Child of the Mist (17 page)

As he stood there, impotently fuming, the door once more opened and Anne slipped through. Niall watched her walk away, well aware her destination was her own room, her purpose the healing of little Davie. With the greatest of efforts, he stifled the impulse to go after her. He couldn't risk his father hearing them. This issue was Anne's and his alone.

A sudden thought assailed him. Did the Campbell even know? Despite the discussion he'd had with his father, had Anne managed to extract permission all the same? The possibility angered Niall but, at the same time, it offered him hope she hadn't completely disregarded his requests, only chose to obey a higher authority.

But, no, it wasn't possible. Anne had been far too quick to step outside his father's chamber when Davie had shown her his hand, closing the door carefully behind her. Those were not the actions of a person with the Campbell's permission.

Anne had no one's leave, yet still she persisted in her stubborn convictions. Niall paused, his eyes narrowing in renewed suspicion. Were her actions the result of her headstrong beliefs or part of the plot to undermine and destroy him? The doubts grew, scoring Niall's heart. Indeed, did Anne's continued disobedience arise from a carefully constructed scheme she shared with the traitor?

With a low growl, Niall forced himself toward his father's chamber. It didn't matter what her motives were. Either way, they ran against his desires. Either way, she'd betrayed him.

All thoughts of a pleasant interlude with Anne after the meeting with his father fled. He was far too angry to face her. If he saw her now, if she even dared give him one of those defiant little smiles, Niall feared he might lose control. And, thanks to a beguiling MacGregor liar, self-control was about all he had left.

"A flagon! Bring me another flagon and be quick about it!" Niall shouted to the servant standing watch nearby.

The man scurried in the direction of the kitchen. Niall turned back to his glass. With an exaggerated flourish, he emptied the last dregs of claret into his goblet, then threw the empty metal flagon aside. He stared at the glass, swirling the ruby liquid so hard it sloshed over the sides to course down his hand.

Blood,
Niall thought, his bleary gaze following the sticky rivulets until they mingled with the hairy expanse of his arm. It might as well be his own blood he was spilling, for all that MacGregor wench cared. One way or another, she was slowly tearing him apart.

The servant hurried over with a fresh flagon. With a low growl, Niall snatched it from him. He downed the remainder of claret in his glass, then refilled it from the new vessel. He'd been drinking for hours. Why couldn't he drown the painful memories? It had always worked before.

But before he hadn't that hot, heavy ache in his loins. The liquor coursing through his veins only stirred it to greater heights, until he felt aflame with desire. Desire for a woman who flagrantly disobeyed him, who mocked his every attempt at friendship . . . at tenderness.

Niall emptied his goblet in one long swallow, heedless of the wine that dribbled out of the sides of his mouth to drip onto his white linen shirt.
She doesn't care
. The thought was like a knife twisting in his gut, but instead of blood, rage poured out.

She didn't care that he'd tried every way he knew to be kind, to ease her way with his clan. She didn't care that she tempted him, set his blood afire. Damn her! He sat here, drinking himself into oblivion, and she felt nothing.

The fury within him burgeoned to explosive proportions, stirring him from his drunken lethargy. Niall staggered to his feet. Why should he be the only one who suffered? Let Anne experience some of the gut-wrenching torment of unfulfilled passion. It wouldn't change anything, but at least it would ease his pain. And she'd never again be safe in her self-absorbed little world.

The servants to a man slunk away as Niall made his unsteady way across the hall. He saw nothing, all his powers of concentration centered on the corridor at the head of the stairs. A corridor that led to a bedchamber wherein waited a beauteous, heartless witch.

Anne raised her eyes from the intricate flowers she was attempting to embroider on the hem of the crimson silk gown. Her eyes moved to Agnes, who was intently working a smaller version of the same pattern at the gown's neckline. How many hours had they been busy now since her return from the Campbell's room? Surely it must be close to time for the evening meal.

The evening meal. A warm glow suffused her at the contemplation of seeing Niall this eve. Though he'd yet to visit her since his return late this afternoon, Agnes had lost no time in informing Anne of his arrival.

For a fleeting instant Anne wondered why he hadn't taken even a brief moment to stop by and greet her, but then she banished the thought as unreasonable. Niall was tanist and had many responsibilities that demanded his immediate attention after a week's absence. The evening meal would be time enough to see him.

With a sigh, Anne shrugged her shoulders to ease the stiffness brought on by hunching over the small pattern of flowers, then critically surveyed the results of her work. The satin stitch of the leaves and petals was lumpy, the running line of the stem unevenly spaced, but the flower's colors were a bright contrast against the crimson fabric. If one didn't look closely, the embroidery didn't appear too badly done. Not bad at all, Anne mused wryly, if one was cross-eyed, half-blind, and besotted with drink.

" 'Twill get easier with practice, lassie," Agnes offered, noting Anne's disgusted frown. "And the Lady Caitlin isna too handy with the needle, either. I doubt she'll see past the fine color and fabric o' the dress herself."

Anne laid aside her portion of the gown and rose stiffly. With a small yawn, she lifted her arms in a stretch. I hope so, Agnes. I want this gown to be a token o' peace between us. I'm at wit's end in trying to make friends with Caitlin." She shook her head in dismay. "Why, I've never seen a more stubborn, unfriendly child in all my life!"

"Give her time, lassie. Little Caitlin's fast growing into a young woman and has her own cares o' the heart to deal with." Agnes frowned. "The young lord seems sore beset with cares o' late, as well. I havena seen him turn so oft to the bottle. Why, no sooner than he returned this afternoon and he was downing one glass o' wine after another."

At the worried look Anne shot her, the old servant nodded solemnly. "Aye, lass. I passed him in the Great Hall only an hour ago and he was still in his cups, glaring so fiercely none dared approach him." Agnes chuckled. "Well, no matter. He'll pay the price for his foolishness on the morrow."

She cocked an inquiring brow. "If ye'll forgive an old woman's curiosity, how do things go with ye and the young lord? I know I overstep myself in asking, but I care for ye both and"

"We are barely friends." A bright flush spread across Anne's cheeks. Holy Saints, first Robert Campbell and now Agnes. Why did everyone seem so interested in her and Niall's relationship today? Were her own thoughts so transparent?

She walked over to gaze out the window. "You see better than most how little time he spends with me, the conflict between us. There is naught worth discussing about Niall Campbell and me.''

"Aye, yer words are true, but even so I see that old fire, that fire he had for his first wife, flaring to life again." The maidservant came up behind Anne and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "And 'tis ye, lassie, ye and no other, who have stirred that fire anew. Does that please ye?"

"Please me?" Anne's gaze caught the first star twinkling in the dark expanse of the night. "What woman wouldn't find the attention o' a man such as Niall Campbell pleasing? For all his blustering male bravado, he can be as kind and gentle as"

The door separating her bedchamber from Niall's swung open, slamming against the stone wall with a loud thud. At the unexpected sound, Anne and Agnes jumped, then whirled around. There, striding into the room, his face flushed and eyes overbright, was Niall.

He was dressed in snug-fitting trews and his wine-stained linen shirt hung loosely open to expose a glimpse of his strong chest and muscled abdomen. His dark mane was disheveled and, when he moved toward them, his gait was just the slightest bit unsteady.

That he was besotted was evident to both women. When his piercing gaze found Anne, a small tremor shuddered through her. The light that burned in his eyes was hard and cold.

Niall beckoned her forward. "So, there you are, my rebellious little MacGregor. Don't hide so in the shadows. 'Twillna help your plight or lessen your well-deserved punishment. Come here, I say."

Anne glanced at Agnes, searching for some sign of how to deal with this new aspect of Niall Campbell. Eyes wide in apprehension, Agnes stared blankly back.

"Agnes, please," Anne whispered. Try as she might, she couldn't quite mask the rising fear in her voice. "You know him better than I. Will he beat me? Tell me what to do."

"II havena s-seen him q-quite like this, lassie," the older woman stammered. "Truly, I dinna k-know what to tell ye."

"I grow tired o' waiting, lady," his ominous voice cut through the air. "You only add fuel to my anger in your disobedience. Don't make me come to you."

Strange that the wine didn't slur his voice, Anne thought for a brief, disjointed moment. He was still completely in command, his tone unyielding and imperative. To prolong the confrontation would be worse than unwise. It would be foolhardy.

Anne gave Agnes's arm a parting squeeze. "Go now. 'Tisn't fitting you be witness to our personal differences."

Agnes hesitated. "But, lassie . . ."

"Nay, no more o' it." Anne gently pushed her toward the door. "I'll be all right."

With one last, uncertain look, the old woman made her way across the room and out the main door.

Anne watched her go, then turned to face Niall. "We are quite alone now, m'lord." She met his furious glare with a steady one of her own. "Pray, what is my crime to warrant such churlish behavior?"

A fierce oath on his lips, Niall reached her side in two swift strides. He grasped Anne by the waist, pulling her tightly to him. A glittering fire lit his eyes to darkest gold, but Anne's glance barely lingered there.

Her gaze riveted on the red, ragged wound that traversed the left side of his face. Who had dared hurt him so? Her hand moved toward the jagged cut. Niall jerked his head away. He grabbed her arm and wrenched it behind her back.

"You've mocked me one time too many," he snarled, his wine-scented breath engulfing Anne in a warm, heady cloud. "Your punishment is long overdue. But before I lock you in the tower, I plan to first ease this ache between my legs. You're the cause o' it, you know, and 'tis past time I had my rightful taste o' you."

Niall's hand moved to Anne's breasts, grasping the cloth of her bodice in one large fist. Realization of his intent flooded her in one sickening, dizzying surge. With a cry of outrage,' she began to struggle in his clasp.

It came far too late. The gown ripped from bosom to waist with one powerful movement of Niall's arm.

Anne's hand shot out, meeting the wounded side of Niall's face with a resounding slap. He staggered back, his own hand moving to the reddening imprint of her fingers across his cheek. Surprise, mixed with pain, flickered briefly in his eyes. Then the hard, shuttered expression returned.