Chapter 6

Despite his late-night excursion, Roderic rose with the dawn.

Flame arrived shortly after. Her legs were encased in brown, supple leather. Her saffron shirt was belted at the waist and fell in soft folds halfway to her knees, and at her side was her ruby-studded dirk.

Roderic glanced at her, tried to adjust his breathing and said, "You've doubled the guard." Flame watched him as if waiting for his comment on her attire. But he refused to act shocked. Intrigued was the word to fit his mood more closely. "'Tis na fair."

"Step back!" Bullock ordered gruffly. Behind him, William, Gilbert, and Nevin looked on. "Step away from the lady."

Roderic shrugged and did as told. Nevertheless, he grinned at her from against the wall. Why did she wear such an outlandish costume? Mannish, some might call it. But the simple saffron shirt caressed her bosom and the leather hose hugged her lower regions. Manly was not the term he would use for it. "How am I ta escape when there are two men at me door and no other way out?"

She watched him closely. Her expression was regal and self-assured, and yet past the polished veneer he sensed fatigue, as if she hadn't slept well. That fact reminded Roderic of his nocturnal visit. He remembered how she had looked in the pale light of the moon, how she had whimpered in her sleep.

It had been difficult to leave her, but he had, taking the parchment with him. In the first rays of morning light, he had read the ghoulish letter over and over. It was short, concise: / am sending this — a-head, so that ye may know that the Forbeses do not parley with MacGowan filth. Leith Forbes.

He could imagine Flanna's expression when she had seen her kinsman's severed head and read the missive. But it was not just the murder that would have worried her. It was the fact that the note was written in blood and contained a sick play on words. / am sending this — a-head...

What kind of man would kill an innocent herald, then compose a sinister joke and blame the deed on another. And why? But the most haunting part of the entire message was the seal that had once held it closed. Stamped into the hardened wax was the image of a wildcat that looked very much like Leith's own seal!

Roderic curled his hands into fists and reminded himself to remain calm. Had someone stolen his brother's seal? Or made a copy of it? Whatever the case, he would find the true villain. And the villain would die.

"I told you at the outset that you would not escape Dun Ard," Flame said.

He watched her eyes. They were entrancing, wide, vividly green and filled with a thousand emotions he could not quite fathom. "So ye did, lass," he murmured, then pulled himself from her eyes to notice the breakfast that had just been delivered. "Am I ta eat alone?"

"Did ye mayhap think that the MacGowans would be falling over each other for a chance to eat with a Forbes?"

It fascinated him that she could banish her doubts and fatigue behind her emerald eyes and meet his gaze full force.

"I had considered it," he said.

She turned away, but he softened his tone and added,

"I am accustomed to the company of me family and friends. In short, I am lonely."

She looked back over her shoulder at him. A queen should look so proud, he thought, and pressed on.

"Might ye na share me trencher?"

"Nay," she said simply and turned away.

"Please" he said softly. "I would speak with ye for a spell. Mightn't ye have a seat?"

"Nay," Nevin warned. "Do not risk it, lady. I know these Forbeses, for my father, bless his soul, used to sell them his wares. They are a crafty lot."

Roderic almost laughed. Four well-armed warriors guarded her. Each man looked hearty, able, and more than willing to cut him into bite-sized morsels should he raise a suspicious finger to her. Still, he was flattered by their worry and glad he had made an impression. "I willna harm her," he vowed. "Ye have me word of honor."

No one moved. Roderic could not quite resist a grin. "What could I do against four guards?"

Bullock shuffled his feet and reddened, probably remembering his disgraceful failure to guard Roderic on the previous day, but Roderic had no need to salt old wounds.

"Yesterday ye werena prepared for me foolhardy attempt at escape, for ye knew I wouldna leave alive," he said. "Be assured that I know ye willna be caught unawares again. Dunna worry. Surely she is safe with me."

Flame nodded once at her men, then turned toward Roderic. All four guards stepped inside, spread their legs, and gripped their weapons.

The room was painfully silent. "Must ye glare at me?" Roderic asked, addressing the guards. "I am na about to devour yer Lady."

"Touch her and ye'll na live long enough ta regret it," Bullock warned.

"Bullock does not oft suffer being made a fool of," Nevin added. "He has some pride."

Roderic watched Nevin before shifting his gaze to Bullock. The stocky warrior's face reddened, the flames of his anger fanned by his companion's reminder of his shame. But Nevin's emotions were not so easily read, though he seemed intelligent and spoke as if he had been well educated.

Drawing his attention from the warriors, Roderic sighed and motioned Flame toward the only chair. "Be seated, lady."

She remained standing where she was. "What is it you wish to speak to me about?"

Roderic moved to the wall nearest her and let his gaze draw in fresh perceptions. Her shirt was laced at the throat with a single narrow strip of leather that was knotted at the bottom, weaved through the holes and tipped with a small cone of pewter that rested against her left breast.

He sighed mentally. 'Twould truly be pathetic to be jealous of a bit of metal.

"What did you want to—"

"’Tis about Leith," Roderic interrupted, wrenching himself from his reverie and snapping his gaze back to her face. "Have ye sent a herald to him yet?"

It was a poor choice of words, for Simon had been a herald and Simon had been decapitated. Roderic had no wish to remind her of that just now, especially since he had recently stolen the note from her room and she was bound to eventually wonder what had happened to it.

"No." Her answer was cool and reserved and did nothing to shed light on her true thoughts. "I have not."

"Then I would like to send a message of me own."

"And why would I allow you to do that, Forbes?"

"Leith is a stubborn man." Roderic let that statement lay in the silence for a moment. "But he is still me brother. And while 'tis true that for a time I thought I might escape this fortress, I see now that I was wrong. I wish to send him a message saying that I am well and that I wish for na blood to be shed. In essence, I wish to recommend that he comply with yer demands."

"But ye do not know what our demands will be."

"Would I appear petty if I admitted that I think me own life ta be worth whatever price ye ask?"

She pursed her lips. They were full and berry-bright. "I will bring ye a quill," she said and turned to go, but he stopped her again.

"Please stay. There is na rush. I would ken, what are yer demands?"

"Ye cannot repay all ye have taken from us, for Simon was a good man and well loved," she said, staring at him from her regal height. "So we but ask for enough goods to ease his widow's burdens and help restore Dun Ard. And, of course, for the return of our stock."

It was no use denying that the Forbeses were at fault until he could prove the truth. And yet he longed to proclaim their innocence, and could not stop himself from asking, "What stock might that be?"

Anger sparked immediately in her eyes. Roderic cleared his throat and tried to look disarming. He took some pride in his innocuous expression. "I mean, what stock, exactly. Ye'll want to be precise."

She drew a deep breath and slipped into the chair. Grace robed her like a velvet cloak. "Ye have taken at least a score of our cattle that were fattening in the glen."

He waited in silence for her to continue.

"More than a dozen sheep were lost or killed."

Beef and mutton were mainstays in the Highlands, but Roderic was beginning to know her mind. "And the horses?"

He saw the anger in the tightening of her lips. "Fourteen steeds are missing, five fine mares, and nine young stallions."

No way in hell would the Forbeses give up fourteen of their valuable mounts to atone for a sin they did not commit, thought Roderic. But he nodded, as if agreeing with her right to have them. "Then ye want them all replaced."

"Nay!" She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair in her haste. "I want those same animals back."

"The sheep?" he asked, knowing he was being contrary.

"Not the sheep! The horses!"

"But perhaps they have been sold. Or perhaps ..." Roderic took a step toward her, though he knew he should not. He knew he should play along, draw out the facts.

Near the door, the guards tensed and raised their weapons.

"Or perhaps the Forbeses didna take them," he suggested quietly.

"Your plaids were clearly identified during the raids!" she countered and leveled her gaze on his. "Ye took them and ye shall return them. Those exact animals."

"But one cow is pretty much the same as—"

"I dunna mean the..." She stopped and narrowed her eyes as if wondering if he was baiting her. Her language changed ever so slightly under duress. It became softly burred. Roderic wondered now about her childhood. Had she spent time abroad? England perhaps? But no, no father could allow such sunshine to leave his life. "I do not mean the cows," she said more slowly. "I mean the horses. We will have our horses returned and will accept replacement for the other livestock."

She really was too attached to those horses, Roderic thought. "I assure ye that the Forbeses steeds be a good deal finer..." he began, then mentally grinned as he changed his course and waited for her anger. He couldn't resist trying to rile her. "I mean to say, the horse ye call Lochan is na verra..." He waved his hand vaguely.

"Come along!" Her order was brusque and brooked no argument.

"Me?" He motioned toward his own chest, as if surprised by her demand.

"I said, come."

Roderic glanced at the guards, tried not to grin, and shrugged. "As ye wish."

Pivoting on her heel, she stalked toward the door. Roderic followed at a respectable distance. He saw the guards' dubious glances at one another and felt no compunction to cause them alarm by doing something foolish.

Her legs were long and her strides quick as she hurried down the narrow, stone steps. Once in the bailey, Roderic took a deep breath of the fresh air and hurried after her. They must seem a strange convoy indeed, he thought—the MacGowan Flame, their notorious prisoner, and four guards, hurrying along as if auld horny himself were on their trail.

Two maids were tending the herb garden beside the kitchen.

"A bonny morning ta ye, Marjory. And to ye," Roderic greeted.

"Be ye coming?" demanded Flame from the door of the stable.

Roderic nodded and solemnly lengthened his strides until he stood before her. "Ye are so impatient, lass," he said, speaking for her ears alone. "Could it be ye already miss me company?"

She raised her chin a mite. Her jaw was firm and her luscious mouth pursed. It was almost incongruous in her neatly sculpted face. "Few have been granted this opportunity."

He paused a moment, still studying her mouth before leaning closer. "Indeed? And which opportunity be ye speaking of, lass?"

"Few outsiders have seen our horses."

"Ahh." He shrugged noncommittally and settled a shoulder against the stone wall of the immense barn. "I have seen many horses. But ye, lass..." He lowered his tone. "I've not quite seen your ilk."

For just a moment she appeared distracted, but then she pulled her dignity about her and opened the door. Roderic followed with a grin. Disarming the Flame was proving to be a difficult but enjoyable task.

The pungent redolence of the barn greeted him. It was a scent he had grown to love as a child. As small boys, he and Colin had delighted in hiding in the loft and scaring the old horse master from his wits as they plummeted from their secret spots in the hay above.

From a dark stall, a horse trumpeted a challenge and banged his door. Another called in more congenial tones and then another.

"Good morn, Lochan." Flame's voice was soft as a blue-gray head reached above a half door.

"Ahh," said Roderic, stopping not far from her to cross his arms and notice the softening of her tone. How would it feel to have her speak to him such? "So this be the poor, wee beast that carried ye ta Glen Creag."

"Poor beast indeed!" Flame said and whistling a shrill, distinctive call, swung the stall door open.

Lochan Gorm thundered into the aisle like a streak of blue lightning.

Tail raised and proud, refined head held high, the stallion was an impressive sight. But Roderic was not quite ready to admit as much. "At least they've freed him from the mud and burrs that bedeviled him on our first meeting," he said, but at a sound from his mistress, the animal charged.

Roderic had barely enough time to press himself back against the timbers before Flanna whistled again. The lithe steed skidded to a halt, but his yellowed teeth were bared and not a full hand away.

Roderic had seen what an enraged stallion could do to a man. Not daring to breathe, he eased to his left. Lochan tossed his silver mane and flattened slipper-shaped ears against his neck. His eyes were rimmed with white as he stalked his prey.

Not far away a two-pronged fork hung between pegs on the wall. Roderic shuffled a few inches closer. If he could but reach it he might have a chance of surviving the day, but just as he prepared to lunge for the thing, Flame whistled again.

Lochan's ears came up. The wild expression left his night black eyes and his head dropped as he turned away.

Air returned to Roderic's lungs. Beside him, the guards chortled at his fear, but he had little time to notice, for his heart still thundered in his chest. He placed a hand over it, not attempting to hide his obvious reaction.

The guards' laughter grew louder. "I thought ye called him a poor, wee beastie," chuckled Bullock.

"Well now..." Roderic grinned and drew a noisy breath. He was not above seeing the humor in this situation, although it would have been considerably funnier if it had happened to someone else. "I find that when one is attacked by a crazed stallion, it matters little if he outweighs me by five times or a hundred. 'Tis the lunacy in the beast's eyes that—"

"Lunacy?" Bullock chuckled, nodding to the beast in question.

Lochan stood like an old cart horse now. One hip was cocked and his head drooped peacefully against his mistress's bosom.

Flame raised her gaze to Roderic as she straightened the gray's foretop.

"Lady," Roderic murmured in amazement, "tell me how ye did that."

She smiled. Gone was all reserve, he realized. Her eyes were shining with pride and humor, and her body was relaxed. "Mayhap Lochan simply detests the smell of ye."

Roderic chuckled and shook his head. "That couldna be the cause, lass, for I recently bathed. Surely, ye remember, since ye were kind enough ta assist me. Nay," he continued, "'tis me own thought that the lady transferred her feelings to the horse."

She laughed. It was a bright and bonny sound. "That is an opinion I've heard voiced before. But ye are wrong, Forbes. 'Tis naught but training that makes him act so."

"Nay," disagreed Troy from the doorway. "In truth, she be half horse herself."

"Truly?" asked Roderic, eyeing Troy as he approached. "Which half?"

There were a few reluctant chuckles from the guards.

Nevin smiled, too, and said, "I but wish Simon and Shaw were here to enjoy this humor."

Roderic watched the smile die on Flame's lips. Damn Nevin. He forever seemed to be reminding them of the MacGowans' losses. It had been like the first breath of spring to watch her smile, to see her worries drop from her for a moment. And Roderic was determined to make it happen again. With that thought, he strode over to the stallion that could so easily have killed him. It was obvious now that there was nothing to fear, at least not until the lady lost her temper.

"Tell me true, lass," he said, standing not far away and gazing at the pair. "How do ye do it?"

"With time and patience any steed, or..." A stallion trumpeted angrily from a closed box stall again, interrupting her words with the harsh challenge. "Or any steed but Bruid," she said, nodding in the direction of the stallion that had just screamed. "Most any horse could learn what Lochan knows. Though the brawny brutes will never be so quick and supple.''

"Ye jest."

"Nay." Her expression was somber when she turned toward him, and for a moment Roderic felt his breath stop in his chest. Flanna MacGowan was always beautiful, but now she was stunning. "They are living, feeling beings. Not so unlike ourselves. All they want is to be lo—" She stopped abruptly and turned her attention back to the fine-boned stallion.

"All they want is what?" Roderic asked softly.

"'Tis just training," she said. Her tone was suddenly stiff. "Nothing more."

And love, Roderic thought. She had meant to say that horses, like people, wanted nothing more than to be loved, but such would show weakness. He scowled mentally. Who was this woman that she would need to seek affection from a dumb beast? But, he corrected himself, perhaps this beast was not dumb, for he seemed nearly to share her thoughts and had somehow gained her trust enough to press his head against the softness of her bosom.

Some would find such a relationship eerie, he supposed, but some did not know Fiona Rose, his brother's wife. If Fiona could talk to a wildcat, there was no reason to be surprised when Flanna spoke to horses.

"So ye yerself have trained him?" he asked now, watching her face closely.

She remained silent for a moment. "Lochan and I have known each other for a long while."

It wasn't easy for Roderic to pull his attention from Flame's face, but there were now five of her clansmen staring at his. Perhaps it would be wise to hide some of his interest. He turned his gaze toward the stallion. "How is it ye came by such a steed?" Now that the burrs and mud had been removed, Lochan's coat had the silver sheen of a finely crafted sword. Though he wasn't tall, his legs were long and straight. There was no fat on this beast and every line of him showed beauty and grace.

"He was a gift to my father," Flame said simply. She watched Roderic as he walked behind Lochan. Had she been mistaken, or was there a glint of admiration in his eyes?

"Barb breeding," he deduced, studying Lochan from his clean limbs to his wide-set eyes. "Produced through centuries of meticulous, desert breeding. Your father must have been well pleased."

Flame watched him carefully. She hadn't originally planned to frighten him with her stallion's maneuvers. It was Forbes' patronizing attitude that had caused her to fling the stall door open. But neither had she expected him to so rapidly admit Lochan's fine quality. Few did, for in these days of weighty armor and weapons, only the large destriers were coveted.

"My father favored sheer might above all else. The laird of the MacGowans had no use for such a small steed. I acquired Lochan when he was but a colt."

She could feel still Forbes' thoughtful gaze on her face. "Your father must have valued you greatly," he said, but his tone was very soft, as if he voiced a question, "to give you such a fine gift."

"So, Forbes," broke in Troy, squeezing his huge body past Lochan's and interrupting their conversation, "the wee beastie scared ye?"

"Nay," Roderic said, turning toward Troy, "na atall."

He was lying, Flame thought, but he didn't seem to care that they knew it What kind of man could best her guards one instant and so easily disregard his own fear the next?

"At Glen Creag, our steeds greet us in just such a manner every mom." Mischief glinted in his eyes. "'Tis a daily occurrence."

Troy snorted, but there was the trace of a smile on his lips. "I see wee Lochan hasna scared that glib tongue from ye at the least."

"There are those who say I will be dead first," Roderic admitted.

"Mayhap that will happen when the lass shows ye her other pets," Troy suggested.

"I await the introductions with baited breath," Roderic said.

Flame watched the exchange. Was there comradery of a sort developing here? Or was it antagonism. It was difficult to tell. Only a few days ago, her men had screamed for justice, had insisted that they make the Forbes pay. But now they seemed intrigued by Roderic, cautious and sometimes fearful, but also amused and impressed. 'Twas like that among her wild kinsmen, she thought. Love and hate were so similar. Rage and respect only a heartbeat apart. She knew that, and yet she resented any admiration they might spare Roderic, for each day she fought to gain a little respect for herself and her leadership. Surely, it was not right or good that be could easily earn what she so desperately desired.

"Mayhap ye should show him yer other steeds, lady," Bullock suggested.

Flame felt her resentment build. "I have better things to do than entertain prisoners. And so do ye,'' she said, turning toward her men.

"Hamilton," she said, "'tis your task to see that Forbes does not escape." Troy was older and not as easily impressed by a glib tongue—she hoped. "If ye have need of me I will be on the green."

She could feel Forbes' gaze on her back as she turned to go. Lochan followed her of his own accord. Horses thrust their heads over half doors as she passed. She heard Lochan stop to stamp and squeal a challenge, but she refused to turn around. She could not bear to meet Roderic's gaze, for somehow she was sure he would see who she really was, a small lass still begging for acceptance. He would know how she struggled for the smallest smidgen of respect. He would know her every weakness.

Roderic watched her go, saw Lochan trot after her when she whistled. Never had he met a woman with her strength.

"So even a hound will drool after a princess." Troy's words broke into Roderic's reverie, and he realized suddenly that the huge warrior had been watching him closely for some time.

"What the devil are ye speak of, ye half-brained Wolfhound?" he asked irritably. Why could he not be spared five minutes alone with the lady? He had felt, for an instant, that he was very near to learning something important about her. Something that would shed some light on who she was.

Troy snorted. "There are men who are wise enough na ta insult me ta me face, lad."

"And there are men with balls," countered Roderic. "I happen ta be the latter."

The big man laughed. "Ye've got grit, I'll give ye that, but have ye got staying power?"

"Have ye come ta test me strength, then?" asked Roderic.

"Nay, I have come ta learn the truth. Why did ye kill her messenger? Why have ye raided her herds?"

Roderic felt his stomach knot. Tension and frustration were building to a keen edge inside him. "Are ye so daft that ye think I willna take offense to yer accusations or are ye hoping for a fight, Wolfhound?"

Hamilton snorted and placed his fists to his hips. Though he was many years older than Roderic, he was also half a head taller and three stone heavier. None of the weight was fat. "Why would I wish ta fight with a wee one like yerself, Forbes?"

"I dunna ken, Wolfhound," said Roderic, sizing up the other. "Mayhap ta rile up yer clansmen when I wound ye. Mayhap, ye are looking ta cause trouble."

"And why would I want that?"

"Ye're not a MacGowan, are ye, Troy? And though ye act like an ally, mayhap ye have some grudge against this clan. Or mayhap against the Flame herself."

Troy's expression had gone very solemn. "Ye've na idea what ye're speaking of, lad."

"She trusts ye," Roderic continued, watching his eyes. "She trusts yer judgment. Why did ye wish to send Simon to speak with me brother? And why send him alone? Could it be ye were planning to kill him yerself?"

The big man's body was tense, his voice low. "Any ideas why I would do that?"

"None atall. Yet."

"Then shut yer mouth, lad, before I shut it for ye. The lass has enough worries without ye adding yer wild tales "

"Afraid I'll tell her the truth?"

“Tell her anything ye wish, wee one, just dunna make me do something I'll regret."

"Such as?"

"Ripping yer tongue from yer head."

Roderic forced a laugh but kept his weight carefully balanced lest the huge warrior charge him. "I see I've got ye scairt, Wolfhound. But what of? Of losing her? I've seen the way ye watch her. Mayhap ye think of her as yer own and fear I'll horn in?"

Troy tightened his huge hands into fists, but in a moment he loosened them and laughed. "Ye think I'm scairt of yer effects on her, lad? Ye think yerself such a bonny piece that she'll na be able ta keep her wits about her? That ye'11 win her adoration?"

"Mayhap."

Troy laughed again. "Well, then, wee one, I'll let her prove ye wrong."