Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (17 page)

"Did I mention that?" he growled.

The color deepened in her cheeks. Without answer, she walked to the wall cupboard to put the wrapped oatcakes inside.

He sighed, regretting his burst of rancor. Fire existed between them, searing hot; he knew the signs well enough. He understood fire of any sort, and he felt the burn now, saw its spark in her. Although their passion could not be allowed to erupt again, that sort of heat had a demanding nature. It expressed itself in continual flares in both of them, like stars sizzling at night.

That turbulence he regretted, for he cherished her friendship. Sighing, he stepped closer. She turned and bumped into him, and he steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. She tensed, as if ready to spring away.

"Were we not friends once, Eva MacArthur?" he murmured.

"We were. But you have changed." Her gaze was solemn. "You are more... guarded. You have secrets. I feel it strongly."

He flexed his fingers on her shoulder, determined to keep those secrets from her. Yet the clarity in her eyes pierced him, heart and soul. Her intuitive, forthright nature could discern what he wanted to conceal.

"I am older and wiser," he said. "I have seen things and learned things... that I wish I did not know." He lowered his hands and stepped back. "That is what you feel from me. Only that has changed me."

She studied him. "What happened in France, Lachlann?"

Jaw tightening, he glanced away. "No more than happened to any man." Seeing her concerned frown, sensing that she wanted to question him further, he rushed on. "As for this dispute, here and now, I do not like my loyalty questioned."

"If you could prove your support of my kinsmen, would you?"

He cocked his head. "And yet you will not give this up."

"My kinsmen want you to make weapons for them," she said bluntly. "They want your loyalty tested and measured. Simon must be sure of you before he will meet with you."

He scowled, but appreciated her honesty. "I presume these weapons would be used for something other than hunting."

She stared at him without reply, an answer in itself.

Lachlann let out a harsh breath. "You are betrothed to a Campbell. Would you ask me to arm your kinsmen against Campbells, and against the king?"

Furrowing her smooth brow, she shook her head. "Colin's influence may gain them a pardon one day. But they must be able to defend themselves now. And their rebellion is a righteous one. Surely you see that."

"I do. It does not mean I will help them with rebellion."

"Why not?"

"Why should I agree to join this cause before I even speak with Simon? It is insurrection and treason to make weapons expressly for rebels to use against the crown. And there is the expense and the work itself to consider—not to mention the risk to their lives, for love of God," he added fiercely.

"We are not asking you to supply boys with sharp things," she snapped.

"Eva, I cannot do this." He could not tell her why.

"Then Simon will not meet with you."

Something cracked in him, prodded by her anger, by her hurtful mistrust of him, by the continual sizzling tension between them. He took her by the arms, more strongly than he meant to do. A myriad of intense feelings—fear, anger, passion, and an undeniable hurt—thundered through him. Eva gasped and gripped his muscular upper arms, even as he grasped her.

"If you doubt my loyalty, test it yourself," he growled. "There is one way to know."

Almost before he knew what he did, he was kissing her, fierce and hard. His lips moved over hers, and a hunger exploded in him. Eva responded with a faint half cry, sinking into his grip. She lifted her hands against his chest, and moaned softly.

The kiss became another, and yet another, like a bright, hot chain forged between them. She returned each one, and he felt her need meet his, flame to flame, real and hungry.

Lost, utterly lost, and he knew it. Blood and sinew, breath and soul, filled to bursting. Dreams, years of them, flooded him. In urging her to test him, he now tested himself against what he had denied his heart for so long.

Stop,
he urged himself.
Before it is too late.
Breathless, he pulled back, hands still wrapped around her arms. Eva leaned her palms against his chest as if only that held her upright. Her breasts heaved, and her lips were blushed deep rose.

"Now," he said severely, "ask your woman's heart if I am a trustworthy man." He released her and went to the door. Yanking it open, he strode outside, grateful for the cool buffet of the wind in his face.

Chapter 12

"I ought to make his bed from twigs and bracken," Eva muttered as she flung bits of heather into two large mounds. Choosing sprigs for Lachlann's bed while she recalled his astonishing kisses, her cheeks burned. The sun sank low, and Lachlann had not returned to the house, and still she sat, tossing heather and muttering like a madwoman.

Another soul-melting thrill went through her as she remembered a ribbon of kisses, one weaving into another. She could not forget the strong band of his arms, the heat of his mouth, as much as she tried to resist each stirring memory. Frowning, she told herself to stomp down to the smithy and tell him that she would not tolerate such advances.

In truth, she desperately wanted to kiss him again. Yet no matter how his embrace had warmed and weakened her, or brought to life her most cherished dreams, any risk to her marriage was a risk to her kinsmen. She would be a fool to allow Lachlann to be anything more than a friend.

Yet she did want to allow him more, and fiercely so. She moaned and flung more sprigs into the pile, realizing that their once reliable friendship, now laced with passion, would never be the same. That prideful, stirring kiss was not the mark of brotherly emotion.

That, she decided, was what she must tell him: to befriend her or leave her be. Snatching up a plaid, she spread it on the floor, dumped the heather foliage in it, and tied the corners together. Then she hefted the bundle over her shoulder and opened the door. Solas and Grainne ran outside with her, and she slammed the oaken planking hard before heading over the meadow.

* * *

Lachlann shifted through the scrap iron pile, assessing what was there, but he could not keep his mind on his task. He tried to move the canted plough that took up most of the corner, but it would not budge. He kicked it, and it fell over with a clang. A further shove released a little of his anger and frustration.

What he most wanted in life were impossibilities now: to work steel, though he no longer could; to defend a girl destined to become an icon; and to love Eva with his heart and soul—but that was not to be, either.

Yet he had taken her into his arms and kissed her as if she was his alone. His body hardened at the vivid memory, and he longed to follow the natural course of his desire. All his will had been brought to bear when he had let go of her.

Coining back to Balnagovan was more than foolish, he told himself; it could prove ruinous, even disastrous, for both of them, and for others. He shoved his fingers through his hair in exasperation, then went to the door, yanking it open. The crisp air cleared the turmoil in his mind and lured him outside. He looked in the direction of the house, through the amber glow of the sinking sun.

Eva crossed the meadow, the plaid bundle over her shoulder. She strode toward the smithy, annoyance clear in every step, her expression dark and determined.

He was familiar with Eva's flash-fire temper, although womanhood had softened it. Well warned, he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms to wait.

She stomped through the yard, swung the plaid off her back, and shoved it at him with such force that he stepped backward through the door. Holding the bundle, she backed him up further.

"Here is your bed," she snapped, pushing past him. She carried the pack to an empty corner, where she dumped it with a flourish. The knots slid open and heather tumbled out. "Make it yourself, and may you never have a moment's peace in it! That is better than you deserve!" She whirled.

"Eva—" He reached for her arm, but she jerked away.

"Do not think you can grab me again!"

"Eva, I ask your pardon."

"For what? What you did just now, or earlier?"

"For the kiss. It was... unseemly of me."

"Ac/z," she said, sounding more anguished than angered. "You come back to Balnagovan and kiss me as if you had never left, and then you expect me to dismiss it. Perhaps you can do that, but I cannot. It meant something to me, then and now," she added intensely, "even if it meant nothing to you."

"What did it mean to you?" he murmured. "Then, and now?"

She glanced away. "I am a woman now, not a silly girl who does not know her own feelings. The last few years have been difficult, and I have been... lonely. And I try... so... hard"—she gasped, and he saw that she fought tears—"to do what I believe is right, even when I do not want to do it. And then you come back here, and—oh!" She tossed her hands high in frustration and sent him a little glare. "I am not saying what I want to say."

A brief smile twitched at his lips. He should not enjoy her flustered state, but he did. She was so passionate. So genuine. "What is it you want to say?"

"I do not know," she said, and folded her arms, frowning still.

Something sparked in him then: hope. He had not felt it in a long while, but he was sure of it. He narrowed his eyes, and the little lights, like fireflies or faeries, danced again in his vision. Intent on her, he scarcely noticed them.

One kiss, and the dice had rolled another way. Hope flickered, and brightened further when he saw how genuinely angry she was with him. He knew the temper, and knew the girl. She was stirred, deep within. Her emotions were like water, full of depth; she had returned that kiss with equal fervor.

Perhaps her feelings for him went beyond friendship after all, as he had once thought, on a beach at Beltane. Perhaps years spent dreaming of her could come to fruition somehow, if she truly did not want that betrothal. He hardly dared to think about it, but he saw the potential as clear as a rainbow.

Her chin quivered. Seeing that, he wanted to draw her into his arms again.
Wait,
he told himself. If what he hoped was true, if her feelings for him matched or even touched upon his own, the power of it would not be denied.

"I ask your pardon. I was angry, and thought to prove my point—that I can be trusted, even with you in my arms."

"That kiss proved nothing." She lifted her chin.

"You are betrothed already. It was unseemly of me. We were never intended for each other." He made himself say that, though he believed the opposite was indeed true. But if Eva wanted Colin, and preferred the marriage, he had to know.

"N-never intended for each other," she echoed, looking away, a tiny fold between her brows.

"The daughter of a clan chief, and a blacksmith's son—your father would never have tolerated that. He chose the marriage he thought best for you, and of course you must honor that."

"I—I must. And I want what is best for my clan. But I never wanted—I do not—" She gestured vaguely, gasped. He wondered if it was Campbell she did not want, or the blacksmith's son. He gave her time to say, but she only bit at her lip and looked truly distressed.

He tilted his head. "Well, then. You have my apology. It will not happen again."

She glanced at him from beneath dark, doubtful brows. "The kiss, or the apology?" she asked, her voice unexpectedly meek.

He twitched his lips in a quick smile. "Which would you like me to repeat? The apology—or the kiss?"

Eva blinked, and paused. Instead of answering, she went to the far corner, kneeling in the heather she had dumped there. As she began to neaten up the tangle, he walked toward her. She glanced over her shoulder.

"I am sorry about the mess." She sounded mollified. "I lost my temper."

"I know all about your temper. No matter. I will toss a plaid over this, and it will be a fine bed."

"Let me fix it for you, as I meant to do." She spread the plaid and folded one end to reserve for a cover. Setting the heather in careful rows on the plaid, she arranged the fanned sprigs in a neat, springy weaving.