost her grip on the crumbling stone and fallen—smack into the shaded kitchen garden. Sister Ruth had shrieked in the most high-pitched tone imaginable. Sister Frances had fainted dead away.

In truth it had been the most excitement they'd seen in years. They should have thanked her for the diversion. Instead, she'd been sent to her cell with no supper.

Rose's stomach rumbled at the memory. She bit her lip again. If her cross was found by the lake, she'd be lucky to be allowed so much as a whiff of food between now and the Lord's next coming.

She'd have to find the cross and pay penance for her shameful behavior. After all, she'd promised her mother on her deathbed that she'd become a nun. And God damn it—Father forgive her—that's what she'd do.

She'd be a model of decorum, stay discreetly out of the way, and hope the good Lord would have mercy on her, a pitifully poor sinner. But why hadn't the Lady Abbess chastised her for her tardiness to morning prayer? And how had she failed to notice the absence of her cross?

There were visitors in the village, Rose knew— two large men on fine, powerful steeds. They'd spoken to the abbess. Perhaps they'd kept the lady's mind too occupied for her to consider Rose's less-than-exemplary conduct. Perhaps it was the divine providence of God.

That was it. The good Lord had taken note of her earnest attempts at pious devotion and was about to give her the opportunity to retrieve her cross without the abbess' knowledge of any wrongdoing.

Rose said a sincere prayer of thanksgiving.

It would be simple enough. She'd slip out her window after they'd been sent to the isolation of their cells. It would take her only a moment to scale the wall and not much longer to vault the outer enclosure. She wouldn't tarry by the lake as she so wished to do, but would come back straightaway.

She scowled again, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. It was true that she'd promised the Lord never to sneak from the abbey again. But was it not also true that the Almighty knew her weaknesses? Therefore He must realize she would be unable to keep such a vow—for He knew all things.

Rose nodded once, content with her sound reasoning. The Lord knew her weaknesses and therefore counted her feeble attempts at piety more favorably than the seemingly much grander piety of the sisters.

Likewise, the Lady Abbess must forgive her also.

The bell chimed. Rose crossed herself and straightened rapidly, made hungry by her feverish rationalization—and bumped messily into Lady Sophie, the abbess.

"Oh! Mother!" Rose gasped, grabbing the Lady Abbess' frail form to keep her from tumbling over backward. "I didn't see... I'm..." She gulped, wondering suddenly at the woman's unexpected presence. "... sorry." Her knuckles, she realized, were rather white as she gripped the elder woman's robes in a somewhat irreverent clasp. "So... so sorry," Rose mumbled, finally dropping her hands to brush gently at the wrinkles she'd pressed into the other's robes.

Their eyes met, Lady Sophie's calm but patiently exasperated, Rose's wide and unmistakably panicked as she remembered the lost cross.

"So, so sorry," she repeated, wondering dismally if she should admit her loss and craft a likely alibi for the cross' strange disappearance, or pretend nothing was amiss and hope to God the abbess wouldn't notice.

"I wish to speak to you in the parlor," said Lady Sophie evenly.

"Speak..." Rose knew her voice cracked when she said the single word, which was quickly accented by the deep rumble of her stomach, set to panic at the thought of another missed meal. "Speak..."

The abbess nodded and turned.

"Yes." Rose gulped again, trying to achieve the proper stoic demeanor. "Yes, Lady Abbess."

The parlor was a sizable room. It was divided by heavy, cast-iron grillwork which reached from ceiling to floor and separated the sisters from any visitors they might receive. Rose had spoken to Uncle Peter there, before he'd been accused of stealing the neighbor's cow and thought it best to remove himself from the immediate vicinity.

She wished she would find him there now, his round, jolly face watching her through the bars, but the far half of the room was blanketed in darkness, lit by only one sputtering candle.

The Lady Abbess occupied the lone chair. The chaplain was there also, unsmiling and silent as Rose stepped into the room. For a moment all bravery abandoned her and she was tempted to flee, but she swallowed hard and prayed, pulling the creaky door shut behind her.

Why was the chaplain here? It wasn't that he frightened her. Indeed, despite all her misfortunes during her years at the abbey, he had been the one to plead for the sisters' patience and understanding on her behalf. After all, he'd reminded them, Rose was young, and so full of life. She was sure to sometimes fall short of their expectations.

Had she fallen so far short this time that she was about to be expelled?

Panic gripped her. Despite how it might seem to the sisters, she truly tried to emulate their actions, to attain their contentment, but there was so much life outside these walls. There was so much to see and do and consider, that sometimes she felt as if she would burst if she did not escape for a short while.

Generally though, she was content enough, Rose reminded herself quickly. It was true that the hours of prayer became long and tedious, but she had learned much in the way of healing in the past five years. Much that she would not have learned had she been allowed to remain with her parents on their small plot of land. But the Lord had taken them so quickly, allowing the fever to sear away their lives and leave her unharmed.

"You wished to ... speak to me?" Rose asked, clasping her hands behind her back and feeling the cool sheen of panicked perspiration on her palms.

"Yes, my child." It was the chaplain who spoke, his soft, even voice sounding worried and slightly sad.

Rose braced herself, clasping her hands harder. They knew! Or did they? Best to confess to the lesser of her crimes first.

"I'm sorry for my tardiness at morning prayer. Please forgive me," she began speedily, but the abbess lifted one fragile hand to stop her words.

"It is not that which concerns us just now," said she, rising slowly, her expression solemn.

Dear God! They did know. But of course they would. "Oh!" Rose backed away a step, hitting the wall with a muffled smack, her face going pale. "That! Well..." she mumbled nervously. "I can explain. It’s really quite simple. It was so hot, you see, and..." Rose brought her hands forward to clench them in front of her simple robe. "I know it was wrong. And I promise not to do it again if you can but forgive this one slip. I didn't mean to ..."

Her voice lapsed into silence as she recognized the identical expressions of surprise and uncertainty on her superiors' faces.

"Didn't mean to—ah, disgrace..." She sucked in her lower lip, her eyes going wide as her gaze skittered from one aged face to the other. Well, hell, she realized with mind-numbing relief, they didn't have any idea what she was talking about.

"Perhaps you should take that up with our Lord, my child," said the abbess, her pale eyes seeming to mildly chastise Rose for whatever violations she had perpetrated this time. "Just now we need to discuss another matter with you."

"A-another?" Rose stuttered, her emotions flung hither and yon with each word spoken. Had she done something even worse than losing the cross? It was possible, she supposed, for it seemed she was forever sinning in new and creative ways she'd never even fathomed were sinful. The time she'd used her rosary to tie the barn door shut, for instance. But the rope had been missing and ...

“Perhaps you know we've had visitors here at the abbey?" began Lady Sophie.

"Well..." Rose hedged, not quite certain if she should admit her knowledge. After all, it was a sin to be too preoccupied with the business of others. Wasn't it?

"The fact is, we have had visitors," continued the abbess. "Two men from Scotland."

"Scotland?" Rose's eyes widened even further as she allowed her hands to drop to her sides. "Barbarians?"

"Perhaps we are all barbarians in the sight of God," said the chaplain quickly.

"They have come looking for their kindred," explained the abbess in her usual gentle tone.

"Here? In England? But why..."

"It seems they have come a long and hard way in search of an English lady and her Scottish-born child."

Rose frowned, her mind working quickly. "I know nothing about..."

"The lady came here long ago, Rose. And died soon after of much the same fever that took your parents."

"Oh." The awful fever was a greedy thing that showed no mercy. Already Rose could feel her eyes fill with tears at the haunting memory. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "And the child?"

For one tense moment there was silence, then, "Dead also, I fear," stated the abbess, gripping her own hands now, as if Rose's worry was a contagious thing. "Both buried in our gravesite."

Rose cleared her throat, pushing back the pain of remembering and filling her mind with the present. She'd read the inscriptions on all the tombstones in the small cemetery and sometimes felt drawn there, as if an elusive peace beckoned to her from amongst the silent stones.

"It seems the Scotsmen have come at the request of a dying lord," continued the abbess. "It was his wife and child who came here those many years ago. Not knowing the two had died, the Scotsmen traveled here to find them. But..." Lady Sophie shrugged, looking old and worn. "I told them of the grave markers and—"

"What were their names?" Rose interrupted distantly, an eerie sensation gripping her chest as the hair on her arms rose slightly.

The abbess watched her silently, as did the chaplain.

"They were of the MacAulay family, I am told," said the Lady Abbess at last. "The mother was named Elizabeth. The babe—Fiona."

"Fiona," Rose whispered. She felt oddly breathless and supposed it was part of her strangeness Papa had sometimes referred to and Mama had always shushed him about. The strangeness that made the hair on her arms stand on end and her mind see shadowed, unexplained images. The strangeness Rose had promised never to mention to another living soul.

The abbess cleared her throat now, moving a step closer. "When the Scotsmen acknowledged the deaths, they were most distraught. It seems the old lord had set his heart on seeing the child again."

"After all these years?" asked Rose weakly, trying to draw her mind from the unnerving sensations that haunted her.

"Sometimes a man can only see what is important in life after he has lived a good deal of it," said the chaplain wisely.

The abbess nodded. "The old man is gravely ill."

"And in great pain," added the chaplain.

"The Scots fear he will die, or linger in agony if he is not attended to."

Realization began to dawn slowly in Rose's mind, but she said nothing and waited.

"They have asked that we send someone learned in healing," admitted the chaplain finally.

The room was silent for a moment.

"Me?" Rose's single, startled word surprised even herself.

"It would be a long journey," said the abbess gently. "Fraught with danger."

"But I..." Rose lifted her hands in open supplication. "I promised my mother I would live out my days in this house. I promised myself to the work of the Lord."

"This too is the Lord's work," reminded the abbess. 'Tending those who suffer."

"There are other healers," Rose said, suddenly frightened by their expressions, their intentions. They wished to send her away. Because of her poor conduct? "More knowledgeable healers than I," she blurted rapidly. "Surely..."

The chaplain shook his head slowly. "There are none as gifted as you, my child." He drew a deep, weary breath. "Even Lady Mary, rest her soul, was not so gifted as thee. And you are strong—that strength will be needed for the journey."

Rose was silent for a moment, remembering the heat of her mother's hand as she gripped hers with desperate strength, begging for her promise. "If it’s my past sins..." began Rose abruptly, "I will make amends. I will do better." She took a step nearer. She had promised her mother and her Lord that she would live out her days in this abbey. "I can be like the others. Truly—"

The abbess raised a blue-veined hand. "It is not because of any shortcomings on your part, child.

Although..." She smiled gently, her pale, patient eyes steady. "I doubt at times that the Lord wishes you to be... like the others. Still, it is not for me to command you to go. The decision is yours."

"Then I must stay." Rose stepped quickly nearer, taking the Lady Abbess' hand in her own. "I made a vow."

"I believe the Lord would understand, should you see the need to go," said the Lady Abbess.

But the vow had also been to her mother. "Promise me you'll seek the peace and safety of the convent," she'd begged. "Promise me you’l1 never speak of the things you see in your head." Her voice had been only a whisper. "Do not dwell on them. Do not think of them. People would not understand, would not accept. Go to the abbey, Rose," she'd pleaded. "Do the Lord's work. You'll be safe there."

Sometimes in the quiet of prayer time or during the darkness of night Rose would consider that. Safe from what? Were the images that sometimes appeared in her head evil things?

"I must stay, Lady Abbess," she said, guilt wearing heavily on both sides, worry making her voice soft. "I must keep—"

"And let me auld laird die?"

Rose gasped, dropping Lady Sophie's hand to find the source of the voice that came from behind the iron grill.

"This is one of the Scotsmen. Come to plead his cause," explained the abbess, but Rose failed to hear her words, for her entire attention was riveted on the large, dark shape of the barbarian behind the wrought-iron rail.

God's whiskers! It was the dark image from her dreams! Breath stopped in her throat while her heart seemed to have gone stone-cold in the tight confines of her chest. "Who are you?" she whispered, knowing her words were rude and failing to care.

Quiet held the place.

"I am called Leith. Of the clan Forbes."

His burr was as thick as morning fog—and as chilling. Rose felt a shiver take her, frightening her with its intensity. "I can't go with you." She whispered the words, as if saying them too loudly might awaken some evil demon.

"Canna?" The Scotsman gripped the grill tightly, the flat of his broad nails gleaming pale in the light of the lone candle. "Or willna?"

"Please." She drew back quickly, not knowing why, but feeling the frightful power of his person, the terrifying knowledge that he had appeared to her in her sleep. He was a large man, perhaps the largest she'd ever encountered. Or was she allowing the shadows and her own too-vivid imagination to frighten her?

Lifting her chin up slightly, Rose clasped her hands before her chest, drawing upon inner reserves she was supposed to possess. "Do not ask me to break my vow to my God," she pleaded weakly. But within, she questioned her true motives for refusal. Fear?

"Ye vows dunna urge ye to help a man in need?"

The Scotsman's tone was somewhat jeering, she thought, and lifted her chin higher. "My vows urge me to follow my conscience and not the brutish insistence of a man with no understanding of my faith."

He was quiet, but his eyes held her in cold perusal. "And me, I thought we shared the faith of Christ. But na. Me God calls for bravery of spirit."

He'd called her a coward, she thought in silent shock. The man dared enter the hallowed walls of the abbey and imply she was less than godly! He had the manners of a boar in rut! In fact, she'd met boars in rut who were more becoming, she decided, refusing to acknowledge the fact that her own manners and thoughts were far from a model of purity.

"Regardless of the fact that you think me spiritless," she said, breathing hard and raising her left eyebrow in stern condescension, "I shall not go with you." She turned stiffly away, feeling his hot gaze on her back and trying to still the tremor in her hands.

"Na even if I return what is yers?" he asked huskily, his voice so soft only Rose could hear.

She froze in her tracks. Her heart had risen suddenly into her throat and now refused to beat. "Mine?" she breathed, managing to turn toward him.

"Aye." He nodded.

She watched him in breathless panic, seeing one corner of his mouth lift in a devilish smile.

"Found near the wee lochan yonder," he murmured.

Chapter 3

Her cross! Rose clenched her hand over the empty place where it usually lay against her breast Air rushed into her lungs in one breathy inhalation. God's toenails! The barbarian had found it!

Behind her the abbess and chaplain were silent. Did they know?

"If ye could find it in yer heart to come..." The Scotsman slipped one hand neatly into the pocket of his dark doublet, his voice quiet. "There'd be na need for discussing—last night."

Her gasp was audible now. Her hand rose to where her throat was covered by the coarse wimple, as if to shield herself from his eyes. Had he seen her nakedness then, or just found the cross?

With a concerted effort Rose drew the shattered remains of her dignity about her, but her hands shook near her throat and she wondered if he could see. If the abbess learned of her shameful behavior of the night before, she would surely banish Rose from the abbey—or worse. She swallowed once, thinking fast and hard. But there seemed to be very few choices, for through the fabric of the barbarian's pocket she was sure she could see the telltale outline of her perfidious cross. "Your..." She cleared her throat, trying to sound concerned and sympathetic, but the single word squeaked rustily, so that she had to clear her throat yet again.

"Your lord is very ... ill then?" she breathed.

"Verra ill." His smile was gone now, replaced by an expression she could not discern in the dimness.

"And he has a ... Christian soul?" she asked weakly.

He hesitated only a moment. "Aye. He does."

'Then..." Her fingers curled emptily near her chest as she lifted her chin a bit. "It is my duty togo.” She'd said the words stiffly, with not the least bitof feeling, and Leith raised his brows silently.

"Ye've a heart of gold, lass," he murmured, but histone held no more sincerity than hers had.

"You will find a companion to travel with her," commanded the abbess softly. "Someone from the village perhaps."

The Scotsman nodded, his gaze shifting to Lady Sophie.

"And you will vow to protect her," added the abbess.

"Aye, lady," he promised solemnly. "With me life."

Rose noticed with some irritation that the tone he used for the abbess was vastly different than the tone he used with her. There was no sarcasm now, no quirking of the lips that would make one wish to slap him. Only sober, quiet respect as he spoke to that lady.

"And return her here—if she wishes—after you have no more need for her skills."

"Aye," Leith promised, then shifted his deep-set eyes, so that they clashed abruptly with Rose's. "I will return her when I need her no longer."

Rose would have paced but there was no room in her cell. Instead she sucked her lip and wrung her hands.

The man was Satan personified. She was sure of it. Who else would be sneaking about in the woods in the midst of the night? she wondered, dismissing the fact that she herself had been there. Who else would ransom the cross of a poor postulate of the Lord to gain his own ends?

And what were his ends exactly? For all she knew there might not even be a dying laird.

Prayer time came and she prayed—with a vengeance. They would leave in two days. Enough time, he'd said, for her to gather her belongings and say her good-byes.

Leith had not slept the previous night, kept awake by visions of a fairy princess. A fairy princess with auburn hair and fawn-like eyes. A fairy who was not a fairy at all but the answer to his prayers. A woman of flesh and blood who could as easily as not be the daughter of the old laird of the MacAulays. She was enchanting, just as the Lady Elizabeth had been. And with the amethyst-jeweled brooch and wee plaid the abbess had given him, there would be no way for the old laird to be sure she was not his daughter. Aye, Ian MacAulay would accept her as kin, for he would want to believe it was true, and sick as he was, this would be his last chance to find her.

"She's a fine, bonny mare, brother," said Colin, leaning casually back against a post near a small herd of horses as he interrupted Leith's thoughts.

Leith issued an irritable grunt, wanting to lose himself in his musings again, but Colin was not to be ignored.

Shifting the weed between his teeth, and glancing toward the nearby barn, Colin raised one fair brow and added, "She is indeed the best of the lot."

Another grunt.

"She'll bear the long journey home well."

Silence.

Colin narrowed his eyes. "But why, I'm asking meself—why the best of auld Harold's mares when the others are worthy-enough steeds?"

Leith straightened, paced to the mare's left hind, and bent again, running one hand along the trim cannon bone. "She'll cross well with Beinn Fionn."

"Aye. That she will." Colin nibbled for a moment, watching the other's careful examination before breaking the silence again. "But yer stallion has a full score of bonny lasses awaiting his return. While ye..." He stopped on a thoughtful note, grinning crookedly while his brother could not see. “Tell me of this wee nun that's to travel with us."

"Ye will meet her soon enough," responded Leith evenly.

"Is she young?"

"Na so young as ye," said Leith, straightening to caress the mare's glossy hindquarter.

"Bonny?"

No answer came as Leith moved forward again to examine the mare's teeth.

"Is she na bonny?" repeated Colin, deliberately keeping a straight face now as his brother scowled.

"She is na likely to blister yer delicate hide should ye glance her way, if that be yer concern, lad," growled Leith.

"Ah." Colin nodded sagely, causing the ragged weed in his teeth to bobble with the motion. "A hedged answer from my liege is like the highest words of praise from another. So she's a bonny lass." He strode quickly forward. "Dark hair? Fair? What of her eyes?"

"Canna ye find sommat to do?" snapped Leith."Is there na a thing to occupy yer time?"

"Na, brother," said Colin with a shrug. "Na a thing. The quest is at its finish. Failed—the child long gone from this world."

Leith turned away, ducking under the mare's delicate jaw to her far side.

"And yet ye seem na unduly troubled," continued Colin thoughtfully. "And after all the struggle to arrive here. If I were na such a trusting man and did na ken ye so well, I would think ye were keeping sommat from me. Why, I ask meself, would we take this wee nun to our homeland? To heal the MacAulay?" He snorted loudly. "Methinks na. Better to run a dirk through his black heart and be done with it. So why—"

"Go fetch a companion for the lass," ordered Leith suddenly, straightening abruptly on the far side of the black to glower over her glossy back.

"A companion?" asked Colin dubiously. "Mayhap I could find her a feather mattress too. We could tote it along in a fine carriage so that she will na bruise her backside on the hard ground at night."

"I promised the auld abbess she would have a companion," said Leith. "Ye will find a suitable female."

"Suitable?" Colin questioned glibly. "Suitable for what?"

"Suitable for acting as chaperone!" Leith exploded suddenly, his patience at an end. "With legs strong enough to keep her astride a mount for the long journey home. I am certain ye can judge the strength of woman's legs by now, brother."

"Aye." Colin laughed readily. "That I can, me liege. But it’s the wee nun ye've chosen that interests me most."

"Sweet Jesu!" swore Leith angrily. "She is a woman of God. And best ye na forget it."

"Me?" Colin lifted a quick hand to his chest, his expression registering shock. "I will na forget, brother. I can have me pick of the lasses," he declared, then scowled momentarily. "When Roderic is not about that is," he amended. "But one canna be expected to compete with one's identical self born into a separate body." He shook his head. " Tis difficult to believe the three of us be brothers in truth. For fair Roderic and I are constantly pressed upon by female attention, while ye..." He tipped a hand toward Leith. "Ye keep yerself to yerself like a monk."

"I only thank the good Lord I did leave yer devilish twin at home," vowed Leith. "Now go before I pummel some sense into yer flea-bitten head," he added, and, reaching across the mare, seized a fistful of the lad's doublet.

Laughing, Colin lifted his hands as if to ward off violence. "It is na me fault ye canna attract a lass, brother. Perhaps if ye quit yer scowling they would na be so scairt to look on yer scar-riddled—"

The sound of a door slamming interrupted his words, catching both men's attention. Leith dropped his hand and Colin raised his brows at the dark beauty who approached from the nearby house. "Ah, there," he murmured with appreciation. "A woman. And English, so surely she is desperate for a true man. Quit yer scowling now, brother, and give her a try."

"Quit yer yippin' and show some respect," rejoined Leith as he straightened.

"For the lady?" quipped Colin.

"For me, ye dolt," growled Leith before rounding the mare to greet the newcomer.

She was a bonny woman with perhaps a score of years to her life.

"I've come to bring you a bit to drink," she said, raising the tray of sweating pewter mugs so they could be clearly seen above the rough-cut rails of the fence. "Tis hot for so early in the season." Her gaze settled for a moment on Leith's somber face before turning downward to the mugs.

"Aye," Leith said shortly, and Colin grinned, fully appreciative of his brother's characteristic lack of banter.

"Verra hot," Colin supplied, then added, "and verra kind of ye to think of us, lady..."

"Widow," the woman said softly, lifting her gaze finally to Colin's. "Widow Devona Millet." Her eyes, Colin noticed, were an amber color, her features delicate, and her mouth utterly kissable. "I am told you are Scots."

Leith turned his attention to the mare again, seeming to dismiss the woman.

"We are indeed Scots," said Colin, his brows rising as he noticed the widow's low neckline and his brother's blatant lack of interest. "And about to travel back to the land of our clansmen." Leith had been laird of the Forbes too long if he could not appreciate such a fine display of bosom, thought Colin. But perhaps the widow was just the thing to break the monotony of the journey home, as well as pull Leith's mind from his ever-present worries.

Yes. Colin's smile widened as he forced his gaze from the widow's chest. "But we are in great need ..." He let the statement fall flat, thinking of his own needs for a moment before remembering his brother's. "We require a companion for the lady we will take back with us."

"A lady?" the widow asked.

"A nun," explained Colin, wondering for just a moment if he heard disappointment in the woman's tone.

"From the abbey yonder?"

"Aye," supplied Colin. Turning to Leith, he asked, "What of her, brother? She looks strong of leg—don't ye think, me liege?"

"Methinks ye talk too much," said Leith as he straightened to glare at his brother.

Colin only laughed. "'Twould be too much to hope that ye might be free to travel with us as a lady's companion," he said.

"All the way to Scotland?"

"Far into Scotland, in fact. To Glen Creag in the Highlands. But ye would be well paid for yer troubles, and carefully..." His gaze dipped to her bosom again for just an instant and his breath caught in his throat. "... carefully... guarded," he said roguishly.

Her cheeks colored prettily and her eyes lowered. "I am not needed in the house of my husband's family," she said softly.

"Then ye will come?" Colin asked, surprised by his good fortune and well aware of the rousing effect she had on him.

"Why do you take the nun to your country?" she asked. "And what would be expected of me at the journey's end?"

It was what was expected during the journey that interested Colin most, for if Leith wasn't intrigued by the possibilities, he certainly was.

"She is na yet a nun," corrected Leith evenly. "But a novice, and one said to be a skilled healer. We will take her to the MacAulay who is gravely ill. Ye would but keep her company and return here after our arrival."

"Oh." For a moment Devona's gaze flitted from Leith's to Colin's. "And you would guarantee my safe passage?"

"Nothing can be guaranteed," said Leith soberly. "But we will do all that is in our power." His hand went to the dirk at his side. "And that is a considerable amount."

She was silent, watching him, seeming to measure the man. "I will go," she said suddenly.

Colin grinned.

Leith nodded, giving the mare one last pat before striding away to duck between the rails and unwind his white stallion's reins from the post. "Buy the dark mare," he said to his brother. "Make arrangements with the widow."

"Arrangements?" Colin asked, pacing toward Beinn. "Does that mean ye are interested?"

Leith was in the saddle in a moment, but bent low to speak directly into Colin's face. "I am not an auld milk-fed maid who needs the help of her witless brothers to make a match. The widow will come as a companion and nothing more."

"And if she wishes for more?" asked Colin evenly.

"Then ye have me blessing," said Leith, and turned his stallion away.

"Well..." Colin turned back to the widow with a grin. "It seems we have much to do."

Devona blinked, lowering the tray slightly as Colin bent to step between the rails and straighten again.

"Me apologies for me brother," he said quietly. "He is the laird of the clan Forbes and does na take time for pleasantries."

"I'm certain he has much to occupy his thoughts."

"Aye." Colin smiled. She was indeed a beautiful woman. A woman unspoken for, and a woman apparently not desired by his brother. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, especially since she was a widow, a woman in whom the spark of sexual desire had once been lit and had now dimmed, left unfulfilled. "We dearly appreciate yer offer to travel with us," he said. "'Twas indeed generous."

Devona lowered her eyes with a blush. "Perhaps not so generous as you think. I fear I have my own reasons for wishing to be gone."

"Indeed?"

"There is no purpose for my presence here," she explained, resting her eyes on the mugs. "Since my husband's death I feel..." She shrugged.

"Unwanted?" The word slipped unbidden from Colin.

"Yes." She nodded slowly. "Unwanted."

Sheer instinct propelled Colin across the short distance between them. "I want ye." The statement came out as a husky caress.

Devona's mouth fell open.

Suddenly he gripped the wooden tray between them.

"But I... I don't know you."

"Ye will," he breathed. "In yonder barn."

The widow's eyes opened wide. "The barn?" she gasped.

"Aye, lass. I burn for ye. Let me take ye to the barn and ignite—"

Her palm hit his face with enough force to rattle the mugs atop the tray in his hands. "How dare you?" she hissed.

Colin's jaw dropped. Apparently he'd employed the wrong methods. "I did na mean to insult ye. I only meant to lay-”

"How dare you?" she repeated, sounding even more offended.

Colin's brows lowered as the unsated edge of his desire burned on. "There are those who have na been so insulted by me offers."

"And there are those who sleep with pigs," she hissed. "But I am not one of them."

"Pigs," Colin exclaimed, but already she was striding stiffly toward the house, leaving him to hold the tray in abject bewilderment.

"You will care for her?" asked the chaplain solemnly.

"I will," Leith said, looking down into the man's worried eyes.

Dawn had come and gone. It was past time to be off. Beside him Colin stood unspeaking, restraining his mount, the newly purchased black, and a horse which was packed with their belongings. Just behind him, the Widow Millet silently sat a mousy-brown mare with heavy bones and narrow eyes. Leith kept his gaze on the chaplain, wondering again at Colin's choice for the widow's mount. It was a sturdy-enough steed, but homely and bad-tempered.

"And you will be patient with her?" asked the chaplain.

"Patient?" Leith was momentarily intrigued by the question. Aside from the fact that the girl had not yet arrived, why should he need to be patient?

"Rose..." the chaplain began slowly with a single shake of his head, "Rose Gunther is a ... special child."

Leith glanced toward the north, wanting to be off. “Special?"

"Gifted."

Leith narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze downward. "How is she gifted?"

"She has gifts of God."

"Canna ye be more clear, Father?" asked Leith impatiently.

But the chaplain only shrugged. "You will learn her worth soon enough, I think."

Leith scowled. When questioned, the people of Millshire had spoken freely of the lass' ability as a healer, granting him a perfect excuse to take her to Scotland. Now, however, he did not believe the chaplain meant her gift of healing.

The door of the abbey opened. Leith raised his eyes.

She stood there, looking small and young, overwhelmed by her pale, voluminous robes and concealing wimple. And yet there was something about her that drew his gaze—or was it his memory of her by the lochan that intrigued him?

"Protect her," said the chaplain quietly, his expression somber. " 'Twill not be a simple task."

Leith watched in silence as the chaplain turned away. He passed the girl at the door where he spoke a few words to her before disappearing into the abbey.

She approached finally, her steps slow and uncertain, her hands tucked demurely into her sleeves, her eyes reddened. From tears? For a moment Leith wondered if he'd been mistaken, for surely this small innocent could not be the bold, enchanting fairy princess he had seen by the lochan.

His fingers fell unconsciously to the pocket of his doublet, feeling the irregular form of the purloined cross through the fabric as she stopped before him.

Silence settled uneasily between them. Leith tightened his grip on Beinn's reins. She was little more than a child, he reasoned uneasily. And he was a deceitful bastard.

"Kill me, Forbes, and have done with it."The tortured words yet echoed in his head, though he tried to shut them out.

Deceitful bastard or not, he would do what needed doing. He would use Rose Gunther to heal the wounds he could not mend alone.

"Come, lass," he said, pushing back his dark memories. "The black mare I call Maise. Great Beauty," he translated. "She is yers. A gift for yer trouble."

Rose turned her gaze to the mare, seeming to note the wide-set eyes and clean limbs. But in a moment she dropped her attention to the ground at her feet. "I cannot accept her."

Leith scowled. He'd planned quickly but carefully and could not afford to waste time. He was not a patient man, but he was determined and he would be charming, for he needed to win her over to his way of thinking.

"Ye canna walk the long journey to me homeland," he said, keeping his tone gentle. “Take the mare. I give her freely."

"I cannot."

Leith swore in silence, gripping his hands to fists and feeling his jaw harden. He did not like delays. He did not like bickering, and he did not like women who failed to take orders.

Charming, he reminded himself irritably. He must be charming.

"I chose the black meself. She will give a soft ride. Will ye na—"

"No!"

The force of Rose's refusal surprised him, but it was her eyes that rooted him to the ground. Sweet Jesu! He had been unable to tell the color at their earlier meeting, but he saw now that they were violet in hue—as bright and sharp as precious jewels. So it was not only her deep—auburn hair and bonny features that resembled the old laird's deceased wife. It was her bewitching eyes also.

But Leith Forbes would not be bewitched. Nay. He would keep his head. She would ride the mare. And he would make her his wife.

Chapter 4

“Ye canna pray all night," Leith said, squatting down beside the small, kneeling figure swaddled in woolen robes.

They had ridden all day, stopping only for the nooning meal before hurrying on.

Rose Gunther had not spoken or eaten, and now she knelt in the darkness, looking not at all like the enchanting bean-sith he had seen by the magical lochan, but more like a bedraggled martyr with pale face and waning spirit. Where had the bewitching little fairy princess gone? The unearthly, moon-gilded goddess who had ignited his imagination and inflamed his hope? Where was the lass who had made him believe in miracles, had made him certain she had been sent as a precious gift from the very hand of God Himself, destined to bring peace to the clan of the Forbes.

He'd been sure such a creature could not be happy in the strict confines of an abbey—had convinced himself he would do nothing but good in taking her to Scotland. But perhaps he'd misjudged her. Perhaps it had only been a vision by the lo-chan, and this woman did indeed belong within the cloistered walls of a musty abbey.

But blood stained Leith's hands. The blood of his own people and of the MacAulays. Blood that would be washed away once Laird Ian accepted the wee nun as the daughter of his own loins.

'Twas true that Ian MacAulay was a wily bastard. But he was also old and tired of the feud, tired enough to offer his only child as the wife of the Forbes, if Leith could bring her back to Scotland.

Leith tightened his jaw. He had found her—beneath an aged mound of dirt in an English graveyard. But his dreams had not died there. Nay, they had found new life in the pale, nubile form of an unclothed novice.

A strange way indeed for the Lord to answer his prayers, but Leith was not one to deny a sacred gift. Rose Gunther was that gift. He knew it, just as he knew Ian MacAulay would accept her. Just as he knew she would be the bond that once again united the tribes torn assunder by Eleanor's death.

"Come," he said, retrospect making his tone hard. "Eat before the food cools."

Her face did not lift. Her hands remained folded. "I am fasting," she said in clipped tones.

Damn it to unholy hell! Fasting! Out here in the wilderness where all the girl's feeble strength would be needed just to stay alive. Leith scowled. For a sacred gift of God she certainly was stubborn. He had no time for her martyred antics. But neither would it do him any good to take an unwilling lass to Glen Creag.

Perhaps Colin was right. Perhaps he was wont to frighten the lasses with his dour looks. Leith Forbes, however, had little time for courtship or flattery. He was a man with the heavy responsibilities of his clan on his shoulders. And just now those responsibilities weighed like a stone about his neck, for he saw the possibility of great changes for his clan. Changes that would cauterize old wounds and forge lasting bonds—if only he could charm the kneeling woman before him.