The Rogue (6 page)

As the fire died, he decided that, as awkward as it might be, he’d likely end up bringing Birdi to Beal Castle. There was no reason he couldn’t woo his hoped-for bride, marry her, and settle Birdi all in one fell swoop. He and his bride could then set out for the coast, for Drasmoor and Blackstone, where he’d claim the keys to Donaliegh.

Pleased he’d come up with a workable plan, he yawned and noticed Birdi shivering. Bloody hell. He’d forgotten to check her wound. Hoping she wasn’t down with fever he went to her.

He touched her cheek and was surprised to find it cold. He ran a cautious finger along the exposed part of her neck and found the same.
Humph!

He could stay awake all night feeding the fire—and she might still remain cold—or he could wrap her in his own warmth and mayhap get a few hours of much needed sleep himself. He opted for the latter. They had a long ride on the morrow.

He pulled back her covering and stretched out beside her. Resting his head on his arm, he cradled her into his chest. A minute later, he realized his mistake.

T
he woman fit his body as if she were made just for him. He inhaled, filling his lungs with the scent of her, of female musk and the lingering scent of sunshine and grain.

It took all his willpower to keep his hand from slipping up from where it draped across her slim waist. Jaw clenched, he eased his hips back. What on earth had possessed him to think he could lie beside her and sleep? And what kind of an animal was he? The poor wee lass was injured, for heaven’s sake.

Merciful Lord, keep an eye on yer fool else I shame the pair of us. Please.

Hoping it might help, he started reciting the rosary in his mind. In the middle of his tenth decade of Hail Marys, he drifted off, still aware and yet comforted by the steady rise and fall of Birdi’s breathing beneath his hand.

 ~#~

Birdi woke with a start. Something warm lay next to her, purring in her ear. Not daring to move—fearing she’d next feel its claws—she cautiously opened her eyes. Her heart thudded. Nothing smelled or sounded familiar. She then caught sight of a blurry but gleaming wall of water and her mind flooded with memories of falling, of being terrified, and then being nearly whipped to death while racing through the forest on horseback.

With a certainty she’d never felt before in her life—without touching, without sniffing—she kenned what lay at her back. It wasn’t a large cat, as she’d initially feared but him—the Canteran.

It hadn’t been a nightmare after all.

Heart thudding, she cautiously peered over her shoulder. Aye, ‘twas Angus, and he was still asleep. She held her breath. What should she do? Could she reach his sword before he did and demand that he bring her home? Or should she just bolt while she still had a chance? After giving both ideas a moment’s thought, she knew neither would likely succeed. He was bigger and faster than she by a hundredfold. What was needed was stealth.

Her confidence bolstered by the many trips she’d taken around Macarthurs, she slowly raised the heavy arm draped across her waist. With a held breath and at a pace to make any snail proud she eased out from under it and came to her knees. She rose and padded on silent feet toward the wall of water.

Dry sand changed to cold damp stone as she drew nearer. Throat parched, she extended a cupped hand. The force of the rushing water slapped her wrist back and made her gasp. Well!

She’d just have to drink from the river when she got to it. She sidled to the right with one hand extended, her right foot tapping before her to be sure she didn’t fall off the ledge. She came to a wall of stone. No. She was sure he’d led her in this way. But then she’d been exhausted and upset by the gulls, so mayhap...

She held out her left hand and tapped her way across the ledge only to hit another wall. “No! This isna happening.”

She slapped her hands over her mouth and looked over her shoulder, peered into the darkness but couldn’t see him. She prayed she hadn’t awakened him. At least, he wasn’t looming behind her.

Frustrated, cold, and thirsty, she ran her hands over her chilled arms and realized her skin and clothing were wet. She stepped back and water splashed her shoulder. She squeaked, spun, and held up a hand. Cool water filled her palm. She drank as fast as she could.

Her thirst finally satisfied, she wrung her hands. What to do?

It was now obvious she couldn’t leave without his help. She looked into the blackness of the cave and saw a fuzzy red glow. There was no help for it.

She returned to the heat and the man.

Squatting by the remains of the fire she caught sight of a fish skeleton. She touched it with a tentative finger. What remained was flexible. It had been recently cooked and eaten. She then saw a reed packet and brought it to her eyes for closer inspection. To her delight it held a warm cooked fish. Keeping her gaze on the black mass that was the Canteran, she bit into the fish with a vengeance.

As she ate she pondered.

She hated admitting it but she needed the man lying before her. She was far from home on unknown ground, and needed his sight.

Since he wouldn’t return her, how could she find her way? Wolf had been left far behind.

Too bad this man wasn’t kind like Tinker. Her friend would gladly have taken her home. Tinker! Was there a chance she could contact Tinker? But how? She could write naught but her name. The Canteran might be able to write but he couldn’t know of Tinker. Tinker kenned the exact location of her home. The Canteran didn’t, and she had to keep it that way. He caused the yearnings.

As she pulled the last of the delectable flesh from the bones, she could see faint blocks of gray and brown within the cave and more details of Angus the Canteran, still asleep, curled on his side before her.

Who is this man? What is he?
She’d spent the entire day with him and had only the impression of great size, strength, and eyes as blue as the summer sky.

She wiped her hands on the reeds, then her skirt, and inched around the fire. She came close enough to touch him, but not daring to, she sniffed. He still smelled of pine, fire smoke, and something surprisingly pleasant. Of what, she couldn’t put a name to. She leaned closer. Finding his breathing still slow and deep, her confidence grew. She inched closer still. His odd metal shirt was gone and he now wore only a tunic. The fabric was thick and looked soft. She touched his cuff with a tentative finger. Aye, it was as she imagined and of a finer weave than the kirtle she wore. Costly, if she was any judge of such things. Her gaze shifted left, over his narrow hips. Why did he not wear leggings as Tinker and the men of the village wore? She studied the grooves and rises of his heavily muscled thighs and lower legs. Hmm.

She eyed the silver hilt of the short dagger poking out from beneath one of the leather thongs wrapped around his heavy calves. To have a blade like that! She wouldn’t be in this position had she had such a sharp blade to defend herself with.

Her gaze shifted to the right, up his torso, taking measure of his hardness, of the massive amounts of sinew and muscle. He was so unlike her, so unlike Tinker. And he definitely smelled better than Tinker. She tipped her head to better examine his face and her hair fell into her eyes. With an impatient hand she raked it over her shoulder.

His jaw was dark, bristled with the shortest of dark hairs. Not something she’d want. Feeling decidedly braver than she had at the beginning—this Angus was a very sound sleeper—she fingered a lock of his shoulder length hair. Aye, it was indeed as soft as a hen’s down. She then saw his fine braids. She rolled one between her fingers. Did the secret to keeping hair braided lie not in the weave but in the volume braided? Hmm.

His brow, though badly scarred, was wide. His eyebrows were dark and arched like a hawk’s wings. His lashes were thick, lying still on high, broad cheeks. His narrow nose wasn’t straight but not so crooked as to distract. She decided she liked it. Her gaze then settled on his wide and well-formed lips.

They’d muffled her cry and hid the tongue that had licked her, tasted her. And why? He hadn’t bothered to take a bite out of her. He’d eaten fish instead. Had he found her not to his liking? Sour or bitter? For some reason, she felt insulted. Did he taste any better?

Birdi leaned ever closer, and Angus held his breath.

He’d awakened when she’d gasped, apparently realizing with whom she laid, and had readied to catch her if she tried to bolt but she hadn’t. She’d simply explored, drunk, eaten, and then to his amazement decided to explore him. As he watched through slitted eyes, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as her beautiful face kept shifting from surprise to puzzlement and then back again as she gently touched and sniffed. You’d have thought she’d never been so close to a man as she fingered his hair and studied him inch by inch. When her gaze shifted to his face he was forced to close his eyes. He could feel her breath on his cheek and desperately wanted to see what she thought. Was she frowning or smiling? And more than anything in the world he wished to feel her mouth on his.

Her lips caressed his with no more pressure than a butterfly could muster. He held his breath wondering what she’d do next. To his utter amazement her tongue grazed his lips. He groaned.

As if by its own accord, his left hand slid to the back of her neck. He pressed her closer, parting her lips further. She gasped, and he swept in to discover she was more pliant and delicious than he—even in his most lustful of moments—had imagined.

With heart and blood racing with expectation, he slipped his free hand about her waist. Before he could execute a roll, could get her beneath him, her hands slammed into his chest. Startled, his eyes flew open. The fear in her eyes made him set her free.

She scampered back, a hand on her lips.

Shit
.

Sorely disappointed, Angus rocked up onto his knees. “Dinna fash, Birdi. I told ye I’ll not harm ye, and I’m a man of my word.” He sighed, gave himself a shake, and pointed at the remains of her fish. “Are ye still hungry, lass?”

She shook her head hard and came to her feet, one hand coming to rest at her waist.

“How is yer wound?” She moved with ease and hadn’t felt feverish when she’d kissed him, but then he’d been distracted.

“Fair. I dinna bleed anymore.”

He rose and stretched, his hands pressing the cave’s roof. “Good. We’ve a good distance to travel today if we’re to make Beal by tomorrow’s gloaming.” And they’d be lucky to make it even then.

She wrung her hands and backed away. “I dinna want to go to Beal. I want ye to take me back to the glen.”

“I ken ye do, lass, but I can’t.” The Macarthur was out for his blood, and even if the bastard wasn’t, Angus hadn’t the luxury of time.

Looking crest-fallen, Birdi nodded. “They fear me.”

He scowled, was about to ask what she meant, and noticed she was quaking like a birch in a high wind. “Ack, are ye cold again?” He shook out his breacan feile and handed it to her. “Here. Wrap this about ye.”

She hesitated but finally took it. He reached into his sporran, withdrew the salve the Macarthur woman had given him, and handed it to her. “I’ll go out and give ye a bit of privacy so ye can dress yer wound.” With the sweet taste of Birdi still lingering in his mouth, he didn’t need to be seeing her half naked. He’d likely tup her where she stood.

He turned to leave, and her nails dug into his right hand. Her eyes, as light as the water at her back, were wide. “Ye willna leave without me?”

He pried her fingers loose and patted her hand. “Lass, I promise I’ll not leave.” Humph! In the last day she’d tried to kick his teeth in, run from him, and kiss him, had pleaded for her release, and now she was begging him not to leave without her. Women! He’d never understand them, which was another reason he’d never wanted a wife. Ack!

Laden down with his saddle and mail, he strode between the boulders and out from behind the waterfall and down to the river, to Rampage.

Birdi, heart beating like a frightened rabbit’s—praying he’d keep his promise, praying he wouldn’t leave her to perish in this damp world behind a wall of water—remained rooted in place long after Angus the Canteran had disappeared into the shadows.

There is nothing I wouldna give to be able to move about as he does. Nothing.

And what on earth had possessed her to place her mouth on his? To taste him? Had it been the
need
? Her palms had itched. More surprising than her doing it was discovering his lips pleasingly pliant. She did as he had done, took a wee taste with her tongue and encountered his tongue, as soft as antler velvet, as sweet as any berry. A heartbeat later—before she could pull away—he’d taken control, held her firmly in place and his tongue had stroked hers. It caused heat to sear a path to her middle, swirl as his tongue did, then settle between her thighs. ‘Twas only then did she recognize what he was doing...summoning the
yearnings.

Yearnings far stronger, fiercer, than her dream had summoned.

She’d reared back in shock, her fingers flying to tingling lips, her mother’s words echoing in her head.
The yearnings are evil, Birdi. They scramble yer mind and make yer wode.

Aye, Minnie.
Wode.

She had to leave...had to go before it happened again. Before what happened to her mother happened to her.

The lesson learned: he took control. Quickly.

She pulled the plug on the jar of poultice and sniffed. It smelled of black currant, juniper, and willow. It would do for now.

She stripped the dressing from her waist. The gash hurt as a burn might, but that was to be expected. She applied the poultice, redressed her wound, and was struggling with the plaid, trying to re-drape it about her, when she heard footfalls behind her. She spun and clouted Angus the Canteran smack in the nose.

Oh, Goddess!

Hissing, he grabbed her hands in one calloused fist. “Lass, if ye dinna stop jumping every time I come up on ye, I’ll be forced to truss ye up like a Michaelmas goose.” He blew in obvious annoyance and hauled her toward the light. Pondering what a Michaelmas goose might be, she tripped. He stopped and eyed her from top to bottom.