Cates, Kimberly (12 page)

"Hell no. You can't separate them." Adam was blustering in an effort to distract Mama Fee. "You know Gav. He develops an abiding affection for anyone who clomps him over the head with a cudgel. It only stands to reason that a bullet wound would send him into ecstasies of devotion."

"Damn it, Adam—" The Glen Lyon bit out a warning.

"Oh, what the devil! Gav is right," Adam said with a sweetness so cloying it made Rachel's teeth ache. "No sense shutting up the stable gate once the stallion has won the mare, if you catch my meaning."

Mama Fee's cheeks pinkened. "Of all the bold things to say! And with this innocent child present! You make me shamed to own you, the both of you."

"We're inexcusable wretches," Gavin put in. "And Adam—he's completely hopeless. But perhaps Rachel might manage to civilize me. Please, Mama Fee, let her stay with me. She makes my wound feel so much better. Helps to distract me from the pain, don't you know?"

Twin devils were dancing in his eyes, that pleading curve to his smile enough to charm the angels right out of their wings. The old woman attempted to glare at him, but Rachel could see the effort it took her.

"You needn't attempt to wheedle me, sir. If you had enough energy to be about making a woman of the lass, your wound can't be too bad. It was the tiniest scratch as of last night, if I remember."

Gavin smiled. "I've had the most distressing relapse."

Adam rolled his eyes. "Perhaps you'd best be fixing the lovebirds breakfast, Mama Fee. My brother's had a damn thrilling couple of days. Abducting a woman, facing a villain unarmed, getting shot, falling in love."

"Of all the absurd nonsense! You mustn't be teasing your brother so. It's not easy, this falling in love. Someday you shall see for yourself." She dealt Adam a smack on the seat of his breeches.

"I've been in love at least a dozen times or more," Adam scoffed, indignant. "That's not counting the times I was merely infatuated."

"Of course you have, my sweeting." Mama Fee made no attempt to hide the fact that she was humoring him. "It's only natural to feel a twinge of envy at your brother's good fortune, but I am certain we can find you a lady. You may tell me what you look for in a love while you help me make the bannocks. It's time to leave these two alone."

"Absolutely. Let's do leave them alone. Perfect. It will be dashed entertaining to see what new disaster they'll have stirred up by the time we return," Adam grumbled, stalking out of the room. Mama Fee trailed behind him, softly scolding.

As the door shut, Rachel turned to the Glen Lyon, saw him sag back against the pillows with a weary groan. He dragged his hand across his face.

"Unbelievable," he said into his palm, a chuckle ending on a gasp of pain. "God, why didn't I get out of this bed when I had a chance!"

"
I
wouldn't have been in this bed in the first place if you hadn't been so stubborn! Insisting that you'd break open your wound like a blasted fool in some crazed pretense of chivalry! But it didn't work, did it? You promised not to ravish me, and now—well, you might as well have! Your—your hands were all over me, and
they
both think that you did!"

"My hands think they ravished you? They must be quite pleased with themselves."

He was teasing her, infuriating her. "Not your hands, you blockhead! Mama Fee and Adam think that you... that we..."

"Only with the most honorable of intentions, Mistress de Lacey," he said with a mock-solemn bow of his head. "I was madly in love with you, and I couldn't contain my passion."

Rachel let fly a stream of oaths that would have made the general blanch. She skittered off the end of the mattress, dragging the tattered remnants of her costume and the bedclothes with her, fighting for some semblance of dignity, but it was hard to appear dignified bundled up in such a fashion. "You are impossible! No wonder I shot you! You'd drive a saint to it, I vow you would!" Her eyes stung, her throat thickened. "You may not care what anyone thinks of you—God knows, you don't mind the whole world calling you a coward—but
I
care about my reputation. It's humiliating that anyone should think I... I did
that
with someone like you! If you had a shred of decency, you'd be as appalled as I am!"

"I would imagine it was quite a blow to that famed de Lacey pride to pretend to be my lover, yet you played along with the tale anyway." The insufferable impudence left his features. In its place, a tender gratitude welled. "I'm vastly in your debt."

"I didn't do it for you, you infernal fool! I did it for her."

"I know." He dragged himself into a sitting position. "You needn't fear that word of this will ever leave the cave. Once the orphans are safely aboard ship, I intend to convince Mama Fee to sail with them, to take care of them. Adam may bluster, but from the time we were boys, he refused to betray my foolishness to anyone else, even when it got him neck deep in trouble. And you may be certain I won't be spreading the tale, since it doesn't show to my credit."

"I suppose I should find that comforting? This whole thing is absurd! How could anyone believe..."

"That a man could fall in love with you? It seems you had brigades of men ready to die for one of your smiles."

"But not—" she stopped, but the words echoed in her mind.
Not a coward... not a traitor.
She trembled, furious, confused, more shaken by the memory of a coward's kiss, a traitor's hands than the caresses of a dozen adoring heroes.

"I see. It's absurd that a man like me would have the intelligence... no, the utter insolence to find you... magnificent." An odd expression flashed across his face, as if he were tasting something sweet, forbidden. Then the emotions vanished. He smiled tauntingly. "I may be a rebel scoundrel, Rachel, but I'm still a man."

"I can't stay here with you!"

"I wouldn't advise going anywhere else dressed like that. The effect is charming, but
en dishabille
can be carried a trifle too far. There are clothes in the basket—gowns and such. While Adam was in France, he gathered up cast-off clothes to bring back to those who had lost everything under fire and sword. Unfortunately, the only tender-hearted philanthropists of Adam's acquaintance were demimondaines. Their taste is exquisite, if perhaps a trifle... daring. But one of the gowns should do well enough for now."

"I wouldn't care if I were dressed in a pudding bag at the moment! All I care about is getting away from you! I won't stay here. Not since you—you touched me.

"What would you say if I told you that
you
reached out to
me,
Rachel?" The words were quiet, without mockery. "It's nothing to be ashamed of—needing a human touch after all you have been through."

He meant it as reassurance, but as Rachel glared into his face, she saw her own weakness reflected in his eyes. Only Gavin Carstares, a renowned coward, wouldn't see it as weakness. Yet Rachel knew it for what it was.

"I was sleeping and you took advantage of the situation," she said frigidly. "You knew I would sooner plunge off a cliff than allow you to touch me, but you did it anyway."

That square jaw set, grim, his eyes darkening. "I'm sure if you did choose to jump off a cliff, it would be my fault when you hit the bottom. You have my most sincere apology. I can't imagine what possessed me to touch you."

Yet for a heartbeat, those gray eyes swept down the bare, white curve of her shoulder, the slender length of her leg peeking from beneath the crumpled folds of coverlet that drooped about her like the petals of a wilting flower. Something simmered in those silvery depths—something that frightened her, intrigued her. Then it was gone.

He levered himself up, supporting his ribs with one sinewy arm, his features white, drawn. His broad shoulders gleamed with sweat, the glistening droplets snagging in the tarnished gold dusting of hair that spanned his chest.

She couldn't help but watch the subtle play of muscles as he moved. The knowledge that she had been nestled against that bared masculine flesh made her stomach do a wild flip. More galling still was the certainty that, lost in the safe haven of slumber where she didn't have to decide anything, where she didn't have to be strong, she had
liked
being held in his arms.

Shadowy sensations stole through her—the scent of heather, the salty tang of sweat, the warm glow of something foreign to her experience—tenderness.

Her fingers clamped into fists as the Glen Lyon slowly made his way to the desk. The oil lamp balanced all too precariously where Mama Fee had set it down, spilling its light into the chamber, next to the fresh bowl of water and a cloth for washing that lay atop the tray. Doubtless, the Scotswoman didn't allow grubby boys—or men—at her breakfast table, Rachel thought with a stab of hysterical amusement. No, the rebel traitor Glen Lyon must be freshly scrubbed, with hair brushed, before he sat down to his bannocks.

Gavin dipped the cloth into the water with his right hand, and pressed it to his face. One glimpse of the bandage, stained with his blood, should have been enough to rein in Rachel's tongue. Yet the sight of the wound, the memory of his amusement over the incident, his kindness to the old woman and Adam, and, most uncomfortable of all, to Rachel herself nagged at her.

It wasn't supposed to be this way—so confusing. The world was simple, her papa had always taught her—heroes and villains, knights and dragons, cowards and the brave men. It was a simple mosaic for living, one in which the pieces had always fit so neatly. Why was it she suddenly felt as if Gavin Carstares was the one piece that wouldn't fit anywhere? Desperation bubbled in her chest as he turned his back to her. With the light running its golden fingers across the muscles of his back, she was tempted to touch him as well. Suddenly Rachel froze, as she saw the scars.

How could such wicked gashes have escaped her notice the night before? They were slashed across the vulnerable plane of his back as if someone had tried to cut him down from behind in an act of pure cowardice.

No. Lord Gavin Carstares was the man labeled coward. Coward... she clutched that thought as if it was the most powerful of talismans.

"What happened to your back?" she demanded.

He turned to her, and for once there was something dark in those eyes, something painful, hidden—a wound, one it would be dangerous to probe too deeply.

"How do you think I got them?" he inquired evenly.

"I don't know. Otherwise, I wouldn't make a fool of myself by asking."

"I'm a coward, Rachel. I'm sure you haven't forgotten that. How do you think a man would get cut down from behind... unless he was running away?"

She couldn't stifle her gasp of sick horror, recoiling from him and the picture he painted with his steady confession. Hadn't she had known that it would be such a thing that would brand him thus—some heinous incident that had christened him with the dread sobriquet of
coward?
Why did it bother her so deeply, shake her so thoroughly to hear the bitter mockery in his voice?

"My men were in the thick of the fighting at Prestonpans. Prince Charles had wanted Glenlyon to lead—an honor for having served the Stuarts so well in other glorious, futile butcheries. I'd never killed a man before, never faced that kind of death and destruction. But I was supposed to hurl my command down into the midst of that hellhole, to send them down to die."

He glanced at her, something disturbing, discordant in his gray eyes—a haze that shielded him somehow, or hid some part of him away. "I turned coward the instant my men began to fall. I turned and ran. A calvary officer charged across the field and cut me down. I'm certain your father would say the only pity was that the officer's sword thrust wasn't deep enough to kill me."

She'd been raised on tales of glorious charges, epic heroism, instead of the usual fairy-tale nursery fare. And the beaus who had flocked about her had stumbled over themselves to provide her with the most stirring tales of battle. She'd never thought of it as a curse until the scene Gavin Carstares had painted with his words played out all too vividly in her mind.

Soldiers, blinded by confusion, helpless without their commander, flailing in the battle Gavin hadn't had the courage to face himself.

She turned away from him, trembling. A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to be attempting to beat their way out of her breast. Never had she felt a deeper need to escape this cave, this man, these new feelings that were tearing her apart inside.

"If you dare so much as touch me again, I swear I'll shoot straighter this time."

He stilled, his voice suddenly quiet. "I'm counting on it."

Rachel's fingers clenched in the folds of coverlet, a desperate litany rampaging through her head. She had to escape—get away from him—before it was too late.

CHAPTER 8

Rachel stalked out of the cave into the sunshine, chipped plates tucked against her midsection, a hard knot of desperation lodged in her throat. After two weeks of drizzly, miserable weather, the makeshift table had been dragged out into the fresh air, settled beneath the spreading branches of a tree at Mama Fee's behest so that the "wee bairns" could catch some sunshine before the winter came.

The children were racing about in some raucous game of murder and mayhem, battle cries that should have been heard all the way to Edinburgh piercing the air, while the dread Glen Lyon held the first casualty of the game—a sprite of a little girl—on his lap, distracting her from her scraped knee by teaching her to paint a flower in Celtic interlacing.

They might have been a family on holiday, except that Papa and his brother practiced treason instead of playing at piquet, and the gentle old woman had misplaced her mind.

But then, it was little wonder that Fiona Fraser's wits had frayed. After two weeks as the Glen Lyon's hostage, Rachel was beginning to doubt her own sanity. And it was all Gavin Carstares's fault. The man was a wizard, a sorcerer who made the ridiculous seem sane, the impossible seem logical, miracles seem commonplace. But as for reality—Rachel gave a snort of disgust—reality had no place in the Glen Lyon's domain.