Chapter Six

"In each fire there is a spirit; Each one is wrapped in what is burning him."

Dante, 1265–1321, Italian poet

Rory stared down at the woman in his arms. Red-gold hair tangled in waves about her straight shoulders, the green ferns behind her in bright contrast. The gentle tilt of her wide blue eyes and the flush of color on her cheeks all made her look like a fairy of the woods who'd been caught by a human. Had she been painted in his mother's old book of tales, he would expect her to vanish on the next page, like a will-o'-the-wisp.

Her throat, an exposed length of pale, smooth skin, lay bare, but it was her piercing eyes that pulsed through him, as if they looked past his layers into his soul and found it lacking. If he was bent on killing her, as she'd prophesied, those hate-filled eyes would truly haunt him forever. Just like Madeline's eyes, but this time, Rory could save the lass.

Seraphina's chest rose and fell like a bird caught in a snare, and he felt her tremble despite her vengeful gaze. Devious traitor or not, he wasn't planning to kill her. He wasn't his father. "I'm not cutting yer throat."

"I won't let you throw me in the fire," she said, and kicked out with one of her bare feet. It hit higher this time, above his boot, with a good amount of power, surprising him enough that he glanced down at her bare toes, toes he remembered from the beach.

"I won't burn ye," he said. "If I release my hold, will ye take my hand?" The warmth of her body was penetrating his tunic. She was soft and full of curves that were incredibly distracting, making his blood thrum with thoughts quite opposite of killing.

"Kill me here or let me go," she said and coughed harder, directly into his face.

He released her but kept one hand manacled around her slender wrist. She was a Macdonald, someone not to be trusted. Yet, she'd been so kind to Gus. "Drink something." He glanced away to cough himself. "The smoke is working its way out of us both." She tried to snap her hand away. "Stop yanking and drink before ye break yer wrist."

The lass frowned but lowered her chin, conceding that he wasn't going to slice her throat. It was a small victory. She turned her mouth to the side, and the deep bark of her cough sounded painful. She'd inhaled a lot of the smoke, too. She still didn't take the flask.

"I'm not going to foking kill ye while yer drinking," he said, the pain in his eye fouling his mood.

"You better not be foking lying," she retorted, grabbing the flask with her loose hand.

Surprise at her mimicked curse nearly made him smile, but this was certainly not a day for smiles. It was definitely a day for swearing. And whisky. She lifted the uncorked bladder to her lips and drank, her eyes closing. He watched her slender throat swallow.

How could anyone slice through something so lovely? Memories of another slender throat made his gaze rise back to her face. Bloody hell! Ghosts and regret ruled Rory's life.

Relief softened the woman's features, her lips working at the spout. He couldn't look away at the thirst in her face and stance, and the gradual relaxation of her body, her curvy, sensuous body. Her lips were damp and formed the perfect O around the opening. The thought of her sucking on something made his cock stir, which was completely inappropriate. She was nearly his brother's wife. He cleared his throat and looked away.

She lowered the flask and handed it back.

"Come," he said, pulling her to walk out of the ferns to the old forest floor, spongy with a millennium of detritus and colonies of moss.

She tugged back, almost digging in her heels like a child. "I didn't know anything about the fire."

"From the lips of the Flame of Dunscaith." Rory dragged her from the woods onto the moor. His dappled silver charger, Airgid, stood obediently waiting on the road beyond. "Do all Macdonald women lie?"

She tried to yank her hand away, but he'd closed his grip tightly. "I told you already, no one calls me the Flame of Dunscaith. 'Twas some sick jest from my"—she sniffed, rubbing her nose—"my damn father."

"Ye've never been called the Flame of—"

"Nay!" she yelled. "He came up with the name after Chief MacLeod introduced you as the Lion of Skye."

His father had given him the name after he'd vowed to protect the MacLeod Clan above all else. Rory was the commander of their mighty armies across the large isle. 'Twas Rory's duty to protect all parts of his clan, train his warriors, and battle their enemies when called.

"I am no flame."

"Ye're named Seraphina, which literally means the fiery one."

He glanced back at her, and even though she looked down to watch her steps on the hillocks, red climbed up into her cheeks. "I prefer the name Sara."

They continued maneuvering across the moor. "I can't go back to Dunvegan," she said. "Your people think I'm responsible for the fire, the attack."

He turned to her at his horse. "Ye truly refute yer involvement in the fire," he said, feeling the raw fury try to ignite within him. How could she not have known? She'd taken Gus's lead.

The reddish irritation in her eyes gave her irises a greenish hue, like emeralds set in her dirt-smeared face. "Oh, I was very involved in the fire." She indicated her ruined dress with her free hand. "I tried to warn you inside the church when I felt something wasn't right. I had no forewarning before my father demanded I leave with him." Her words came through clenched teeth.

"And I was quite involved in saving the lot of you by crawling under a burning church, risking my life to bang rocks above my face on the floorboards and crawling backward before being smashed by the baptismal font." Her voice had risen until she shouted. "Now I can't go home because my father will kill me for interfering, and I cannot go back to Dunvegan or your clan will throw me in the fire. So, my choice is to go to my Aunt Morag's cottage." She threw her arm out in the direction she'd been running. "And have her contact my brother to help me into exile."

"Gilbert?" he asked to provoke her a bit more. He liked how her eyes flashed with fury. 'Twas much better than fear.

"Bloody hell, no! Gilbert is as brutal as my father. And he's only clever enough to be dangerous. I mean Kenan, of course, the man you apparently escaped England with. He said you're honorable."

He reached forward to catch a tear running down her cheek. She jerked her face away. He dropped his hand and studied her. "Ye yell like a wronged patriot being dragged to the scaffold yet weep at the same time."

She wiped a flattened palm over her cheek, but the strength and anger in her face didn't recede. "'Tis an eye problem and no concern."

"Weeping? An eye problem?" He released her wrist.

Her freed hand flew through the air as if she were casting his questions aside because of their miniscule importance. She pointed a sharp nail toward his injured eye. "It looks as if you have an eye problem, too. How would you like a second one?"

Again, his lips felt like turning up if the day had been different. "I've been threatened with tears before from a lass, but not in that way."

Silence sat for a moment, and then as if she were done with their conversation, she whirled and began to traipse away toward the crone's cottage again.

Damn, she was slippery. "Seraphina—"

"Sara!" she interrupted without looking back.

"Sara, we are returning to Dunvegan." He must see if Jamie survived and prevent an immediate retaliation. Thought was required, not pure vengeance. He'd learned that while held in Carlisle's dungeon, where threats of retaliation led to flogging.

Sara shook her head as she marched away, her hair wreath slipping to the very end of her tresses, bumping against her arse until she yanked it from her red-gold waves. "I'm not fool enough to go willingly back to my torture and death." Mud covered her blue dress, and the smashed flowers sailed through the air as she threw the wreath. Fists tight and barefoot, she strode with purpose like some elfin lass marching to war with only her magic as a weapon.

"I won't let them harm ye." Rory wasn't a youth, just growing into his leadership of the MacLeod warriors, a lad still under his father's thumb. Rory was a seasoned warrior now and commander. If he said she wouldn't be harmed, bloody hell, she wouldn't be harmed. Rory caught up to her easily and grabbed her arm.

She spun toward him, yanking her arm away while bringing her fist around to his face. Only warrior reflexes saved his nose. His large hand wrapped around her small fist caught in the air, and he bent forward. "Ye are coming with me to Dunvegan. Now, put yer claws away, Hellcat."

Her lips pulled back slightly to show perfect white teeth. "You drag me to my death then."

He glared back. "I'm the bloody Lion of Skye, Sara. I command the MacLeod armies. My word will prevent your death."

The tension in her face didn't lessen. "So, my life depends on the favor of a bloodthirsty lion," she said, her voice low.

"If I let ye return home, yer life will depend on the favor of a bloodthirsty tyrant with no honor," he growled back. "Yer father abandoned ye."

A red hue infused her cheeks. "We have that in common then," she said and spun, continuing to trudge away.

Rory's shackled fury broke free at the reminder of his father's betrayal. In two strides, he caught her around the waist, lifting her from the forest floor. Her medium-sized frame was small compared to his, and he easily flipped her about to set her over one shoulder like he had with his sister, Eleri, when she was small. But instead of happy giggling over his back, this banshee screamed and struck with all her fury.

"Foking put me down! I will kill you as soon as I find a blade! I have a plan to survive on my own. Let me go!" Her words shot through his ears with such pain, he could imagine tiny blades stabbing inside the canals. She nearly slid off his shoulder with her wild squirming, and he felt her hands searching his arse and hips. For a blade, most likely.

He opened his mouth and roared, his charred throat stretching to allow the flow of sound. It did the trick, startling her so he could catch her in a firmer grip.

Recovering quickly, Sara kicked backward, arching her back, twisting like an eel, except instead of being slimy and cold, Sara was warm and pleasantly curved. And she smashed those curves into him in her bid for freedom.

"I take no pleasure in carrying ye this way," he said, his words grinding out. It was mostly true, if he'd stop noticing how gloriously colored and long her hair was, stretching down past the edge of his plaid wrap to tickle the backs of his knees.

"You bastard! I'll…cut your heart out and watch ye choke on it."

"'Tis good ye have a strong will to live."

"You lowly sheep rider! Lucifer is preparing his chains for you in Hell."

She had a humorous way of twisting words into curses, but Rory knew better than to laugh.

"Ye're probably correct," he said. "About the chains, not the sheep rider. My legs would drag on the ground if I tried to ride a sheep."

Using both arms wrapped around her legs, pinning her arms under her, he balanced her on his shoulder. He felt the strain on the slice on the opposite arm where the Macdonald blade had found flesh. Margaret would chide him, but he had little choice.

"Put me down, you shriveled louse!"

He held his tongue, since she was absolutely not in the mood to listen to his good reasons for carrying her back to Dunvegan: wolves across the moor, her murdering father, her brutal younger brother, violent brigands, killing thieves, starvation. Each horrible thought made him hold tighter to her legs. Sara Macdonald and the peace she could bring was too important to lose. And he wasn't ready to lose the most resilient lass he'd ever met.