Chapter Seventeen

"The ancient Greeks and Egyptians described a mythical bird called the Phoenix, a magnificent creature that was a symbol of renewal and rebirth. According to legend, each Phoenix lived for 500 years, and only one Phoenix lived at a time. Just before its time was up, the Phoenix built a nest and set itself on fire. Then, a new Phoenix would rise from the ashes."

BirdNote.com

The scream above rent the stillness inside the heavy, thick walls of the tower house. Rory caught a burning stick out of the fire and surged into a run toward the stairs.

"Sara!" he yelled as he leaped up two and three steps at a time, following the curve of the wall. "Sara!" Could someone be in the tower? It had been locked from the outside when they arrived.

"Rory!"

He heard her boots clacking on the stone corridor. She ran around the curve, her face turned away as if she sought something chasing her.

Rory opened his arms at the last second as she ran into his chest. She would have bounced off him, falling into a heap of wet skirts, but he wrapped his arms around her back, holding her to him.

Despite the chill in the air, made worse by their rain-drenched clothes, heat shot through Rory, heat he'd been denying for days because he wouldn't be tricked by another Macdonald. But Sara felt right in his arms, fitting perfectly.

"What is it?" he asked, pressing her back against the wall. He turned outward, his sword raised to the darkness pushing in on both sides of them. Anything dangerous would have to get through him and his sword before reaching Sara.

"I…I don't know," she said, her words riding the gulps of air she pulled in. "'Tis in the bedchamber in a corner. I couldn't see it, only movement of large shadows against the far wall."

"The door was barred from the outside." He'd fortified the old ben himself when he'd returned from England, thinking he might move into it once Jamie married.

"The window was open," she said, "or someone could have locked him inside."

"Him? Did he speak?"

He felt her fingers curl into his tunic. "No," she said.

Rory tried to focus on the darkness and not how her fingers gripped him as if she clasped sheets in pleasure. He cleared his throat and gave thanks for the darkness that could hide his rising cock. "It could be an animal."

"That doesn't make me feel much safer."

His mouth relaxed into a muted grin. "Ye can return down the steps to the horses, and I'll—"

"I'm staying with you," she said, and for a brief moment he let the words take on a different meaning, a more permanent meaning, and his chest opened for a moment before he slammed the door on the possibility.

I don't get close to lasses , he thought. Not since Madeline. He'd kept his oath to his father for ten years. Father's dead. But, once again, he was dealing with a Macdonald lass, and she was the daughter of his greatest enemy. Even if he wouldn't trust her, Rory wouldn't let anything harm Sara.

Rory threw his flaming stick into a holder attached to the wall and grabbed Sara's hand. She clutched his hand back as if it were a normal action.

Holding his sword out before them, they moved together down the corridor to the bedchamber door where she'd left her lantern. Sara bent, picking it up, and they entered the room. Rory's shadow slid across the walls with the lantern's illumination from behind, making him look giant. He'd used the same technique to make shadow stories for Eleri on the nursery walls when she was young.

"Show yerself," Rory said, his voice booming out without forewarning.

Sara bumped into his back. "Sweet Mother Mary."

"Friend or foe?" Rory called. Silence. "Which corner?" He kept his gaze sliding along the walls around the room.

"The far left. By the wooden trunk."

Rory continued to scan the entire black space. Sara came up beside him, holding the lantern high. Then he saw it.

A pointed shadow moved along the wall, the tip bobbing slightly. "Let me hold the light higher," he said, and Sara gave him the handle. The higher light made the sharp shadow diminish down the wall, and he walked toward the trunk.

Blinking, its bill turned toward him, the beast spread its wide wingspan. The orange and red flame reflected against the paleness of its feathers as the wings extended, perhaps to look as large as possible against a predator.

"A phoenix," Sara said.

With the bright coloring from the flames in the absence of all other light, the creature certainly looked like the mythological bird that burned and was born again from the ashes.

"A heron," Rory said, lowering the lantern. "And a frightened one at that."

The large bird flapped its angular wings, becoming as large as it could.

"She must have come in through the window to evade the storm winds," Rory said.

"A she? You think it's female."

He looked down at her. "The only phoenix I know is a lass."

Confusion on her features smoothed, and he watched the gentle upturn of her lips. The simple gesture relaxed his gut. "I'm not a phoenix rising from the ashes," she said.

"Och lass, but ye just might be." Their gazes held as he regarded the woman before him. Soaked through, her hair plastered to the sides of her head, cold and abandoned by her father, Sara still exuded strength as if nothing could keep her from rising again.

The creature flapped its wings, and Rory returned his sword to its sheath. "She's frightened of the storm."

"And us." Sara sighed. "Poor animal. This wind is full of vile strength," she said, her voice soft and empathetic. As if to prove its lethality, thunder cracked a second after a lightning bolt illuminated the night outside the window. Sara shook her head. "'Tis dangerous for bird, horse, or human tonight." The heron slowly lowered its wings, pulling them back in against its slender body as if responding to her calm voice.

Rory's stomach grumbled, and Sara cast him a reproving look. "Don't sound hungry in front of her," she said. The flame cast a golden glow over Sara's features. Bloody hell, she was lovely.

"I'll stop sounding hungry when a roast or basket of apples and tarts flies through that broken window."

"We aren't eating her."

Rory chuckled. "Our phoenix here has a champion." He nodded to Sara. "She's safe tonight, from the storm and my gullet."

"Let's leave her be." She pulled Rory to follow her out of the room. "The horses need to be untacked."

He held the lantern high as they descended, and he listened to her boots hit each step. "Ye're a brave woman," Rory said when they reached the bottom.

"I screamed and ran from a bird."

"But once ye start to defend something—Eleri, Gus, yer frantic horse, and the phoenix—ye become a warrior."

"There's no such thing as a phoenix," she said in answer to his compliment. She didn't take praise well. Maybe she wasn't used to receiving any.

Rory set the lantern down and dodged around a pile of fresh horse dung to reach the fire. He pulled his tunic off over his head and set it to dry by the flames before going to his mount. "'Tis a better story to say it was a phoenix seeking protection from the Flame of Dunscaith, Seraphina. Instead of a heron who sought a way out of the rain."

Sara stroked her horse's face as she unbuckled the thin straps there. "First off, there will be no story told to anyone."

"Eleri would love this adventure. Would ye deprive a child from a great tale?"

"Bloody hell, Rory. You don't want people to think we've…that we're…"

"Eleri won't tell anyone, and she won't think that we acted improper."

Sara watched him. "What will Jok think?"

So, she'd caught the warning Jok had tried to bludgeon him with before they left Morag's. Jok remembered the disaster that befell Rory the last time he'd trusted a lass, a Macdonald lass at that. And his friend had sworn he wouldn't let Rory do it again. Even ten years later, Jok was taking his oath seriously.

"I'll tell him about yer horse bolting," Rory said. Jok would never betray him.

She crossed her arms. "He doesn't like me. Why?"

Jok had made his opinion clear as they were leaving Morag's. Jamie banished her. To calm the people and prevent the Macdonalds from attacking, saying we've taken their lady, she needs to go. Do not let a woman ruin ye again, Rory. Winnie swears that Sara's a spy, and the villagers agree with her.

"'Tis complicated," Rory said to Sara, "but Jok's loyal to me. He'll think better of this situation if we tell him about your phoenix."

"Very well," she said, her hands finding her hips, "we can tell Eleri a large heron took refuge with us from the storm, and we thought it looked like a phoenix."

"And that it came for protection from the Flame of Dunscaith."

She stepped to the side to lift the stirrup over the saddle and unbuckled the girth strap. "I am not a flame of anything."

"Then Seraphina, a fiery angel."

"And I'm certainly no angel."

She looked like an angel or a fiery goddess with her long, flowing waves of auburn hair and large blue eyes. When they were in the sunlight, they had flecks of gold in them, almost making them appear green. And they usually looked serious and watchful as if humankind was unpredictable and always treacherous. She was a goddess on guard.

And possibly a Macdonald spy.

He watched Sara struggle to pull off her saddle, but she managed and walked with it, clutched before her. He carried his own saddle over to the table along the far wall.

"I think the name Seraphina suits ye," he said. "Ye have fire and courage, strength and compassion like an angel."

"I…" Her gently arched brows pinched together but then she looked away, breaking whatever tether had held them. "I'm an ordinary woman."

"Ye saved us from the fire even against yer father's plans, even when ye've likely been raised to believe MacLeods deserve the fires of Hell."

She brushed her hands together to rid them of dirt. "As a child, I was told MacLeods drown kittens, puppies, and infants."

Annoyance tightened his face. "I'm fairly sure even Jamie hasn't drowned any newborn bairns."

"As I grew, I was told MacLeods steal and kill without provocation," she said.

They stared at one another across the glow of the lantern, darkness around them giving the area an otherworldly feel. "And did ye believe what ye were told?"

She searched his eyes. "No."

Rory tipped his head, his shoulders relaxing. "Ye're clever."

Her brow rose. "Actions are to be believed, not words, especially not words from my father's foul mouth."

"Beautiful, kind, and clever." The words fell from his lips before he caught them.

She blinked. "And yet you haven't spoken to me since…the night of the garden. Since you made it clear you can find no pleasure with me."

His face snapped to her, his mouth dropping open. "What?"

She waved her hand. "But there's no need to punish me further by barely talking to me. It makes everything more difficult."

"I'm not punishing ye."

"No? Then you're worried perhaps that I will…try to kiss you if you talk to me?"

"Ye don't worry me."

They both leaned against the table in the low light of the fire in the middle of the room. The horses munched on oats he'd left in buckets for them. Thunder still boomed outside, but his gaze remained on her lips.

"Then why the avoidance for two days?" she asked. "The silence on the ride to Morag's?"

Rory rubbed a hand down his face; the weight of his determination, like a bag of grain around his shoulders, was slipping. "My strength is waning."

She poked a finger into his bicep. "Your strength is intact."

He exhaled. "I mean my resistance to ye." He adjusted his cock beneath his wet plaid and turned to her.

"Your resistance," she repeated. "As if I'm a corpulent tyrant English king who has bargained to release you if you'll give in and swear your fealty to me."

"Bloody hell, Sara." His hands lifted to settle at the back of his head. "I dream about ye…"

"Dream?"

"Aye."

"About casting me away, throwing me in a burning church, or—"

"Nay." The word cut in like a bark from a vicious dog. The silence stretched. Only the crunch of the horses and a swish of their tails broke the silence.

"I dream about you, too," she said. Her soft words thundered like the lightning outside, vibrating through him.

"About punching me?"

A slight smile curved her mouth. "Not exactly." She pushed herself up onto the low table to sit, reminding him of a carefree lass at a festival, her legs swinging. "Tell me about your dream and I'll share mine."

Thunder rumbled around them, their cave of darkness blocking out the world, blocking out his oaths. As he looked at her, the beauty of her open expression pulled at him. He drew in a big breath, and it seemed to push honest words from his mouth. "I dream about ye thrashing in pleasure as I…taste ye." He kept his eyes on hers. She didn't even blink. "About us rutting together in a meadow, me behind ye, yer luscious breasts hanging before ye."

Her lips parted as he spoke. "I dream of ramming into yer wet heat from every angle and ye holding my cock between yer lips. And those dreams bombard me while I'm awake. I can hardly think of anything else, and every touch ye inflict on me makes the chains holding me back weaken."