Chapter 9

The bitch still lived. Forbes should have killed her. He should have slit her throat with her own jeweled dirk and fled. But he had failed. Even when he had been left alone with her, when he had been given every opportunity, he had failed. Instead, he had kissed her. And the bitch had kissed him back, like a hound in heat.

So she was falling for the cur's charm, was she? Well, all the better, because when Forbes died, she would mourn, and then she would follow him to hell where women like her belonged.

"Has anyone seen me bonnet?" asked an aging fellow with a balding head.

"Anyone seen me tartan?" growled another.

Roderic ignored the questions as did the others at the table, for 'twas the third night in a row they had asked the same. Only Roderic knew both items were safely hidden beneath his humble pallet in the tower.

"So it be true that Lady Fiona Forbes be the verra daughter auld Ian MacAulay lost as a babe?" asked old Alexander. He had a marked shortage of teeth and was usually the first to seat himself close to Roderic during meals, for he loved a good tale as well as any man there.

The hall was busy this evening. The balding fellow and his companion moved off, mumbling about thieves in their midsts. Warriors and servants and roving hounds mingled. 'Twas the fourth day Roderic had been allowed in the hall, but still he had learned little of Flanna's nocturnal whereabouts. "Aye," he said in answer to the old gaffer's question. "Fiona is Ian Mac-Aulay's daughter. And me brother, Leith, has the scars ta prove it."

There were chuckles from his circle of listeners. "’Tis said she be a feisty thing," commented someone.

"Feisty?" Roderic raised the drinking hom to his lips. In the past days he had come to know these people. In fact, he had stood elbow to elbow with a few, heaving a shovel or pick. Digging a well in the rocky earth of Dun Ard was not a simple endeavor, but it did relieve some of his roiling frustration. "Nay. A wildcat is feisty. Lady Fiona is ... dangerous."

More chuckles greeted his words. There were few traits the Highlander appreciated more than spirit. "But is she na a healer?"

Roderic canted his head, then stabbed a piece of venison from a nearby bencher. "'Tis truth I tell ye, lads," he began, then paused for effect as he held the meat high. "Were Fiona here, she could breathe life into this buck's lungs."

Groans of disbelief greeted his words, but Roderic pulled his most offended expression and continued. "Dunna doubt me. The beast would stand upon this verra table, complete with hide and hair and a full rack of antlers."

The groans grew in volume, generously peppered with chuckles. The MacGowans did not resent Roderic's propensity to stretch the truth. In fact, if their demeanor toward him was any indication, they believed his vow that he had nothing to do with Simon's death and the loss of their stock. But if they did, they were not yet willing to set him free. Only to listen to his tales and delay further judgment. "Gawd's truth," he lied glibly.

The chuckles turned to laughter, and not a person turned away. Leith had oft said Roderic could entrance a snake if given a couple mugs of ale and a few viable lies. He grinned and drank again. The MacGowans, it seemed, were not so different from the Forbeses. Less prosperous, less prolific, but with the same zest for life and the same proud spirit.

"And I suppose the lady's beauty rivals the splendor of the sun," said someone.

Roderic lifted his gaze from his horn. "'Twould take the multitude of stars and the moon itself ta so much as dim her glory. Her eyes ..." He lifted his hand, palm upward. "They are like two jewels so rare that none can afford their value. Deep as Loch Ness and just as mysterious, they are. And her hair..." He sighed dramatically. "’Tis rich as winter berries and burns with its own light. Aye," he said with a shake of his head. "When Lady Fiona is near, na fire need be lit, for her beauty warms the hall like a thousand blazes."

"Woe ta us!" someone said loudly. "For if Laird Leith knows yer feelings for his lady, he will surely leave ye here forever."

There was laughter from every listener. Roderic, too, chuckled. Lifting his horn to the speaker, he nodded in concession. "Set in plenty of supplies, lads," he said. "Winter comes early and I like ta eat well."

"Lock up the lasses," someone warned. "If Roderic the Rogue be staying."

"Nay," called another. "Methinks we need na fear, for he says there is none to rival his sister by law and the Rogue Forbes seems fair smitten by her."

"Smitten? Mayhap," said Roderic, finally letting his gaze rest on Flanna. She sat upon a high-backed chair at the center of the hall. Although the benches around her table were filled, she spoke to no one. "But I didna say there were none ta rival her beauty."

"Merely that the moon and stars could na."

"Aye," Roderic conceded. "But far be it from me to think a lass is na more inspiring than the constellations."

"Dare touch that inspiration, lad, and the Flame will burn yer fingers off," warned old Alexander, leaning close and nodding toward the lady of the hall.

Roderic drew his gaze from Flanna to settle it on the old man's weathered face. "Ye think so?"

"Aye." The old one nodded. "She be our flame, and too hot for the likes of ye."

"Now get back, lads," said the maid called Effie as she tried to push her way through the mob with a fresh pitcher of ale. "Canna ye let Forbes eat in peace for a moment's time?"

"We be discussing important business here," complained a nearby warrior.

"Aye, I ken what be important ta ye men," she said, then gasped as someone's hand found her well-padded bottom. Though she tried to look angry, there was a spark of humor in her eyes. "Ye most likely be discussing which lass has the softest bum."

They chortled in response before a man named James spoke up. "If that be the question, I would be the one ta ask, for the maids have a weakness for me."

Several men groaned. Someone threw a bit of venison at him. It caught in James' beard, and he picked it out with a chuckle and ate it.

"And whose would ye say would be the softest, Forbes?" asked Alexander.

"Softest?" Roderic mused, not shifting his gaze from Flanna's back. "Perhaps 'tis firmness I desire. The firmness of a rider's seat"

"Dunna even think about her," warned James, anger sparking in his eyes. "She is na for the likes of ye."

"Nay." Nevin slipped onto a bench, holding a mug and scowling thoughtfully. "But I fear she is na for any man."

"What do ye mean by that?" asked James.

Nevin's fair cheeks colored, and he quickly took a quaff of beer. "I have already said more than I should."

"What do ye speak of, lad?" Alexander asked.

"She is a brave woman," Nevin said quickly.

"Na one said she was na," James reminded him.

"And I would give my life for her," Nevin said. "I would fight any man who would say she should not rule the MacGowans, any man who would say it is not a woman's place. That we are not men enough to choose a true laird, that we are laughed at by the other tribes."

Around the table, the men were suddenly quiet.

"I am na laughing," Roderic said.

Nevin stared at him for a moment then pulled his gaze away.

"I worry about none of that," Nevin continued. "It is good that she leads us. But what of an heir? Should she not have a husband?"

"And what makes ye think she willna?"

"Because she prefers her stallions," said Nevin.

"Damn ye!" James swore, rising to his feet.

But Nevin had already gone pale. "I did not mean it like that. Sweet mother of God, I but mean she spends so much of her time in the stable. I've seen nothing to suggest any ... sinful acts with her steeds. Truly ..." He seemed to be trying to convince them, and yet the flush on his normally pale face suggested the opposite. "I've seen nothing."

No one at the table spoke. But not far away someone laughed, accentuating the silence. James found his seat.

Effie cleared her throat. "Well, 'tis a lot any of ye know," she said, "for 'tis said the Flame has chosen her kindling."

"What?" Alexander asked.

Effie leaned close as she poured a bit of beer into the old man's horn. "She has a suitor."

"What?" Nevin said, looking up quickly. Marjory started at the sound of his voice and glanced up from where she poured a drink for her lady several rods away.

"How ye be knowing this, Effie?" James asked.

"Was bound to happen," said old Alexander.

But despite his words, every man there seemed relieved, as if they thought Flanna's independence somehow unnatural. As if they thought she had no desire for a man. Obviously, none of them had ever felt her tremble beneath his hands. That thought made Roderic feel slightly better, but he reined in his optimism and concentrated on Effie's next words.

"Marjory told me," she said.

"Her maid?"

"Aye."

"And what did she say? Who be the lad?"

Effie drew herself up, enjoying her importance. "I am thinking I have already said too much."

"Devil take it!"

"Tell us, lass."

"Verra well," agreed Effie, eagerly leaning nearer. "’Tis said there was a love note on her pillow some days past."

"Nay! On her pillow?"

There were hushed denials and arguments.

"'Tis true." Effie nodded smugly. "Marjory saw it with her own eyes before the lady snatched it away."

Roderic allowed himself a single sigh of relief. So Flanna's suitor was himself. Still, that did not explain her nocturnal whereabouts. But if she had a lover, she must keep him well hidden indeed.

"I dunna ken who," Effie whispered. "But if I had ta place me bets I'd put me coin on Troy."

Troy! It took all of Roderic's self-control to keep from jerking to his feet and screaming the man's name out loud.

Old Alexander had no such inhibitions. "Troy!" he cackled softly. "'Tis daft ye are. He's auld enough ta be her da."

The toothless way he said it made a few men chuckle. Roderic was not amongst them. Neither was Effie.

"Aye, but he's still a virile man, and there are them who like their men well aged."

"Nay," argued someone. "'Tis Bullock she favors."

"Burke?"

"He's a right braw lad."

Bullockl Roderic steamed in silence. Good Lord, not Bullock. He had a fat neck.

"Bullock would be a fine choice for the Flame. Their bairns would be as braw as the oak. Dunna ye agree, Forbes?" asked Alexander, turning to Roderic. But Roderic had risen to his feet. "Forbes?" he said. "Where ye be going?"

Roderic didn't answer, for Flanna was within his sight and anger was in his soul.

She didn't look at him as he approached her table.

He remained silent a moment, soothing his temper. "Good eventide," he said to the side of her head.

She turned finally, showing in her cool emerald eyes that she had been well aware of his presence for some time.

"Might I sit and share a few words?"

"As ye can see, all seats are taken," she said, nodding toward the far end of her table.

"Aye," he said, "but I have important issues ta speak of." Had she met someone in the dark of the night? Didn't she know that he lov... lusted after her? Hadn't she read his note? Of course he hadn't signed it, but he had thought she would hope it was from him. Perhaps, instead, she had shown it to her lover. Perhaps they had even laughed over it.

"Such as?" she asked.

"Such... such as?" he repeated, losing the trail of their conversation.

"What did ye wish ta discuss, Forbes?"

"Ahh," he said, trying to sound thoughtful. Heaven's gate, he was acting like a love-smitten, knobby-kneed lad. "'Tis .. .'tis a matter of some import."

"So ye have said."

"And should be spoken of in private."

"I believe my people have a right to hear words that may affect their lives."

Despite his anger, Roderic could not help but admire her. She was as regal as a queen, filled with beauty and intelligence and a caring she kept carefully hidden. In short, the MacGowans did not deserve her, for they did not appreciate her as they should. They thought her unnatural. More interested in her stallions than men, indeed! What a ridiculous notion. But he could make them see her value, if he were her husband. God's wrath! He was losing his mind! He would have to be a pain-loving dolt to wish to tie himself to any woman who called herself the Flame.

"Say what ye've come to say," she ordered.

Who is your lover? He almost asked the question that hounded him. But good sense and the desire to remain alive stopped him. "'Tis about a cistern." Good God! A cistern? Sometimes it seemed that his lips were possessed when he was near her. Even he could not guess what they might say next.

"A cistern?" she asked. Those around her table had gone absolutely silent Every man there watched him. He used to have some pride, Roderic reminded himself. Where had it gone?

"Aye, a cistern. If properly designed, ye could draw water on every floor of Dun Ard."

Beside her, Troy rose to his great height, and Roderic could not help but think the man looked disgusted by his choice of topics. "'Tis truly a personal matter ye have ta discuss with her, Forbes," he murmured and then he said more loudly, "Take me seat."

Roderic did so, but the quiet that surrounded them was chilling. Close at hand, several warriors rose and left in rapid succession.

"Is it me?" Roderic asked.

Flanna toyed with her roasted ptarmigan before finally raising her gaze. "Nay, Forbes. I have promised to sell three trained steeds to the MacGraw. It seems my men do not approve of my decision to deliver them myself. They think it unbecoming of Dun Ard's lady. They did not say whether it was unbecoming of their leader. Mayhap they forget I am both." She watched him carefully.

Despite himself, Roderic smiled. She was a rare one, and he would not insult her intelligence by pretending things were different than they were. "Mayhap 'tis yer manly attire that they find disconcerting," he said quietly. "It could make them feel less like men."

Her eyes met his in sudden, brilliant shards of green. "And does it make ye feel less manly, Forbes?"

"Nay," he said on a soft breath, feeling the impact of her presence to the depths of his soul. "Ye make me feel more the man” For one instant it seemed there was no one on the earth but the two of them. But in a moment, she turned her gaze to her trencher.

"Do ye know how to construct a cistern, Forbes?" she asked. Her tone was suddenly cool, as if she had felt none of the heat between them. What would it take to penetrate her defenses, to have her trust him? But, in truth, that was not all he wanted. He wanted her, he realized suddenly. He wanted her in his arms and in his bed, true. But he also wanted himself in her thoughts. He wanted to know she dreamed of him and only him. And yet, it seemed as if she could dismiss him out of hand.

"’Tis said ye have chosen a lover," he whispered, needing to draw her attention back to him.

It worked. Her sharp gaze snapped to his. "How dare ye?" she gasped.

Roderic kept his gaze pinned to her face. It was suddenly pale. He had been a fool to say the words, of course. And why had he? He was a master at this game of seduction. What made him act the dolt now? "Shall I take that as a denial?" he asked softly.

"Ye can take that and shove—"

"Is Forbes bothering ye, me lady?" asked Nevin.

"Nay." She didn't look up as she said the word. "Do not concern yourself."

Nevin's narrow hand trembled near his sword, as though he were afraid to lay his hand on the hilt, but there was a passionate light in his eyes. "The lady is not interested in the likes of ye, Forbes," he said. "Say the word, lady, and I will find the courage to run him through."

Roderic rose without thought. "Do ye wish ta try?"

Flame jumped to her feet, and pointed to Roderic's chair. "Sit!" she demanded, then drew a deep breath, calming her tone. "I said he is not bothering me, Nevin. Go."

The quiet sensitivity in Nevin's eyes was momentarily replaced by a fierce light. But it disappeared in an instant, and he turned away.

With a soft exhalation, Roderic sat. If he was going to continue challenging men to duals, he should at least obtain a sword first. He must keep his head, literally and figuratively. But the MacGowans' Flame had a way of making him say and do things far out of character.

"Tell me I was wrong," he said when she found her chair.

"Ye have more nerve than brains, Forbes," she said. "If I chose I could kill ye here and now."

"Tell me ye've taken na lover."

"Why?" she asked hoarsely.

"Because I can think of naught else when ye are in the room." It was a direct quote from the note he had left on her pillow. Her face went pale as freshly fallen snow.

"It was ye?" she whispered, her expression unreadable.

With everything in him, Roderic longed to say yes, to admit that he had breached her bedchamber, had watched her sleep,, had seen her fine body kissed by the gentle light of the fire. "Me what?" he forced himself to ask instead.

She swallowed and pushed her hands under the table. To keep him from seeing them shake? Roderic wondered.

"Yes." When she raised her eyes again, every emotion had been deftly wiped from her face. "I do have a lover, Forbes," she said.

Roderic remained perfectly still, though his heart pounded in his chest "Who is he?"

"'Tis none of your concern."

"But I am concerned," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper to his own ears. "For I think that in yer heart ye are mine."

She rose rapidly, nearly unsettling her heavy chair. "Your vanity far exceeds your wit," she hissed. "I say I have a lover, and he leaves me little time to think of any other."

Frustration rushed through Roderic like an unchecked fire. "Aye, lass, and 'tis rumored his name is Lochan Gorm,'' he whispered, leaning close.

In a heartbeat, her hand gripped his shirt and her knife pricked his throat.

A woman shrieked. Men jumped to their feet. Somewhere near at hand, a pitcher dropped, splattering ale in every direction.

"It will be a pleasure to kill ye!" she growled.

"Flame!" someone yelled.

"Roderic," a woman gasped.

"Lass," Troy rumbled from behind her. "Are ye ta kill him now?"

"Mayhap?" She spoke through her teeth as she pressed the blade against Roderic's throat. "And why na?"

"Because we dunna want Forbes' blood defiling our hall."

"Damn the hall!"

"Lass." Troy's hand was on her arm now. Though Roderic didn't shift his gaze from hers, he knew the Wolfhound was trying to urge her away. "'Twould be a waste of a good hostage."

"'Twould be a waste of me time ta let him live."

Roderic kept his attention riveted to her face. "Rarely have I seen anyone react so violently to a lie," he suggested.

She pressed the blade harder against his throat. "By all that is holy, he wants to die, Troy."

"Then make him suffer, lass. Disappoint him," the Wolfhound soothed. "And let him live."

"'Tis only a matter of time before ye are mine," Roderic whispered.

The blade shook against his throat before she yanked it away. "Take him to the tower!" she ordered. "Or feed him to the hounds.'

'

Within the silent confines of her bedchamber, Flame paced. Roderic! How dare he say the things he had? She stopped to stare out her narrow window. Even now her hands shook.

So the gossipmongers were stirring. Even now, after she thought she had gained some loyalty. But who was she fooling? She was no laird, no chieftain, no great ruler. She was a woman. But not a whole woman. She had given that up. And for what? To please her father? But no, she had realized the futility of that long ago. She had become the Flame because the MacGowans needed her, and because she needed them. She had become the Flame to gain acceptance. But how could they accept her as she was? She was neither a woman nor a man. Neither a laird nor a peasant. She had to be more than all of those, bigger and better and different, without being too different.

There had been a time not so long ago when she had thought she could be like other women. She had dreamed a simple dream, believing, for a while, that she could be loved and cherished by a charming man. But the man chosen for her had proven himself to be less than charming and far less than honest, for he had said he adored her. The truth had shamed her to her soul. For all along, he had loved another.

Flame stared into the abyss of the night outside her window. The memory still made her want to hide as she had after her father had struck her for the first time. But cowering beneath her bed had aided her no more than her tears. And, in truth, Carvell’s betrayal had forced her to stand up to her father. And though her legs had been quaking with fear, she had done so, and refused to marry her betrothed. She could remember her father's rage as if it were yesterday. Even now, she could feel his fists slam into her. The pain had echoed in her skull like distant drums. But before she had lost consciousness, she had told herself that the sins he hated her for were not her sins, but his own. So why did she still feel she must repent?

From somewhere far away, an owl called. The sound carried well in the still air. It had been just this kind of night when a small girl had climbed sick and shaky from a trunk to blink at her first sight of France. Her tears had dried and she had made a vow to be a better child. Not an evil thought would enter her mind, not a cruel word would pass her lips. She would be tractable and soft-spoken until her father would come for her. He would take her in his arms and beg for her forgiveness.

But he didn't. In fact, she had not seen him again for nearly ten years, and then only when she refused to marry. It seemed her betrothed and her father had been cast in the same mold. But that did not mean that all men were alike. 'Twas possible that a man could deal honorably with a woman, was it not?

Without meaning to, she moved to her bed. The note was there, under her pillow.

Slowly, she withdrew it and smoothed it against the white linen that covered her bosom. Pretty words. That's all they were, and yet... it had been a long while since she had felt like a woman.

There were tears in her eyes. They were hot and they stung, but she refused to let them fall.

It was probably just a hoax. No one could truly believe the words that were written on the parchment. No man thought her more beautiful than the heather on the hillock. There was not a man in Dun Ard who was left speechless by her presence.

But someone had been here only a few nights before. Someone had penned the words, slipped into her room, and watched her sleep.

The small hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. The reaction should be caused by anger, she knew, or at least by fear. But it was neither. The reaction was caused by the titillating realization that someone had stood in the dark, mere inches from her. He had thought her beautiful and had not hated her for it. Perhaps he had dreams of holding her in his arms. Perhaps he had seen past her men's clothing into her heart. Perhaps he had seen the fear and loneliness there. Perhaps he was Roderic.

Dear God! She turned quickly from the window, gripping the note. She was being a fool again.

But no longer. She would rip the parchment to shreds. Crumpling the letter in her hands, she prepared to do just that, but her fingers would not tear, her heart would not completely give up hope, though she knew she should.

Loneliness ripped at her soul, but there was someone who would listen and care, and tonight she needed him. Cramming the parchment back under her pillow, she hurried from the room.

The hall was quiet now. All the tables, but the one at which Roderic sat, had been stored against the walls. Men lay scattered about the room, asleep in the rushes and covered with their plaids. The hounds were tied at one wall. The tawny bitch he called Bonny watched him. To his right, William sat slumped with his face squashed against the rough-grained wood of the table.

"Ye are na such a bad sssort, Forbes," Bullock said. His chin was propped precariously on the heel of his hand and his eyelids were at half mast.

"And ye are a terrible dice player. Ye owe me another drink."

Bullock failed to respond. His lids had fallen closed, but one popped open suddenly. "Did I thank ye?"

"For what?"

"For na killing me."

"Nay."

"Ahh," said Bullock before changing the subject with the clever speed seen only in one badly inebriated. "Have ye noticed that the lady Flame has eyes like emerald lochans?"

Roderic tightened his fist. Could it be that Bullock was Flanna's lover? he wondered, but in a moment he discarded that notion. It was far into the night. What man would choose to spend time with his comrades instead of with Flanna if he had a choice?

Bullock was not her lover. But was there someone else? Was she with him even now? Roderic slipped his gaze to the top of the steps.

"Promise ye willna escape this night, Forbes."

Was she holding someone in her arms? Was she giving her lovely, sensuous body to another even as he gambled with an intoxicated guard?

"Forbes."

"What?"

"Promise."

Roderic turned toward Bullock. Slumped over the table as he was, he looked nearly as broad as he was high. "Why should I promise now?"

"Because I am drunk. Prraps ye didna notice."

On the contrary, Roderic had noticed. In fact, he had spent most of the night causing it. "I promise."

"Ahh." Bullock lifted his mug in a sort of salute. "Ye are a good ..." he began, but before his statement was finished, his head fell to the solid table with a resounding thump.

Roderic watched him. "Bullock?"

No answer.

"Ye are a good man, too," he said, and rising to his feet, hurried across the floor and up the stairs to Flanna's room.