Chapter 8

“Flanna!” Roderic gasped and rushed forward to free her from the animal's weight. He reached for her, but suddenly she was on her feet. One hand gripped his shirt while her other was wrapped hard and fast about the dirk that poked firmly between his ribs.

"I could kill ye, Forbes," she murmured. "Before ye'd ever know 'twas a ruse."

Roderic stared into her eyes. They were alight with passion and exhilaration. He drew a steadying breath, trying to remember that it was not passion for him. "Ye cued the steed to fall?" he asked.

She tilted her head and nodded curtly. "The enemy assumes the horse is wounded and the rider pinned." She pressed slightly harder with the dirk. "Giving me the advantage."

Roderic raised his brows, admiring the ploy, but admiring the woman more. The fire, the wit, the nerve. “But what if the enemy did this?'' he asked, and without allowing himself a moment's thought, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her.

Her breasts were firm against his chest, her lips soft against his—and her dirk sharp against his side. He felt all three sensations, and though his mind demanded that he draw back and spare his life's blood, his arms refused to let her loose. Her heart beat frantically against his. Her body trembled, and he wondered if it was fear or excitement?

He slid his hand up her back, pressing her closer still, allowing his thigh to slip between hers, feeling the heat of her body as she kissed him in return.

Sweet Mary, she was kissing him! But just as his loins clambered at that realization, she jerked her head back and pressed away from his embrace. Still, he could not let her go, for he wanted her with an all-consuming ache, and he had felt her answering flame. Her eyes were round with shock, her lips kiss-softened and bright as Yuletide berries. But the dirk had not moved. Roderic lowered his gaze.

A droplet of blood had seeped through his shirt, but it failed to hold his interest.

"Do that again," she warned in a quivering voice, "and I'll carve my name in your gizzard."

But he had felt her tremble in his arms, had felt her need as surely as he felt his own. "Lass, I only wish ..." he began, but the dirk pressed harder.

"Don't do it, Forbes."

It took every bit of control he possessed to release her. He did so slowly and backed away, trying to remember to breathe as he pushed his fingers through his hair. "When does he get up?"

She blinked at him, looking lost.

"Yer steed," he explained, relaxing his muscles one by one. She was not his for the taking. She was not his. But perhaps she wanted to be. Perhaps she lay awake nights thinking of him just as he thought of her. Thinking of... God's wrath, his hands were shaking. Roderic the Rogue with shaky hands. He drew a careful breath, reminding himself to be civil lest he fall upon her with all the finesse of an excited hound. "How do ye get him up?"

Her kiss-swollen lips moved soundlessly. Roderic watched them and somehow, foolishly, they drew him. He moved a step nearer.

"Get back," r she warned, but her dirk shook as she raised it.

"What are ye afraid of, Flanna MacGowan?" he whispered.

"I am afraid of naught," she said, but her words were quick and her eyes as wide as those of a frightened doe.

He took a solitary step closer, though he knew he was a fool. "If I were na such a gentleman I would insist on proving ye wrong with another kiss."

She raised her chin and her dirk simultaneously. "And if I were not such a gentle woman—" she began, but suddenly, Roderic covered her hand with his own, easily holding the dirk steady between them as he leaned close.

"If ye were na such a gentle woman ye would have kilt me when ye had the blade pressed ta me ribs," he murmured. "But ye did na."

The air between them crackled with tension. Roderic held his breath, for she was very near, her body tense and her lips slightly parted. His pulse leaped and his manhood did the same.

"Surely it would be a sin to slay ye." Her voice was no more than a husky whisper.

He was trapped in her eyes, in her tone.

"For I have vowed to show ye my horses before I kill ye," she said suddenly, and drew away with a jerk. "Now get back to the tower, Forbes, before I change my mind."

God, she was infuriating! Roderic padded silently about his dark tower room. One minute she trembled, the next she teased, and the next she threatened. It was making him angry. It was making him crazy. It was making him... randy. Heaven's gate, she aroused him.

Finding his pallet with a sigh, Roderic stared at the ceiling. Even after everything she had put him through, the mere thought of her heated his blood. Without trying, he could remember how her soft, leather hose hugged her thighs, how the simple saffron shirt caressed her breasts and her buttocks. But more than that, he could remember the light in her eyes as she rode, the turn of her wrist as she gestured, the sound of her voice when she...

God's wrath! He was on his feet in a moment and pacing again. He had acted the fool since the first moment he had laid eyes on her. He shouldn't have trusted her ruse that night at Glen Creag. In retrospect, he couldn't imagine how he could have believed her to be a simple Highland maid, for she had the bearing of a laird and the beauty of a goddess. He should have immediately realized she was not what she seemed. He shouldn't have been duped. He shouldn't have been taken. He shouldn't have kissed her. And he shouldn't have allowed himself to be locked away in this tower again.

He stopped by the open shutters to look down into the darkness below. It was time to go home, but...

She had trembled when he kissed her. Was that fear or budding passion? The question still haunted him. Still begged to be answered.

Gripping the plaid near his chest, Roderic stared into the night. He would be a fool to stay much longer. He tapped his forefinger against his brooch. He would be an even bigger fool to go to her bedchamber again. A really big fool. A huge fool. But...

He grinned. Leith had often called him a fool.

Suddenly he knew he would go to her chamber. But this time he would not go empty-handed. Hurrying to his simple table, he picked up the quill they had brought him earlier. With that quill he had carefully penned a message to his brothers. In the missive he had begged them not to be hasty. He had assured them of his safety and asked them not to retaliate. In short, Roderic had done everything he had promised Flanna he would do.

But he had also told them he had no way to escape.

Roderic could imagine his brothers reading such a missive. Leith would snort at the ridiculousness of the words. Colin would laugh out loud, for never had there

been a room from which Roderic the Rogue could not escape.

No. The brothers Forbes would not come to his rescue. They would read his message. They would understand his meaning, and they would stay put and bide their time, risking no lives and allowing Roderic an opportunity to take care of important business. Such as watering that tiny bud of passion he had felt blooming within Flanna.

Roderic grinned at the parchment, dipped the quill into the ink, and began to write.

Flanna lay on her side with her back toward him. The descent from the tower prison had gone smoothly despite the rain that wet the stone walls.

Roderic pulled the note from his sporran, and set it on her pillow. She had been so sure he could not escape. What would she think when she awoke to find the letter? He could imagine her reading it. His tender words would stoke her woman's soul. But he must not forget the warrior in her, for that facet was likely to skewer him to the wall should she find him in her chambers. Roderic turned, preparing to leave when he noticed her shoulder was bare. It gleamed with the luster of a pearl and was framed by the flaming mass of her unruly hair.

He held his breath, knowing he should leave. But the castle slept and the sight of the warrior woman drew him. Ever so carefully, he perched on her mattress and reached cautiously forward. The tress of hair he touched was as soft as he had expected. It curled about his index finger with careless abandon. If only the lass herself would relax in his presence. But no. She was cool and aloof, only letting down her guard during sleep, when she looked like an angel.

Roderic spared a grin for his romantic notions. Yet it was true. She did look angelic and innocent in her guileless sleep. But if she were innocent where men were concerned, why did she fear his nearness so?

Had some man hurt her? The thought made Roderic's stomach twist. He knew there would be men who would resent her. They would be the same men who were intimidated by her position and her power. A noise from the far side of the door cut his musings short.

Without a moment's delay, Roderic dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the bed. However, the door didn't open and no other sounds could be heard. Had someone discovered his escape and followed him here? He lay very still, waiting.

"Nevin."

Though it was nearly inaudible he recognized Marjory's voice. There was a whispered protest, but in a moment he heard the soft rustle of fabric and knew the couple was well occupied. Strange, for Nevin did not seem like a lady's man, and Marjory seemed a shy lass. Perhaps he was taking advantage of her. Perhaps Roderic should put a stop to it, he thought, and then nearly laughed aloud at his foolishness. These were not his people, nor was a midnight tryst any of his business. Still, lasses were under the protection of their laird, or in this case, under Flanna's protection. Perhaps he should tell her of the affair. Instead, he lay perfectly still, waiting. Minutes slipped by in utter silence but he could well imagine the couple's activities. Roderic scowled. He had a pain in his back and his imaginings were not making him any more comfortable. The wooden floor beneath him was hard and cold and he was separated from his would-be partner by nothing more substantial than a sagging mattress ... and the threat of death. An oaken knot pressed into his spine. Roderic shifted, trying to ease the ache, but it only moved the pain to his shoulder. He shifted again and knocked his head on the bed's frame.

He knew the moment Flanna awoke. The soft sighs of her breathing ceased. The mattress rustled quietly. He heard her roll over and held his breath.

A half hour elapsed, creaking along by rusty minutes. Was she asleep? He couldn't be sure, but it was unlikely that dawn would delay its advent on his account. He would have to risk an escape before someone discovered him missing. Suffice it to say the MacGowans would be rather put out to find him creeping about their lady's bedchamber in the wee hours of the morning.

Ever so quietly, Roderic eased to his left. His shoulder slipped past the edge of the mattress. He allowed himself one shallow waft of air and then...

"Pity's sake," Flame sighed.

Roderic froze. The mattress dipped. The ropes moaned and suddenly the girl's bare feet brushed his sleeve. He held his breath and squeezed in his arms but dared not move farther, lest she hear him.

On slim, silent feet, she padded across the floor. Roderic allowed himself another shallow breath, scooted a scant inch to his right and stilled, watching her with unblinking eyes.

She paced to the window and opened the shutters. A spattering of rain flitted in. Flanna lifted her hand, letting a few drops strike her palm before hooking the blinds back in place and striding to the fireplace. Only a few embers glowed there. Dear God, please don't let her see the note he had left on her pillow. Not until he was safely back in the tower.

Lifting a poker from its place by the stone hearth, she hefted it thoughtfully in her hand. The thing would make an effective weapon, Roderic reasoned, if she knew he was there. But of course she did not. And so long as she remained standing, he was well hidden.

In perfect unison with his thoughts, she seated herself on the hearth.

Roderic dared not do so much as blink. 'Twas just like her to spite him.

"What am I to do?" she murmured.

It seemed she looked straight at him. But if she did, having men squashed under her bed must be a nightly occurrence, for she showed not the least bit of surprise. Roderic drew a cautious breath. There was a cramp in his lower back, but he dared not move. Finally she turned away to jab at the embers. After adding kindling, she set the poker aside and tucked her bare feet beneath the hem of her voluminous gown.

Light from the rekindled flame danced on the unruly mass of her hair, setting each individual strand to glistening brilliance. Her profile was flawless, sun-touched ivory rimmed by the bright orange of the blaze behind her. Through the sheer fabric of her gown, he could see the curves of the fine form God had given her.

Roderic found he no longer desired to breathe, for even had he allowed it, he wouldn't have been able to draw a normal breath. What leather hose and manly attire had not shown him, the firelight did, and he was entranced. Every movement she made seemed poetic— the way she brushed her hair aside, how her slim fingers lay softly curled upon her knees. Her pale gown was stretched taut over her buttocks. He could imagine his hand settling there, smoothing along that gentle, rounded curve.

Roderic exhaled softly. Heaven's gate, she was a bonny thing, and though she was always comely, seeing her thus cast a different light on his thoughts of her. She was not the steel-hard warrior woman he had thought her to be.

She was a woman with a woman's strengths and weaknesses. And yet she was more. She was a leader with a weighty burden to shoulder. A gifted trainer of steeds. A temptress with a fiery temper.

But now she seemed like nothing more than a lonely lass.

The sight of her thus pulled at him, for surely he could help shoulder her burdens. Surely he could help find solutions to the problems that troubled her. And surely he could give her comfort and companionship.

Why not take her in his arms and offer those things?

But suddenly a slight noise startled her. She rose with the grace of a wildcat. Poker in hand, she stalked toward the door.

He wouldn't reveal himself because she would kill him, Roderic remembered. And if she didn't manage the job, her men would gladly pitch in. Gawd's wrath, he must be insane.

Out of his sight now, he heard her open the door with a noiseless jerk. There was a gasp and then a moment of silence before he heard her sigh. "Marjory."

"Aye, lady," came the servant's breathy voice. "I am here."

"Ye look flushed. Was it ye that made a noise?"

There was a moment's delay, then, "Aye, lady. There was ... somemat in me pallet. Lice," she hurried to add. "There was lice in me pallet And they were bedeviling me.”

Roderic almost chuckled. Lice was not the only devil in her pallet.

"’Tis sorry I be if I awakened ye, lady."

"No need for apologies. I am but fretful, I suppose."

"Ye canna sleep again?" clucked the maidservant. "Poor thing. So many worries. Can I get ye somemat? A cup of ale, mayhap?"

"Don't bother yourself, Marjory. Sorry to have frightened ye." She paused for a moment, then, "Go back to sleep," she said, but her words were issued from the hall, and already he could hear her feet padding softly away "Don't concern yourself if I am gone for some time."

"Good morningtide, Flanna," Roderic said, not bothering to rise from his pallet. He was tired and irritated. Where the hell had she gone in her flimsy nightgown in the middle of the night? To her lover's room?

For a moment she stared at his legs. They were bent at the knee and bare to midthigh but she couldn't see more. In an instant, her gaze snapped to his face. Her cheeks were pink. Perhaps he had been wrong about the view, he deduced, feeling somewhat better.

"'Tis early ye come this morning," he said, sitting up and swinging his bare feet to the floor. "I hope ye slept well." God's wrath! Where had she gone? He had stayed beneath her bed until just before dawn, but she had not returned. Frustration made him rise abruptly to his feet and mentally grind his teeth. He had been patient Hell, he had known her for nearly half a week. Why wasn't she infatuated with him when he couldn't seem to spend a single minute without thinking of her? “What brings ye to me lofty tower? I hope there is na cause for alarm."

"Nay." Her tone was taut. Last night she had looked young and unprotected. But there was little of the innocent child in the woman who stood before him. "Why should there be?"

"Indeed, there should na," he said with a shrug. "All is right with the world. Or at least... all is right within the confines of this tower.'' He lifted his hand to indicate the small space which was allowed him. Who the hell had she been with? "Why na allow me the freedom of Dun Ard?" The words escaped him before he had time to make them sound charming.

She narrowed her cat-like eyes at him. Good God, she was stunning.

"I am becoming restive in this place." Indeed, the thought of her with another man made him want to pace. At first he had thought her cold and unfeeling. Later he was certain she had been hurt and would not allow herself to be wounded again. The knowledge that she was simply not interested in him made him insane. "I'm not used ta such confinement. Even the English are na so cruel as to give their prisoners na leeway. King James was educated and allowed to live at court during his captivity. Surely I could, at the least, be given permission ta take me meals in the hall." And learn where she spent her nights. "After all, where could I go? I could never escape with so many eyes watching me," he continued, glancing past her to the men in the hallway. "I am getting cramped from lack of exercise." He flexed an arm.

She didn't seem to notice.

He frowned. "I would be willing ta work for the privilege of some freedom. I could dig ye a new well," he said. God's wrath, he would dig from here to London if it would afford him a chance to learn more about her.

"And soil your hands?" For a moment he thought she would laugh at him.

He grasped his plaid near his brooch and pushed back his anger. "They've been soiled afore."

"Truly? When?"

She was mocking him. "Ye ken little of me and mine, wee Flanna. I would that ye'd learn the truth."

She watched him with solemn eyes and for a moment he thought she was questioning her own misconceptions, but instead of voicing inquiries, she turned away. "I have not the manpower to worry over the well at this time. We can continue to draw water from the burn for a while longer."

"But what if ye are besieged. Ye must have fresh water inside the walls."

"Besieged?" She turned smoothly back and laughed. "As ye said, Forbes, my people are all but starving. What do we have that others might covet?"

"Horses," he said easily.

He knew in an instant that he had struck a sensitive chord, for her expression went cold. Did she regret telling him of her breeding program?

He was tempted to soothe her worries, to tell her that he would hurt neither her dreams nor her people, but she wasn't ready to believe him. "I will dig the well," he said. "I need na help. But I do require some activity other than staring at the ceiling of this tower."

"Then ye have not..." she began and stopped abruptly. He waited. "Ye have not..." Lowering her voice, she took three steps forward—"left this place?"

So she had gotten his note and she had thought of him. Did she have a lover she had told? Had he been jealous? Roderic almost smiled. Instead, he forced his brows upward in an expression of innocence. "Mayhap ye think I sprouted wings and went flying about Dun Ard by night. Only"—he laughed, feeling a bit more atease—"I missed this tower so I came back here to perch?"

For several moments she held him with her eyes, but finally her gaze drifted to the window. "A rider leaves even now with your message for Laird Leith," she said, keeping her tone perfectly steady. "I thought ye might wish to know."

"Aye." Roderic nodded, watching her. He wished she would not look out that window, for he thought he might have bent one of the hinges on his hurried flight up the plaids. He had lain for a long while under her bed, and though he had told himself he merely waited to make certain Marjory slept, he knew he awaited Flanna's return. "Me thanks. But ye have na answered me regarding dining in the hall."

She flickered her gaze briefly to him before turning her attention away and striding to the window. "And why would a Forbes wish to be pressed in among the MacGowans?" she asked, gazing out toward the distant kitchens.

Roderic shrugged, trying to rid himself of his tension. From where he stood he could see now that the hinge was indeed bent. "’Tis a fault of mine," he admitted blithely. "I like people."

Flame scowled, not turning from the window. "Even MacGowans?" she asked, placing a hand on the shutter.

Roderic pinned his gaze on her fingers. They were inches from the crooked hinge, and now he thought he could see a frayed thread of brown woolen caught upon a splinter nearby. "It be difficult ta say whether I like MacGowans or na, lass, since I've been granted so little opportunity to mingle with them."

She remained silent, still studying the world outside before absently closing one shutter.

"And, too," Roderic added, hoping to distract her, "our meeting was hardly of the most pleasant nature. After all, ye did lie ta me from the verra start. Ye did ..." Her hand had moved on the listing shutter. “Ye did take advantage of me trusting spirit. 'Tis true, lass," he rambled on. "It didna enter me head that such a lovely maid as yerself might seek to play me for a fool. Might even…" He waved wildly and shook his head, trying to draw her attention—"even seek to hold me hostage."

She turned to watch him, and for a moment he lost his breath, so grand and proud did she look against the dark backdrop of the stormy sky.

"I fear 'tis another fault of mine," he murmured, finding his train of thought. "I be forever misjudging women." Never had he misjudged a woman. Not until he had met Flanna. But now he was making a habit of it. "Must be me lack of experience."

Hand still on the shutter, she turned a bit more toward him. "I think ye be the one playing me for a fool, Forbes."

"Me?" He tapped his brooch, feeling honestly offended. "How so?"

"Forgive me if I do not think ye gained the name Rogue because of the time ye've spent playing flute for the sheep."

"In all honesty, lass," he said, feeling a bit better for the reminder of the name his kinsmen had given him, "I have a gift for quieting sheep."

"And for quieting women?"

He raised his brows at her. Thinking her jealous would definitely improve his frame of mind.

"I would guess ye have tossed more innocent lasses than I could count," she said.

He dropped his hand to his side and canted his head. "Tossed?" he asked, his tone sober as he straightened. "Nay."

For a moment there was a flash of something in her eyes. "Nay?" she asked. "Ye are saying ye would not..."

He watched her closely. The young lass was back, uncertain, innocent, and more beautiful than the heather on the hills. He took a step nearer. "What?"

"Are ye saying ye would not"—she faltered, groping for the correct words—"dishonor..." Her gaze turned nervously to her hand, and suddenly her body became stiff.

In profile, he could see her scowl as she plucked the snagged thread from the shutter. It was brown—as was the plaid of the clan Forbes. She turned abruptly, holding the yarn between her fingers. Her expression had gone hard, he noticed, but he kept his own blithe as he watched her.

"Yours?" she asked softly.

He shrugged, trying to disavow his tension. "Mayhap."

"How did it get there?"

He shrugged again. He was ready to offer an innocent explanation, but looking into the deep intelligence of her eyes he knew such would never work.

So instead he made his expression very sober and stepped nearer. "'Tis like this; I wished ta escape. Indeed, I jumped ta the window. 'Twas a tight fit but I squeezed through. Then I…" He scowled, thinking. "I knew I couldna jump so far below," he said, hurrying to the window to stand beside her and gaze down at the wall beneath them. "So I... removed me plaid." He nodded, as though thinking his story quite clever. "I took off me plaid and tied it to…" He glanced quickly about. "…to that hinge. See there. 'Tis bent from me weight." He was very close to her now.

Her face was smooth as marble and showed no expression other than cool disdain. "So ye crawled down your plaid?"

"Aye."

She raised her brows, causing a single wrinkle to appear in her forehead. The Flame of the MacGowans would age well, Roderic deduced, if she were afforded the opportunity to age at all. If she were not killed raiding or feuding. She would not go to fat but would keep the tone of youth and vitality-for many years. For she was royalty in spirit as well as in blood.

"But your plaid was not long enough?" she asked, playing along with his story. "So ye climbed back up to await your breakfast?"

"Nay," he said and grinned. "I dropped down." He glanced at the wall below and grimaced. "Though, 'twas a frightful long way, I managed to hit the wall."

"Aye?" She tilted her head at him.

"Aye."

"And what did ye do once ye got there?"

"Oh ..." He shrugged casually. "I jumped down to the bailey."

"Ye didn't even bother taking the stairs?"

"Nay." He shook his head, making a disdainful expression. "Thought I , if I can manage ta hit the wall, tis certain I can hit the earth."

For a moment the flicker of honest amusement lighted her eyes and teased her lips. "Truly?"

He stared at her, entranced, before finding his voice. "Nay. I lie, lass," he said softly. "But I dunna lie about this—I had nothing ta do with Simon's death. And neither did me people."

She watched him in silence before drawing a deep breath. "Promise ye will not try to escape."

It would be so easy to become lost in her eyes. "Why would I wish to?" he asked.

"Promise me."

"This day I will na escape."

"Bullock, Forbes will be free to roam Dun Ard and take his meals in the hall henceforth."

"Aye, me lady."

"But keep an eye on him."

"Aye, me lady."

"And Bullock," she added, turning abruptly, her back straight as a lance as she stared first at Roderic and then at the window, "bind the shutters closed."