Chapter 18
There was, Alec thought, only one way to accomplish the exodus of the people of Gilmuir, and it would, unfortunately, involve Leitis's participation. He doubted if the villagers would listen to him, masked and mysterious. And they would most certainly not believe anything the Butcher of Inverness would say.
As the evening faded into dusk, Alec mounted and rode from the fort.
"Lieutenant?" Harrison said, coming up behind Armstrong. "Is there a reason you're standing here in the dark?"
Armstrong was half curled around the corner of the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the land bridge.
"No, sir," he said, moving aside. "I thought I saw something, that's all."
"Were you watching the colonel, Armstrong?"
"I was just curious as to where he is going in the dark, sir," the younger man said.
"Are his movements any of your concern, Lieutenant?" Harrison asked.
"No, sir," Armstrong conceded.
Troubled by the lieutenant's behavior, Harrison watched as he walked back to the fort. Something must be done about Armstrong.
Where was the Raven now? He'd left her without a word last night, with no indication that she'd see him again, or when. How did she summon him? By her wishes and her wants?
Leitis stood, pushed the bench neatly under the loom. She stretched, rolled her shoulders, then bent from the waist to ease the ache in her back. She'd worked too long today, but it had been the best way to make the time pass. Occupying herself with the complicated pattern had alleviated both her confusion and her longing.
She left the room, escaping once more to the priory.
A gentle breeze blew through the arches and pulled at her skirts. They danced playfully around her ankles and teased her hair free of its ribbon. It was a night of moon and silver. Her hearing was tuned to the slightest movement, but all she heard was the riff of wind and a splash of waves on the loch below. A night bird sounded, its call echoing her own desperate longing.
The taste of rebellion was heady, but it was not solely for that reason she wished the Raven's presence. She wanted to speak with him about small thoughts and great wishes, laugh with him about nonsensical things. She wanted most to feel what she had the night before, that strange and effortless companionship as if she knew him well and deeply. And another reason as well, she confessed to herself. There was that sense of excitement when she was with him, a feeling she wanted to experience again.
She returned to the room, lit a candle, and walked to the window, listening to the sounds from Fort William. Did they never stop marching? In earlier days, Gilmuir fell quiet at night. Enshrouded in a mist from the loch, the castle became a magical place, one of serenity and safety. No more.
She thought of less dour things, the memory of last night when laughter alternated with fear. And the Raven's kisses. His first kiss had been done quickly, pressing his smiling lips against hers. Then he'd offered her heather in a tender gesture.
He'd seemed so familiar to her, as if she'd known him for a long time.
Her thoughts stuttered to a halt. She began to circle the room in a restless movement, her thoughts on the Raven and last night.
He had known the old laird, the existence of the staircase, the story of Ionis. All secrets he might have known as the laird's grandson. The clan badge he'd shown her appeared to have been made of gold, not a common practice. But a laird's grandson might have been presented with such a gift.
Could he be the boy from her childhood? Ian MacRae, with his English father and his Scots mother, who'd left Gilmuir on that long-ago day and never returned?
Was it possible? She sat abruptly.
Surely she would have recognized him. Or would she?
She recalled that moment at his mother's lykewake, his eyes so filled with pain. There had been anger there, too. She recalled it as well as she did her own hurt when he crushed her gift beneath his boot.
But he'd known her, a revelation he'd made when he'd tied the scarf around her hair and spoken of the brightness of it as a child.
Was he Ian?
Leitis remembered that boy's laughter, the way he and her brothers teased her, the way he had of listening to her so intently that she felt she could tell him anything. And his appearance? A handsome boy with dark hair and eyes that always appeared alight with happiness. But he had been a child when last she saw him, and too many years had passed to be certain.
Was it him? And if it was, why hadn't he said so? Why hide himself behind a mask and claim it was for her protection?
The soft knock startled her but was not unexpected. It was probably Donald, coming to see if she required anything. She walked to the door, opened it to find the man who'd occupied these past moments of thought.
The Raven hesitated on the threshold, filling the doorway. He was even more mysterious in the candlelight, a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in black. His mask framed his face, accentuated the fullness of his lips, the sharp line of chin and jaw.
"You shouldn't be here," she cautioned. "It's not safe. Donald might come at any moment."
"Still protective," he said, smiling. He entered the room, closing the door behind him.
"Someone should look out after you," she said, looking up at him. "You take foolish chances."
"Perhaps the goal is worth the risk."
"Is it? It depends on your goal."
"I might have more than one," he teased.
"Why are you here?" she asked softly.
He bent closer to her until she could feel his breath on her cheek. "Perhaps I wished to kiss you again," he teased.
"Oh," she said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. She would have been wiser to run from Gilmuir, from the colonel's touch and the Raven's. But it appeared that she was to be kissed again today, by another man she barely knew.
Or did she?
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, telling herself that this kiss would be an antidote to the first. His mouth settled over hers with no more invitation than that.
His lips were warm, his breath hot, the intrusion of his tongue against her mouth an astonishing act. Her body warmed as she unclasped her hands in order to grip his arms.
The material of his shirt was soft and smooth to the touch. A last thought before he deepened the kiss and sent her thoughts flying to the stars in a hungry, openmouthed kiss filled with daring.
She heard a sound, a slight gasp of wonder, then realized it was her own. Should a kiss be this powerful? How strange, that she'd never before equated that word to a simple touch of mouth to mouth.
Her lips fell open as her hands clutched his arms in a talonlike grip. And still he kissed her, as if he'd heard her earlier thought and wished to expunge all other embraces before this one.
Yes. A sigh, a greeting, a prayer. Yes, please. More and more. He'd kissed her before, but it had been calming, soft, and sweet. Not heated and dangerous.
He pulled back finally and she wanted to protest. Instead, she lay her forehead against his chest, heard the pounding beat of his heart, and knew that her own mimicked it.
Step back, Leitis. Gather your dignity about you and pretend you've felt such a thing before.
But her feet didn't move, and her hands didn't release him. Her dignity had been lost in that first murmur of surprise. Nor had she ever felt anything as delightfully wondrous. Not with Marcus. Certainly not with the Butcher. Not ever before.
Words tripped from her mind, landed on her tongue, and rooted there. Why did you kiss me like that? Why am I trembling?
"Should I ask your forgiveness?" he murmured, his breath coming as fast as hers.
A wise woman would have said yes, gathering up the cloak of her pride. She could only shake her head. She lay her cheek against his chest, then placed a kiss on his shirt where his heart beat strong and fast.
Kiss me again.A demand she did not make aloud. But her hand smoothed the material of his shirtsleeve, a gesture as telling as a request.
He placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilted back her head, and kissed her again. A long, slow, drugging kiss that urged her to wickedness and heat. Colors flew across her closed lids, shades of rainbows and harebells and heather.
He was the one to end the kiss, to pull away. He walked to the table and stood there, his back to her. "I came here for your help," he said. "Not to accost you."
"Is that what it was?" she said gently. "Should I be angry, then? Or ashamed?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her.
"For liking it," she added.
His soft laughter startled her. "I can never anticipate what you will say."
"A woman should be mysterious, surely," she teased, feeling absurdly lighthearted at the moment. How strange, that a kiss should have that effect on her.
She approached him, stretched out her hand, and brushed her fingers over his back. A touch as delicate as a butterfly's wings, but it appeared that he felt it all the same. He stiffened, remaining still. His stance made her smile, as if the power of a kiss had been transferred to her touch. She'd never before felt this way, enchanted in the moment, silent and filled with expectation.
"How can I help you? What can I do?"
Her hand dropped as he turned and surveyed her, the candlelight adding shadows to his features. "You offer so easily," he said. "Why?"
"You stole a wagon," she said, smiling. "And fed people because you wished to aid them. How could I do less?"
"I want you to ask the villagers if they wish to leave," he said abruptly.
She studied him intently in the light of the candles. "Do you think they will?"
"I think they would be foolish not to," he said candidly. "The English presence here will only get stronger as the months pass. And the conditions will only get worse."
She moved away, moved to stand beside the loom, staring out the window. "A sad day, when a Scot must leave Scotland."
"They can create their country wherever they go," he said, an argument he'd begun last night.
She turned and faced him. "Why do you not ask them?" she asked curiously.
"There are reasons," he said enigmatically.
"Because you don't wish them to know you're Ian MacRae?"
He stared at her, obviously stunned.
"Did you think I couldn't tell?" she asked, amused. "The clues were there all along."
Still he said nothing.
"You'll deny it now," she said, sighing.
"No," he said, and that one simple word sent her heart soaring.
The reason, then, that he had been so familiar to her, that he felt as much a friend as a man capable of making her heart stutter with a kiss. She wanted to turn and disappear with him into darkness, find a soft and safe place and ask him about all the years in between.
She took one step away from him, suddenly stunned by a thought. He'd lived his life in England, the heir to an English nob.
"You're one of them, aren't you, Ian?" She glanced in the direction of Fort William. "You're one of the soldiers there."
"Would a soldier have stolen an English wagon, Leitis?" he asked, coming to her side. "Would a soldier have cared about feeding hungry Scots?"
She shook her head. "Then come with me and talk to the villagers yourself."
"They'll listen to you," he said reasonably. "They'll not remember me, nor do they have a reason to trust me."
"Do I?" she asked. "Take off your mask."
"When I can," he answered.
She felt buffeted by too many emotions. Happiness, confusion, curiosity, and a curious sense of warning that could not be dismissed. But she dismissed it, pushing it away. At the moment, she simply didn't care.
"Then shall we go?" she asked, extending her hand to him. She smiled brightly, then let him lead her to the priory and the staircase. To rebellion and further.