CHAPTER 6

C HAPTER 6

“Lay down your sword, you scrawny, miserable pup, or I’ll run you through like a hare on a spit!”

Patrick obediently dropped his wooden sword.

“You’re not supposed to do it, Patrick!” said Daniel in disgust.

Patrick regarded his brother in confusion. “But you told me to.”

“It doesn’t matter if I tell you to. An attacking warrior says all kinds of horrid things to frighten people into surrendering—it doesn’t mean you listen to them.”

“But if I didn’t obey you, you were going to run me through,” objected Patrick.

“Now that you have no weapon, I’m going to run you through anyway.” He thrust his sword alongside Patrick’s waist. “There, see? Now you’re dead.”

Patrick’s blue eyes rounded with disbelief. “But that’s not fair! I did just as you told me to!”

“Attacking warriors don’t care about what’s fair,” Daniel informed him authoritatively. “All they care about is how many they maim and kill—isn’t that right, Magnus?”

“Well, now, I suppose that’s mostly true.” His eyes squinting against the afternoon light, Magnus nocked his arrow against the string of his bow and took careful aim at a straw-filled wagon in the courtyard below. The string of his weapon grew taut, then began to shiver as his aged hand quickly tired. Unable to restrain it any longer, he released the arrow into the air.

Daniel, Patrick, and Matthew peered over the battlements to watch its voyage. The arrow veered far to the right of the wagon, then burrowed into the earth by the stone well, missing Thor’s feet by scarcely a hairsbreadth.

“God’s teeth!” Thor roared, raising his sword to defend himself. On seeing Magnus gazing down from the parapet, he grew even more agitated. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“Ye were in no danger,” Magnus assured him. “The arrow went exactly where I wanted it to go.”

“The devil it did!” countered Thor furiously. “Unless you were trying to spear my foot to the ground!”

“ ’Twas not your foot I was aiming for,” Magnus returned. “ ’Twas that scrap of leaf lying on the ground beside it that had caught my attention.”

Thor squinted at the grass. “There is no leaf here.”

“Not anymore, there isn’t,” Magnus agreed. “That’s because the head of my arrow drove it deep into the ground.”

Unconvinced, Thor plucked the shaft from the ground and critically examined its tip. “I don’t see any—”

“Thank ye for retrieving my arrow for me,” said Magnus, waving. “Don’t trouble yerself by bringin’ it up—I shall be down later to collect it.”

“Did you really mean to hit the earth so close to Thor’s foot?” asked Matthew, impressed.

“Aye.”

“I don’t see how you could hit a leaf down there,” objected Daniel, straining to see something equally small. “It’s too little.”

“ ’Twas nothing,” Magnus scoffed, slinging his bow over his arm. “When ye’ve launched tens of thousands of arrows, as I have, ye learn to sense their flight before ye set them free. ’Tis almost as if we are one.”

“Were you one with the arrow that hit Roarke in the bum?” wondered Patrick.

Magnus chuckled. “Now, that was as fine a shot as any a man has ever made. That’s why I saved the arrow.” He pulled the prized shaft from his quiver so the boys could examine it.

“Why did you aim for Roarke’s bum?” wondered Matthew, running his fingers in awe along the shaft.

“Why didn’t you aim for his heart?” asked Daniel harshly.

“Well, now, the heart is a very tiny part of a man, and ye need only look at Roarke to see that he’s an uncommonly big fellow. There he was, crashing through the woods on his enormous black charger, swinging a great silver sword with the strength of ten men or more, and there was our dear Melantha, bravely meeting him blow for blow. But though the Falcon is quick and able, she could not match Roarke’s powerful strikes for long. And so I knew I had to do something and double quick, or else it might be all over for the Falcon and her band. The MacTier’s back was to me, so I steadied my arrow and aimed for his heart, knowing I could pierce it straight and true. But then I began to worry that his leather jerkin might be thick enough to resist the impact of my arrow, or perhaps the tip would strike squarely upon a rib and not delve in more than an inch or so, which would only succeed in making him even more fearsome than he already was.”

Magnus paused for effect, looking with satisfaction at the three pairs of eyes fixed upon him in rapt fascination.

“What did you do?” demanded Patrick eagerly.

“I set my gaze lower and pierced him where he was far more vulnerable,” Magnus finished triumphantly. “The mighty MacTier warrior was off his horse and squalling like a bairn faster than ye could spit!” He slapped his thigh and shook with laughter, causing the boys to giggle as well.

“I don’t recall ‘squalling,’” objected a low voice.

The three boys instantly stopped and regarded Roarke with varying degrees of fear, fascination, and contempt. Magnus, however, gazed at Roarke with amusement.

“Ye were in far too much pain to be able to recall exactly how ye were,” he told him, still chuckling.

“Does your bum still hurt?” asked Patrick sympathetically.

“No,” snapped Roarke, wishing to close the topic.

Little Patrick’s face fell.

Roarke instantly regretted his tone. “Thank you for asking,” he added, feeling somewhere between an ogre and an idiot.

“Have ye come to work on the wall head?” asked Magnus, seeing Lewis and Finlay appear from one of the entrances leading some twenty men. They were burdened with heavy timbers, wooden planks, axes, saws, hammers, and nails.

Roarke nodded. “The pits are coming along well, and Lewis and I have been discussing some ideas for making it more difficult to breach the wall,” he explained. “We’re going to begin construction on six wooden hoardings to project from the parapet. Each will have openings in the floor through which heavy stones and boiling oil can be dropped on the attackers below. These will give you a better vantage point than just hurling rocks over the battlements.”

“We’re going to build one right over the gate,” added Lewis. “That’s going to keep any attackers from ramming it.”

“It will make it more difficult,” amended Roarke.

“Ye don’t say?” said Magnus, clearly intrigued. “But won’t that leave the lads perched on the hoarding in danger of being shot?”

“I’ve designed the hoardings to be almost completely enclosed,” said Lewis. He unrolled one of the drawings he was carrying and showed it to Magnus. “There will be walls on all three sides, with cross-shaped openings to allow the men to see,” he explained, proudly pointing to these features on his neatly detailed diagram. “They can also see through the openings in the floor.”

“An excellent idea!” said Magnus. “Do ye think I could shoot from one of these?”

Lewis frowned, studying his design. “I don’t believe there will be enough room for an archer.”

“The hoardings will be manned by two men who need room to move and keep a stockpile of rocks,” explained Roarke. “There won’t be space for an archer as well.”

“A pity.” Magnus sighed wistfully. “I could make some fine hits from a platform like that.”

“You would also have an excellent vantage point if you shot from one of the upper chambers,” Roarke suggested. The wall head was a dangerous place during an attack, and he did not particularly relish the idea of Magnus being caught in the thick of it. Beyond that, there was also the distinct possibility of Magnus accidentally planting an arrow into one of his own clan.

“Ye might be right,” said Magnus, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “But there’s no point in thinkin’ about that.” He sighed. “Duty requires an old warrior like me to be up here, so I can lead my men to victory.”

Roarke wasn’t certain which men he was talking about, but he refrained from questioning him on that point. “The entire clan would be better served by your skills as an archer, Magnus,” he suggested, wondering just why the thought of the old man being exposed to danger bothered him.

“And you’re a great archer!” gushed Patrick enthusiastically. “You should have seen the way he hit the leaf beside Thor’s foot,” he told Roarke. “It was so close, Thor was actually afraid for his life!”

“ ’Twas nothing,” said Magnus, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“The arrow went so deep, it made the leaf disappear!” added Patrick.

Roarke raised a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Now, lads, ye don’t want to sound like yer braggin’,” admonished Magnus, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Run along and play somewhere.”

“I don’t play,” Daniel informed him stiffly. “I’m training to be a warrior. And I want to stay here and help build these platforms.”

“I want to help build platforms too,” volunteered Patrick.

“Me too,” added Matthew, although he sounded less than certain.

Magnus regarded them dubiously. “Do ye think ye can find somethin’ for them to do?” he asked Lewis.

“There are all kinds of things they can do to help,” Lewis assured Magnus. “We need every pair of hands.”

“Fine, then. Ye can stay up here and help—but make sure ye don’t get in anyone’s way,” instructed Magnus sternly. “Do ye hear?”

The three boys nodded.

“Well, then, I suppose I’ll collect that arrow I shot into that leaf before leadin’ the men in their archery practice. Ye know how I hate to waste a perfectly good arrow.” He cast Roarke an amused look.

Not waiting for Roarke’s response, he jauntily slung his bow over his shoulder and disappeared.

“Give me your sword!”

Melantha watched in disbelief as Ninian obediently handed his weapon over to Eric. Her hand instinctively flew to the hilt of her own sword. Did Ninian not realize the danger of allowing this MacTier prisoner to be armed?

“Brace your feet a shoulder width apart, so your stance is solid,” Eric instructed, positioning his own feet at the same time. “You are thin, and although Gelfrid here is short and fat, he outmatches you by weight.”

“I’m not fat,” protested Gelfrid. He lowered his sword so he could mop his sweating brow with his sleeve. “I’ll have you know this is sheer muscle.” He thumped the generous round of his belly with his pudgy fist.

“More like sheer ale,” countered Ninian.

“Whatever it is, the Viking is saying that I have the advantage,” said Gelfrid testily.

“No, he’s saying I’d best not let you sit on me or I’ll be crushed,” Ninian retorted.

“Why don’t we try it and find out?” snapped Gelfrid, tossing his sword down and stomping toward his friend.

Eric felt the taut thread of his patience snap. “Enough!”

Every MacKillon in the yard instantly stopped what they were doing and stared at Eric in bewilderment.

“What’s amiss, Viking?” demanded Thor, who was seated comfortably in a chair with a cup of cool ale in his hand. “Is the training over for today?”

“No,” said Eric, struggling to rein in his temper. “Everyone continue.”

The thirty or so men who were training resumed their exercises.

Eric fixed Gelfrid and Ninian with a steely stare. “Do you wish to learn to fight, or do you prefer to squabble like a pair of old women?”

The two MacKillons exchanged chastised looks.

“We want to learn to fight,” said Ninian.

“Like warriors,” Gelfrid added.

“Fine. Let us continue.” Eric assumed his braced stance once again. “If your opponent is larger than you, you must make it hard for him to knock you off balance. Grip your sword firmly with your right hand, like so, and keep your left arm out, to help maintain your footing….”

Melantha watched Eric in confusion, her hand still gripping the hilt of her sword. The enormous warrior had a weapon in his hand. This was a perfect opportunity for him. Why didn’t he just grab either Gelfrid or Ninian and put the blade to their throat, then threaten to slay them if he and his fellow MacTiers weren’t released at once?

“He’s very strong, isn’t he?”

Melantha turned to see Gillian standing beside her. Her faded gray gown was limp and splattered with grease, indicating that she had been working in the kitchen. Despite the shabby condition of her attire, Melantha thought her friend looked remarkably pretty. Her red-gold hair formed a gauzy veil about her pale face, and her eyes were large and shimmering, like a loch glistening with sunlight.

“Look how effortlessly he wields Ninian’s sword,” Gillian commented, her gaze fixed upon Eric. “ ’Tis barely more than a twig to him.”

“Aye, he’s strong,” agreed Melantha. “Strong and well trained and a MacTier warrior. That makes him dangerous, Gillian.”

“And yet he has not tried to harm any of us,” she reflected softly.

“He has not tried to harm anyone because he is a prisoner,” pointed out Melantha, “and knows he would be vastly outnumbered were he to raise so much as his hand.”

“Perhaps.” Gillian watched as Eric demonstrated several deadly slicing motions with his sword, then handed the weapon back to Ninian so he could practice. “But why is he helping to train the very people who hold him prisoner? Surely it would be better for these MacTiers if we remained weak and defenseless, in case their clan comes to free them.”

Melantha did not know the answer to that question. All around her, members of her clan were busily digging pits, making weapons, preparing food, and training. Why had Roarke and his men instigated these projects? It could only have something to do with their plans for escape, she reflected darkly. Roarke was far too proud a warrior to placidly bide his time here and wait for his ransom to be paid. But what, exactly, were they planning?

“Do you know where Roarke is, Gillian?” she asked.

“He is up on the wall walk with Lewis and a group of men. They are constructing some kind of platform from one of Lewis’s designs.”

“I am going up to see what they are doing. Are you coming?”

“I have to get back to the kitchen,” said Gillian, not taking her eyes off Eric.

“Very well.” Melantha turned toward the keep, noting that her friend showed absolutely no sign of moving.

The wall head was teeming with activity, and she had to step carefully to avoid tripping over a tool or being hit by one of the dozens of heavy planks being carried to and fro.

“Melantha! Look at what I’m doing!”

Melantha turned to see Patrick standing beside the burly form of Myles.

“We’re building a wall for one of the platforms,” Patrick informed her, his freckled face beaming with excitement. He eagerly handed Myles a nail.

The MacTier warrior positioned it over one of the boards lying on the ground before him, then drove it in with two powerful swings of his iron mallet. It was a blow that could easily kill a man, Melantha thought. Or crush a child’s skull.

“That was a good one,” said Myles, inspecting the sunken scrap of iron with approval. “Find me another like that one, Patty—straight and true with a good, sharp tip.”

His red brows puckered with concentration, Patrick fished through his black pile of nails. “Here’s a good one!” he said triumphantly, extracting a dark pin that looked exactly like the rest.

“Perfect.” Myles took it from him and positioned it on the board. Two more powerful raps and the nail had disappeared. “Smooth as a greased dirk.”

“Why would you want to put grease on a dirk?” Patrick wondered.

“ ’Tis an old trick of mine,” Myles explained. “Makes the dirk sink into a man’s gut like a blade in warm butter.”

“Really?” Patrick’s blue eyes widened with childish fascination. “How many men have you killed, Myles?”

“Come here, Patrick,” said Melantha suddenly.

Patrick turned to look at her. “Why?”

“I have something I need you to do for me,” she replied, giving Myles a disapproving look.

Patrick remained planted beside Myles. “What?” It was clear he was reluctant to abandon his privileged position as an assistant to the forbidding-looking MacTier warrior.

“I need you to—help me find Daniel and Matthew,” she improvised.

“They’re practicing their swordplay just beyond the west tower,” said Patrick. “Look, you can just see them.”

Melantha glanced over to see the two boys playfully cracking their wooden swords together.

“Then I need you to help me find Roarke.”

“He’s right over there.”

Melantha followed his grubby little finger and saw Roarke standing at the far end of the wall head, directing the efforts of several men who were inserting a square timber through an opening in the parapet.

“Come with me while I go to speak with him.” She extended her hand to him.

“I want to stay here and help Myles,” Patrick insisted. “He needs me.”

“Maybe you’d best go with your sister, Patty,” said Myles, sensing Melantha’s displeasure. “I can manage without you.”

“But you told me you needed me.” Patrick sounded crestfallen. “You said my job was important.”

“And so it is,” Myles assured him. “But now that we’ve got this wall well in hand, perhaps there is someone else needing your assistance—like Lewis.”

“I don’t want to help Lewis,” Patrick objected, his expression pleading. “I want to help you.”

Myles gave Melantha a helpless look.

Melantha was on the verge of ordering Patrick to come to her side at once. But something in Myles’s eyes caused her to hesitate. They reflected warmth and gentle humor as he looked at her, as if he were saying, Well, what are we to do with this lad now?

He was a MacTier warrior, Melantha reminded herself firmly, who had the strength to kill Patrick with one deliberate blow of his mallet. And yet, despite his forbidding countenance, with his shaved head and his thick arms sheathed in battered metal guards, Melantha sensed no danger from Myles as he towered over the small form of her baby brother. If anything he was being extremely sweet with the lad—giving him a simple task to make him feel needed, and complimenting him on his performance. Patrick was only seven years old, but already he had lost both his parents and seen his clan brutalized by attack and near starvation. If he had found a morsel of pleasure standing in the sunlight passing Myles the very best nails, then what harm was there in letting him do so? The wall head was crowded with her people, any one of whom would intervene if they thought for an instant that Patrick was in danger.

“Very well,” she relented. “You may stay here and help Myles—but no more talk of dirks, understood?”

“Yes.” Patrick’s blue eyes danced with delight.

“I am also speaking to you, Myles,” Melantha added in a stern voice.

Myles nodded meekly, then gave Patrick a conspiratorial wink.

Melantha turned and made her way to the end of the wall walk, wondering if she should have included swords and other weapons in her directive.

“A little farther out…a little more…there,” Lewis said, finally satisfied with the position of the beam. “Now place the others parallel to this one, and make sure they are well secured before you nail the planks on top.”

“Are you sure this thing is going to hold the weight of two men and all those stones?” demanded Mungo skeptically.

“Roarke has seen similar galleries built out from some of the castles he has attacked. He has assured me that if they are constructed correctly, they are extremely secure.”

“But how do we know if we’re building it correctly?” wondered Finlay. “We’ve never made one of these contraptions before.”

“I have calculated a man’s weight against the strength of the design,” Lewis explained. “It will hold.”

“But how can you know for certain?”

Lewis dropped his gaze to his diagram, uncertain how to convince them.

“Lewis’s design is excellent,” interjected Roarke. “He has even improved upon the platforms that I have seen by placing an additional cross piece, here, to better distribute the weight,” he added, pointing this feature out on Lewis’s drawing.

“That may be, but I’ll not be the first one out to test the thing!” Mungo chortled, shaking his head. “I’ve no desire to fall through the air and break both my legs, no matter how pretty Lewis’s drawing is!”

“Nor I,” added Finlay, laughing.

“You won’t fall,” protested Lewis in frustration. “The hoarding will hold you.”

“So you’ve said,” replied Mungo, “but I’ll be keeping my feet on firmer ground, all the same.”

“Once the timbers are in place, I will go out and nail the planks down myself. That way you will see the hoarding is secure.”

Lewis, Mungo, and Finlay looked at Roarke in astonishment.

“You would do that?” said Lewis.

“Of course,” he replied. “Because I have no doubt that your design is sound. Now, if you two are sure enough of what you are doing to carry on, Lewis must check with the men on the other end of the wall—” He stopped suddenly, his thoughts completely arrested by the sight of Melantha.

In the three days since he had addressed her people in the courtyard, Melantha had managed to avoid Roarke completely. He had known she was angry with him for not playing the role of prisoner to her liking, and for convincing her clan to institute some of his ideas. He could only guess what she imagined his motives to be, but he had little doubt that she suspected his assistance was directly entwined with some nefarious plan of escape.

Strangely enough, Roarke had actually missed her glowering presence. At this moment her expression was marginally softer—not precisely welcoming, but not exuding its characteristic scorn and bitterness either. She was garbed in her customary outfit of leggings, high deerskin boots, a loosely fitted tunic of plain brown wool, and a moss green quilted jerkin. Although he would have preferred to see her draped in a richly colored gown of fine silk or soft wool, Roarke found himself admiring the firm curve of her legs, which these particular leggings did little to obscure. Her dark hair was loosely secured with a frayed length of ribbon, but Roarke suspected this was purely for keeping her hair out of her eyes, rather than any capitulation to female vanity. Despite her utter indifference to her appearance as a woman, he found her completely enchanting as she gazed up at him. A honeyed cast of sunlight warmed the chiseled paleness of her cheeks, softening the sharp lines of deprivation that disturbed him so, and her eyes were large and mysteriously veiled, drawing him deeper into their depths as he tried to discern her mood.

“Good afternoon, milady.” He gave her a polite bow.

Melantha frowned, not sure if he was making sport of her or not. She was well aware that her attire made her look anything but a lady. She searched his expression but could find no trace of mockery in it. Instead he regarded her with something akin to warmth, as if he were actually pleased to see her.

“I came to see the progress on the wall,” she said, as if her presence in his company required an explanation.

“It’s going very well, Melantha,” said Lewis enthusiastically. “We have cut openings in the parapet to hold the timbers for four hoardings, and now we’re just positioning—”

“Look out below!”

Melantha, Roarke, and Lewis peered over the battlements just in time to see a heavy timber sail through the air, effectively scattering the MacKillons working on the ground below before it landed with a heavy crash.

“God’s ballocks, Mungo, are you tryin’ to kill someone ?!” shouted Finlay furiously.

“I had to sneeze!” Mungo retorted defensively.

“Well, you might bloody well let me know before you leave all the work to me!” snapped Finlay.

“Did you see that, Matthew?” asked Daniel, climbing into the crenel between the merlons to get a better look. “The timber sank right into the ground!”

Matthew craned his head to see around his brother. “Where?”

“Climb in that opening over there,” directed Daniel, pointing to the next crenel. “You’ll be able to see better. Don’t be scared,” he chided, seeing his brother hesitate. “Just hold on to the merlon and you’ll be fine.”

“Do you think we can still use that timber?” asked Lewis doubtfully.

“I think it’s best not to,” Roarke decided. “A fall like that probably cracked it, or created a fault deep within its center. Better to use one we know we can rely on.”

“Now, that’s a bloody waste.” Finlay glared at Mungo.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mungo objected. “How was I to know I was going to sneeze?”

Melantha caught sight of Matthew and Daniel precariously balanced in the crenels of the parapet. She was about to order them to get down when suddenly Matthew lost his footing. He clawed wildly at the merlon beside him, his fingers scrabbling over the rough stone.

“Hold on, Matthew!” shouted Roarke, racing toward the boy.

Matthew cried out in terror, his hands grasping for Roarke.

And slipped off the battlements.

Melantha screamed, a ragged, agonized sound that hung with deathly finality upon the air.

His heart frozen with dread, Roarke braced his hands on the parapet and forced himself to look down.

Instead of finding Matthew’s broken body lying in a crumpled heap upon the ground, he saw the lad’s ghostly pale face staring up at him from some ten feet below. Miraculously, the boy had managed to find a hold in an opening between the stones as he fell. He now clung to the wall, trembling.

If he lost his grip, he would die.

“Someone hold my legs!” Roarke commanded.

Every man on the wall head rushed toward him, desperate to help. Myles and Finlay reached him first. The two powerful men each grabbed hold of one of Roarke’s legs, then held him fast as they lowered him down the wall.

“Hello, Matthew,” Roarke said, affecting a casual tone that completely contradicted the direness of the situation. “I’m going to take hold of your arms, and I want you to lock your hands as best you can around my arms—do you understand?”

“I can’t,” Matthew whimpered.

“Of course you can,” said Roarke, his voice low and reassuring. “You just hold on, and I’m going to take you back up.” He stretched his arms out, then cursed silently.

The boy was beyond his reach.

“Don’t let me fall!” pleaded Matthew. Tears spilled from his eyes.

“I won’t let you fall, Matthew,” Roarke insisted gently. “Finlay,” he said, his voice utterly calm, “I need to be a little lower.”

Finlay and Myles obligingly eased him down a few more inches.

“I don’t know about you, Matthew,” Roarke said cheerfully as he reached for the boy once more, “but I’m getting hungry. What do you say we go inside and find ourselves something to—”

“I’m slipping!” shrieked Matthew, his face wild with terror.

Roarke surged toward him, straining every inch of his muscle and bone and skin. His hands clamped with brutal strength around Matthew’s slim forearms.

“Pull us up!” he commanded.

Using their combined strength, Finlay and Myles hauled the enormous warrior and the terrified boy up the wall.

A deafening cheer exploded from every member of the clan. Roarke stood with his massive arms closed protectively around Matthew’s shivering form.

“Easy, now,” he murmured, bending to rest his chin atop the lad’s head. “You’re safe now.”

Matthew clung tightly to Roarke, his face buried in the warrior’s chest.

“Matthew!” cried Melantha, grabbing him and turning him around to face her.

A purple stain was spreading on his cheek and blood leaked from a gash on his forehead. She knelt and urgently ran her hands along the sides of his face and down his shoulders and arms, which were pink and raw with cuts and scrapes. Once she was absolutely certain there was nothing seriously cut or broken, she wrapped her arms tightly around him and closed her eyes.

Thank you, God.

“Ow—you’re hurting me, Melantha,” Matthew complained in a muffled voice.

Reluctantly, she released him.

“I’m sorry about that, Matthew.” Daniel’s fine, pale features were twisted with guilt. “I never should have told you to climb onto the parapet.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Melantha agreed, her overwhelming relief making it difficult to feel any genuine anger. “You are Matthew’s older brother, Daniel, and I expect you to take care of him, not to encourage him to try such foolish antics.”

Daniel hung his head, deeply ashamed.

“You are both forbidden to come up here again—is that clear?”

The two boys nodded glumly.

“Let’s get you inside and tend to those cuts,” she said, gently tracing her finger over Matthew’s scraped cheek. She rose to lead him away. “You come too, Daniel.” Her voice was soft, making it more an invitation than an order.

The little trio disappeared into the castle, leaving the rest of the clan to breathe a sigh of relief, before turning to regard Roarke with a newly forged reverence.

“And then we lowered him over the wall, each of us gripping a leg as massive and heavy as a tree trunk,” continued Finlay, his face flushed with a generous measure of both pride and ale.

“Dear me, Roarke is a very big chap,” fretted Laird MacKillon. “Were you not afraid of dropping him?”

“I was only worried that poor old Myles here might not be able to hold up his end,” joked Finlay, slapping Myles lustily on the back.

“More like you were praying I would take over your burden as well,” grumbled Myles. “We could have boiled a haggis in the sweat dripping from your brow.”

“If I had let go, it would have been so I could shade my eyes from the blinding sunlight bouncing off your shiny pate,” laughed Finlay, unwilling to be bested by a MacTier.

“Be glad you were blind—you were spared the sight of Roarke’s bare arse!” roared Myles, doubling over with drunken amusement.

The entire clan laughed.

“Will you have some more ale?” asked a black-haired girl with a lush bosom and a saucy swing to her hips.

“Ah, sweet Katie, you’ve the powers of a seer,” sighed Finlay, happily lowering his cup so she could fill it.

“And what about you, my fine hero?” she asked, her rosy mouth curved in amusement. “Can you drink some more?”

Myles regarded her with bleary rapture. “I like your arms.” He vaguely hoped she would dump the pitcher of ale over his head. Hadn’t Donald said that meant a woman liked a man?

“Do you, now?” she said, her brown eyes twinkling. “Now, there’s a compliment I’ve not heard before.”

“I like your hips too,” Myles added, gazing at them appreciatively. “They’re good and broad.”

“God’s teeth, I think the lad is in love!” laughed Magnus, slapping his thigh.

“Careful now, Katie, you don’t want to have your head turned with such flowery talk,” joked Gelfrid.

“And why not?” demanded Katie, still smiling at Myles. “ ’Tis not every day a lass has a hero fill her head with such sweet words.”

“I’m a hero too,” protested Finlay.

“Ah, Finlay, I’m thinking ’tis too late to capture fair Katie’s heart,” commented Mungo, “unless you tell her quick how much you love her big feet!”

The clan roared with laughter.

“Are you going to dump that ale on me?” asked Myles hopefully.

“Of course not,” Katie chided. “I know you mean no harm.”

Myles watched in disappointment as she filled his cup. “Are you going to dump it on Finlay?”

“Now, there’s an idea,” Katie mused, smiling. “A little shower might help douse his shameless boasting.”

Jealousy pricked Myles’s ale-soaked contentment.

“But t’would be a waste of a perfectly fine pitcher of ale,” she finished, shrugging her shoulders.

His spirits lifted once more. Obviously this Katie was a thrifty lass. Thriftiness was an admirable quality in a woman, he decided, gazing at her longingly.

“I do believe ’tis time to raise our cups in a toast,” said Laird MacKillon, standing. “To our honored prisoner Roarke. But for his strength, courage, and quick thinking, this day could have ended in tragedy, instead of the happiness you see round you tonight.”

The great hall filled with cheers.

“What about me and my friend Myles?” demanded Finlay thickly.

“Your pardon, Finlay,” said Laird MacKillon. “Of course we are indebted to you and Myles for your actions today as well. Everyone, to Finlay and Myles.”

The MacKillons happily drank from their cups again.

“I’m not of a mind to brag, but ’twas my arrow that felled Roarke and brought him here in the first place,” pointed out Magnus. “Therefore I had some hand in what happened today.”

“To Magnus, for shooting Roarke in the arse!” shouted Gelfrid.

“To Roarke’s arse!” rose the drunken toast, giving everyone yet another reason to drink.

“Do you think you will ever be able to live down that injury?” wondered Donald, thoroughly amused by Roarke’s disgruntled expression.

“No one beyond these MacKillons will ever hear of it,” Roarke said flatly. “Is that understood?”

“An arrow in your backside is nothing,” scoffed Thor, thoroughly unimpressed. “A sword in your belly—now, that’s an injury worth talking about.”

“Forgive me, Thor, but I don’t think one could survive a sword in one’s belly,” pointed out Hagar.

“That’s the problem with you striplings—you’re too soft!” complained Thor.

“I’m not soft,” Eric objected.

“You’re the softest one here, Viking!” growled Thor. “You couldn’t even swallow a mouthful of Edwina’s posset without weeping like a bairn!”

Donald and Myles roared with laughter.

“Enough!” snapped Eric. “Bring me a cup of that damn posset now!”

“Quick, before he changes his mind!” Donald rose to his feet. “Where’s Gillian?”

On hearing her name, Gillian tentatively turned to look at the men at Roarke’s table.

“Fair Gillian,” Donald began, placing his hand over his heart, “my Viking friend here is sorely ashamed for the way he has behaved in your charming company—”

“Stop it,” growled Colin. “You’re embarrassing her.”

“—and to make amends to you,” continued Donald blithely, “he has requested you bring him an entire jug of your delectable posset at once, so he may forever vanquish any reservations about its highly unique flavor!”

The entire clan gasped.

“I’m going to kill you, Donald,” Eric vowed in a hard voice. “Slowly and with great pain.”

Gillian’s gaze flitted nervously to Eric. “Do you really want some?”

Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, and her hands were clutched tightly together, as if in anticipation of some terrible outburst from him.

It bothered Eric that he frightened her so. He was not in the habit of terrifying maids—at least not on purpose.

“ ’Tis all right, Gillian, lass,” Hagar began, “the lads here were just having a wee bit of fun—”

“Yes,” said Eric suddenly. “I want some.”

“Then I’ll get it for you,” Beatrice announced, unwilling to permit her daughter to be subjected to any further humiliation. “And you’ll not dare throw it at me, or I’ll take that wooden platter and break it over your thick Viking head!”

“No, Mother.” Gillian’s gaze was fixed upon Eric. “I can get it.”

Hagar regarded his daughter with concern. “Are you sure, lass?”

She nodded.

“Excellent.” Donald rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Gillian went to fetch the drink.

“If you do anything to upset my sister, I swear I’ll kill you,” Colin vowed.

Eric said nothing.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” remarked Laird MacKillon, confused. “I think Edwina’s posset is quite tasty.”

“ ’Tis marvelous for cleansing the bowels,” added Edwina, pleased that her special brew was receiving so much attention.

“Best to toss it down in one gulp,” warned Magnus stealthily as Gillian returned. “Trust me, lad.”

Gillian approached Eric with admirable calm, especially given that everyone in the entire clan was now watching her. She bore a small wooden tray on which she had placed a single fresh goblet and a pitcher.

“Would you like me to pour it for you?” Her voice was small and soft in the silence that had descended over the great hall.

Eric shook his head. “Give me the jug.”

The clan gasped in horror.

“Are you certain?” Gillian regarded him with concern. “ ’Tis a strong brew.”

“Did you make this batch?” asked Eric.

She nodded.

“Then I will drink the entire jug.”

“That’s bravery for certain,” muttered Magnus under his breath.

Edwina gave him a chastising look, and Magnus responded by giving her a playful squeeze.

Gillian handed the jug to Eric.

“Thank you,” he said, holding the foul-smelling potion as far from his nose as was decently possible.

“All at once, lad,” Magnus reminded him.

Eric did not hesitate. Calling upon the harsh resolve of a warrior about to face his most dreaded enemy, he tilted his head back, bravely downed the contents of the jug, then banged the empty pitcher on the table.

The crowd in the great hall cheered wildly.

“By God, that’s courage!” marveled Magnus. “I’ve been drinking the wretched stuff for years, but I never could stomach an entire pitcher!”

“He’ll be feeling the benefits of that for days,” predicted Edwina with satisfaction.

“No doubt,” commented Hagar, looking sympathetic.

“Would you like some ale to wash that down?” asked Donald merrily.

“No,” said Eric, his gaze on Gillian. “It isn’t necessary.”

Gillian gave him a small, shy smile before picking up her tray and disappearing back into the kitchen.

“All this fuss over a pitcher of drink,” complained Thor, scowling. “I never saw a more coddled basket of kittens.”

“At least the Viking is trying,” remarked Magnus, winking at Eric. “It reminds me of when I was a lad, and had to fight a terrible, two-headed beastie with lungs of fire and teeth like a thousand deadly sharp swords….”

Roarke drank deeply from his cup, then filled it again and drank some more. His back, neck, and shoulders were rigid with pain, making it difficult to turn his head. Even lifting his goblet to his lips seemed to require an inordinate amount of effort. He had been painfully aware of the protests of his aging, battered frame while hanging upside down on the battlements. Once he could have hoisted himself over the parapet and plucked Matthew back to safety with graceful ease, then drunk himself into a pleasant stupor to celebrate his victory. That was a younger Roarke than the weary warrior who sat hunched at this table tonight, drinking to numb the pathetic whimpers of his deteriorating flesh. Matthew was safe, and for that he was profoundly grateful. But the incident had taken a grueling toll on his body, reminding him that his days as a warrior were numbered.

“…and then with one powerful blow I sliced his green beastie head from his massive, stinking body, leaving a steaming river of blood flowing into the ground and staining the dried grasses a horrible black for all time. Ye can still go there and see the spot where he died,” Magnus finished cheerfully.

Thor regarded Magnus with frank skepticism. “Really, Magnus, you go too far with these foolish tales.” His dark little eyes were all but obscured in the wrinkled folds of his face as he cynically demanded, “Do you really expect me to believe the beastie’s blood was black?”

“By the toes of St. Aidan, I swear it was,” Magnus vowed. “As black as night, with a terrible stench of rotting corpses on a still summer’s day.”

“Magnus, people are still eating,” chided Edwina disapprovingly.

“Melantha could tell you if she were here,” Magnus said, sensing he needed an ally to validate his tale. “I took her father to the very spot where the beastie fell, and he could see the ground was black and stank of death. The lad talked about it for years afterward.”

“Where is the lass, anyway?” wondered Laird MacKillon, looking about the hall in confusion. “She never seems to dine with us of late.”

“She is in her chamber tending to Matthew,” Beatrice replied. “The poor lad was sorely frightened by his fall today, and Melantha wanted to stay by his side and make certain he was all right.”

“The lass is wonderful with those boys,” Magnus said fondly. “Her mother and father would be proud.”

“I don’t think either would be pleased to know about their daughter dressing like a man and traipsing about the woods in search of someone to rob,” objected Beatrice. “She should stay at home with the lads and leave the business of thievery to you men.”

“Why is it that Melantha is permitted to go with you?” asked Roarke curiously.

“Permitted to go with us?” Magnus regarded him with amusement. “ ’Tis she that had to be convinced to let us accompany her.”

“She was most reluctant about it at first,” recalled Laird MacKillon, shaking his head. “She only relented when I absolutely insisted.”

“Before that she was going off on her own—hunting, she used to call it.” Hagar chuckled.

Roarke stared at them in disbelief. “Are you saying Melantha would go out and rob people all by herself?”

“And she was very good at it,” Magnus assured him proudly. “The lass has a real talent for thievery.”

“You must understand, she only took to it after her father was killed,” explained Edwina, sensing Roarke’s disapproval. “Had we not been attacked, I’m sure Melantha would never have considered going out and taking that which did not belong to her.”

“She was always a good lass,” said Magnus fondly. “And she loved her da. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl grieve so at the death of her father.”

“ ’Twas doubly hard because her mother had died not two years earlier,” added Beatrice. “Suddenly Melantha and the boys were alone, and worse, they had absolutely nothing. Their cottage was burned to the ground in the attack, and whatever belongings and food stores they had were either stolen or destroyed.”

Roarke could scarcely imagine the awesome burden of loss and responsibility falling without warning upon a young girl’s shoulders. “But she was a member of this clan. Surely everyone here would share what they had to help look after them.”

“Of course we would,” said Colin flatly. “We MacKillons look after our own.”

“I insisted that everyone who lost their home in the attack move into the castle,” said Laird MacKillon. “You could scarcely walk about at night without tripping over someone curled upon the floor, but everyone had a roof over their head.”

“There was little to eat then,” continued Hagar, “but there were still a few deer to be killed and fish to be caught.”

“And then we suffered the worst winter we had endured in forty years,” said Ninian. “Even the beasts in the woods couldn’t find anything to eat. Most froze to death while searching.”

“ ’Twas a terrible time,” Gelfrid reflected. “Watching the faces of the children grow thinner each day, knowing there was nothing more to give them.”

“Until then Melantha had been completely absorbed in looking after the boys,” said Beatrice. “But when wee Patrick fell ill and refused to eat anything we offered, Melantha picked up her bow and arrow and rode into the woods herself, determined to kill something and make a nourishing broth of it.”

“That night she came back with a scrawny hare, a new sword, a sharp dirk, and a nice saddle!” said Magnus triumphantly. “And that’s when we knew Melantha had a real talent for hunting!”

Everyone laughed.

“And the Falcon’s band grew from that,” surmised Roarke.

“Since there was no stopping the lass from going into the woods, Colin, Finlay, Lewis, and I decided to go along and help her,” explained Magnus. “It took some convincing, but finally we made her see that we could do better as a group than she could on her own.”

There was no denying that the Falcon’s band had done well, Roarke mused, especially given its small size and the peculiarities of its members. It had certainly created enough of a problem for his own laird to want the band destroyed and its leader brought to him for retribution.

He took a deep swallow of ale, feeling angry and disgusted with both his clan and himself. How he would ever convince Melantha to abandon her exploits as the Falcon, when all she was doing was trying to provide for her family and her people, he had no idea.

Melantha slipped silently along the cool, dark passage, following the oily flicker of the dying torchlights.

The corridor was still, lacking even the low rumble of contented snores that filled the great hall now that the evening’s celebration had finally come to an end. Most of her people had managed to make their way to their beds, but a few determined revelers had kept drinking until movement was all but impossible. Thus she had found Finlay sprawled upon a hard bed of greasy platters, looking as content as he might were he stretched upon a feather mattress, and Lewis curled like an exhausted puppy on the cold floor, his half-empty cup still clutched in one hand. A quick perusal had revealed that Roarke and his men were not among those sleeping off their drink.

She had felt a moment of alarm, for she had feared that the MacTiers had cleverly used this opportunity to escape. Then she recalled that their prison had been moved from the great hall to the cleared-out storeroom in the lower level of the castle. Colin was not one to drink to excess on any occasion, and Melantha was certain that he would have made sure the prisoners were safely ensconced before retiring for the night. Colin despised the MacTiers to the depths of his being, and would not permit something like Roarke’s remarkably selfless feat of that day to erode his rancor toward them.

She turned the corner and saw Gelfrid slumped in a chair beside the storeroom door, snoring soundly. His sword and dirk lay discarded upon the ground, and even the heavy key that secured the door he was guarding so carelessly had slipped from his belt. She had planned to ask whoever was watching the prisoners to open the door and bring out Roarke so that she might speak with him. She had thought to thank him for his actions that day quickly, in the corridor, with the comforting propriety of one of her own people standing by. But as she studied the steady rise and fall of Gelfrid’s substantial belly, she hesitated. In his ale-sodden state Gelfrid might prove difficult to waken, and if he made a lot of groaning, fumbling noises as she roused him, it would only draw unnecessary attention to her desire to speak with Roarke in the middle of the night. It would be far quicker and more discreet to just open the door and talk to Roarke in his chamber.

She picked up the key and fit it into the lock.

The door made no sound as it crept open, for someone had taken the care to ensure that its aged hinges were well oiled, no doubt out of consideration for the MacTier prisoners. A soft wash of coppery light illuminated the four warriors lying upon their narrow beds, which seemed far too small and confining for men of their uncommon stature. The room was spare and tidily arranged, reflecting the organizational standards of Beatrice, and it smelled of smoke and pine, one scent emanating from the single torch burning low on the wall, the other from the soft carpet of pine branches that had been laid over the packed earth floor to obliterate any hint of dampness. It was a generous space, and arguably as clean and comfortable as any chamber in the castle, excluding the fact that it lacked both a window and a hearth.

Roarke lay on his side with his head resting on his arm. His eyes were closed and his breathing deep, but Melantha approached him warily nonetheless, suspecting that he had long ago perfected his ability to feign slumber when in fact he was preparing to attack. It was only after several long, guarded moments in which she strained to detect the least indication of consciousness that she finally decided he was, indeed, asleep. Releasing a taut breath, she moved a little closer.

The black fall of his hair was carelessly tangled over his massive shoulder, and a few strands lay against the dark shadow of his elegantly chiseled jaw. He was not an unattractive man, she conceded reluctantly, although this was an observation she had fought from the moment she had first swung her sword at him in the woods. His face was pleasingly sculpted, with a hard, rugged beauty in its weathered edges and planes, and an etching of lines that told her he had seen much in his life. His mouth was full and sensually shaped, and although she could not recall it ever softening into a smile, she suspected that when it did the effect would be mesmerizing.

His brow was deeply creased at that moment, not in the irritated scowl she had witnessed so often when he was awake but with something that seemed more reflective of worry, or perhaps even discomfort. She supposed it was difficult for a man of his considerable size to find comfort on a small trestle bed. Then of course there was the wound in his buttock, which should have mostly healed by now, but might still bother him even so. She felt a flash of guilt at the thought that she had let Magnus stitch it closed despite Roarke’s objections. She bit her lip, considering her old friend’s fading abilities. Magnus’s eyes were far from sharp, and with his quivering hands and the challenge of stitching a wound together in virtual darkness, how good a job could he possibly have done? Then of course there was the risk of the flesh festering, a possibility that had completely eluded her interest at the time. But with Roarke’s unexpected actions on the wall head that day, Melantha found she could no longer be so cavalier when it came to his welfare. She recalled Edwina demanding that Roarke let her look at his buttock, and his outright refusal. Had anyone assessed its progress since then, she wondered? It seemed unlikely, given Roarke’s apparent modesty and the fact that no one in her clan had any reason to care.

She stared at the scarlet-and-black wool draped over the smooth rise of his hip. His plaid was lying high upon the thickly muscled length of his thigh. It would not take more than a small, feathery tug to ease the fabric up and bare his buttock for her examination. His sleep seemed genuinely deep, so surely such a swift, whispering sensation would not rouse him. After all, he had probably imbibed generously of the ale that had flowed that night, thereby dulling his senses. And as a warrior accustomed to sleeping on the hard ground with the wind whipping over him, it seemed unlikely he would be awakened by something so trivial as the slight shifting of his own plaid. Just one quick glance to assure herself that his wound was not festering. Then she would immediately cover him again and he would never know.

She moved in silence behind him, then tentatively grasped a fold of fabric. The wool was heated through by Roarke’s body, and felt pleasantly warm against her chilled fingertips. She hesitated a moment, debating the merits of slowly skimming the cloth up as opposed to a swift pull. As she considered this Roarke shifted, inadvertently moving his plaid without any effort from her at all. Encouraged that her task was now even simpler, Melantha eased the plaid up, slowly unveiling the hard, sinewy curves of Roarke’s backside.

“Good evening, milady. Was there something you wanted?”

She gasped with horror and whipped his plaid down.

“Thank you,” said Roarke. “It was getting drafty in here.”

“I only wanted to see your wound!” Melantha blurted out, stepping guiltily away from him.

He raised a skeptical brow.

“I wanted to be sure it wasn’t festering,” she explained.

He said nothing, but regarded her with an infuriatingly amused look.

“It seems to be—healing well,” she finished helplessly. Her cheeks scalding with mortification, she hurried toward the door.

“Was that the only reason for your visit, milady?” enquired Roarke mildly.

Her hand gripping the latch, Melantha hesitated. It was not possible to stay and thank him for saving Matthew—not when he had caught her in the act of looking up his plaid. But it was far worse to flee and have him think she had slipped into his prison for the sole purpose of clandestinely examining his buttocks.

“I wanted to speak with you,” she admitted, trying to piece together the tatters of her dignity.

Myles sleepily cracked open an eye. “What’s happening?”

“Melantha has come down to visit us,” explained Roarke cheerfully.

“At this hour?” muttered Donald, not bothering to lift his lids.

Eric groaned and forced himself to raise his head. “Is something amiss?”

Melantha cast Roarke a pleading look. If he told his men he had caught her lifting his plaid, she would surely die.

“Everything is fine,” Roarke assured them. “Go back to sleep.”

Their heads still pounding from the effects of too much drink, they happily complied.

“Now, then, milady,” said Roarke, propping himself up comfortably on his elbow, “what was it you wanted to discuss?”

Again, she hesitated. She could not thank him here, not with his men half listening and him lounging on his bed. The chamber suddenly seemed insufferably small, the atmosphere taut and unnaturally silent.

“I would prefer to speak to you in private,” she said, attempting to assert a modicum of control over the situation. Not waiting for his response, she quit the chamber.

“You should speak to Gelfrid about sleeping on his watch,” advised Roarke, studying his snoring guard as he entered the hallway.

Melantha locked the door to his cell and slipped the key into her boot. “Everyone is unusually tired this evening,” she murmured. “We will move farther down the passage, so we do not waken him.”

She moved swiftly along the dimly lit corridor, then rounded a corner, leading him deeper into the cool silence of the lower level. She walked with her back to him and her weapons sheathed, acutely aware that he could overpower her at any moment and steal the key to the storeroom, and absolutely certain that he would not.

When they reached a final sputtering torch, she stopped.

Roarke regarded her with curiosity. There was no mockery to his expression now, perhaps because he sensed her unease and had no desire to intensify it. His manner was admirably relaxed, as if there were nothing peculiar about her rousing him in the middle of the night and leading him into the very bowels of the castle.

Melantha dropped her gaze to the earthen floor, suddenly uncertain. All day and into the evening she had thanked God for saving Matthew. Over and over she had silently prayed as she bathed her brother’s cuts and soothed them with healing ointment. She had thanked God for saving Matthew as her brother lay staring at her with huge, frightened eyes, and she had thanked God even more when the lad finally fell asleep, his hands clutching his blankets as if he feared falling from his pallet. She had refused to leave him even for a moment, telling herself he might waken and need her, but knowing deep within her soul that she also needed to be with him. She needed to skim her fingers soothingly over his bruised brow and cheek, to clasp his small, scraped hand tight within hers, to adjust the thin plaid covering his too-slender frame for the hundredth time. And when her three brothers lay peacefully slumbering, their smooth faces as innocent and serene as angels, she had thanked God again, for bringing her brothers into her life, and for always keeping them safe.

Her life had not been long, but she had already learned the harsh lessons of loss. If not for Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick, she did not think she would have been able to survive. Children had a way of piling layers over even the most excruciating anguish, she reflected with tender sadness. There were those endlessly exhausting layers of constant need, for food and clothing and beds and attention. And there were layers of wonderfully simple pleasures, like lying together on the sun-warmed grass watching the sky drift by, or seeing who could hold their breath the longest, or turning over a rock and watching the scurrying village of bugs beneath. And then there were those exquisite layers of pure, overwhelming love, which arose every time she watched her brothers sleeping, or heard them laugh, or dried their tears.

As she had guarded them tonight, feeling her love wrap protectively around her small charges, she had realized that if not for Roarke, the very foundation of her deeply injured life might well have been destroyed that day. She was a strong woman and capable of enduring much, but the limits of her fortitude did not extend to her brothers. They were her strength, her happiness, her life. And that life could not suffer any more losses.

If Matthew had died, she would not have been able to bear it.

“Melantha?”

Roarke’s voice was low and rough with concern, as if he could feel her despair. She swallowed thickly and blinked, fighting the hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes. This was not how she wanted to appear before him.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded softly, resisting the impulse to reach out and caress her pale cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Nothing is wrong.” She inhaled a ragged breath, steadying her emotions. “Matthew is a little scraped and frightened, but he sleeps soundly now and will be fine.”

He waited.

“He could have died today,” she finally murmured, the words small and strained. “He could have slipped from the parapet and been broken on the ground below in but a few seconds. It happens, you know,” she insisted, as if she thought he were about to argue the point. “Children fall all the time. They climb trees, or scramble up rocks, or foolishly balance themselves atop a wall. And most of the time they get down and they are perfectly fine, and their parents don’t ever know about it. But sometimes they fall and are killed. And their parents are left to suffer in hell for the rest of their lives, thinking they will go mad from the agony of it.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.

“He didn’t fall, Melantha.”

“No, he didn’t,” she agreed, her voice quivering. “Or at least he didn’t fall far. Because you were there to grab him. A MacTier.” She shook her head in bewilderment, unable to comprehend the irony of it. “You were there to fling yourself over the parapet and bring him back to safety. You risked yourself to save his life. Why?” she whispered, raising her gaze to his. “What was one more life, when your clan has already destroyed so many?”

“That was battle, Melantha,” he told her simply. “A battle in which I was not a participant.” It seemed important to remind her of that, even though she had already told him his absence didn’t matter. Perhaps he also needed to remind himself. “And even if I had been, it would not have changed what I did today.”

“You are an enemy here,” she protested, desperate to keep the lines between them clean and deeply cut. “A MacTier.”

“That is true,” he agreed, moving toward her.

“You came to crush my band, and if you’d been able, you would have killed me that day we fought in the woods,” she continued, backing away from him. The cool stones of the wall pressed into her, arresting her retreat.

“You were every bit as determined to kill me.” He reached out and gently brushed a dark strand of her hair away from her face. “Remember?”

His fingers were warm against her skin, warm and filled with gentle strength. It was wrong to stand there and endure his touch, and yet she found she couldn’t move, could scarcely even draw a breath as he held her steady with nothing more than the raw desire emanating from him.

“Why?” she whispered. A single, anguished tear trickled down the pale softness of her cheek. “Why did you save my brother, knowing you might die yourself?”

He captured the tear with his thumb, then brushed a tender kiss on her cheek where he had found it. “I did it for Matthew,” he murmured, his voice rough. “And I did it for you,” he added, grazing his lips across her other tearstained cheek. “And believe it or not, Melantha, I did it for me. Because somewhere deep inside this weary warrior’s soul of mine, I like to believe I still know the difference between right and wrong.” He held her by her shoulders and searched the glimmering depths of her eyes, knowing he had exposed a fragment of his soul to her, yet wanting to have this moment of honesty between them. “Do you find that so impossible to believe?”

His gaze was pleading, even tormented. The air hung frozen between them as he waited for her response. Yesterday it would have been easy for her to answer his question, for she had believed she knew exactly who and what he was. But that was before he had bravely dangled fifty feet above the ground, his body straining as he lunged toward the earth and pulled her beloved brother from certain death. In that moment he had shown himself for what he really was. A warrior who would risk everything for a child he barely knew.

Because he had a compassionate heart.

Her tears began to fall in hot, pain-filled streams. She bowed her head, vainly trying to hide her anguish from him.

Her distress cut him to the bone. He could only imagine the depths of her suffering, although he knew what it was to lose those one loved. But he had tried to escape the ruins of his domestic life, while Melantha had been forced to stay and assume responsibility for those left behind. Not only for her brothers but for everyone in her clan, whom she desperately tried to feed and clothe with every scrap of cloth and morsel of food she procured as the Falcon. It was an awesome, daunting task, and one that she performed with steely courage and uncomplaining resolve. He was suddenly filled with a desire to tell her how fine she was, how brave and strong and rare. But he feared the words would sound meager and hollow coming from him. After all, he was a MacTier. If not for the actions of his clan, she would never have suffered the atrocities she and her people had endured. But for his people, her father would still be alive, her clan would be well fed and well clothed, and she would not bear the jagged scars of fear and deprivation and hatred. He had not been part of that fateful raid on her clan, but it did not matter, he realized harshly. He had lived his life as a warrior, and had raided and ruined countless lives as his legacy.

Self-loathing poured through him, making him feel sick.

“I’m sorry, Melantha,” he murmured, releasing his hands from her shoulders. “Forgive me.” He began to turn away.

Melantha thought she was falling, so acute was the sudden void swirling around her. She did not understand the emotions gripping her, except that she suddenly felt tiny and fragile and alone, and she couldn’t bear it. She threw her arms around the solid expanse of Roarke’s shoulders and buried her face into his chest, letting a sob escape her throat. Stay, she pleaded silently, feeling as if she were being crushed from within. Please stay.

Roarke froze, uncertain.

And then he closed his arms around her and ground his lips savagely against hers.

She did not fight him, but pushed herself even farther into his embrace, as if she wanted to be completely enveloped by his heat and strength. Roarke groaned and deepened his kiss, tasting the honey-sweet darkness of her mouth, inhaling the clean, sun-washed scent of her skin, feeling the willowy lean softness of her pressing against him. He tore his lips away to rain a trail of kisses upon her silky cheek, the delicate curve of her jaw, the cool column of her pale neck. His fingers found the laces at the top of her linen shirt and swiftly bared the creamy skin of her throat. A slender silver chain lay draped around her neck, bearing a small silver orb with a shimmering stone of deepest emerald. It surprised him to see that she secretly wore a pendant of such beauty, for it was not like Melantha to indulge in something so frivolous. He nuzzled his way beneath it, thinking it could not be of any value, for if it had she would certainly have sold it for food or blankets or weapons. His tongue drew hot, wet circles across the smooth silk of her while he opened her shirt even farther, until finally the pale swells of her breasts were released into his hands. He grazed his rough jaw against their incredibly fine softness, reveling in the feel of something so lush against his weathered skin. Taking one coral-tipped bud into his mouth, he began to suckle.

Pleasure shot through Melantha in a fiery streak. She plunged her fingers into Roarke’s black hair, holding him at her breast as liquid heat poured through her. He worshipped the taut peak of her breast with hungry reverence, then shifted his attention to the other, drawing it deep into the hot recesses of his mouth and sucking long and hard, until she felt she would melt from the exquisite sensations radiating through her. She was vaguely aware of Roarke freeing her shirt from her leggings as he continued to taste her, and then the rumpled fabric was skimming over her head and she was naked to the waist, with the dark fall of her hair caressing her bare skin in a silky veil. A long, pink scar snaked down her left arm from her shoulder to her elbow. Roarke paused to trace his finger along its ragged trail, feeling anger surge through him at the thought of anyone attempting to harm her. The injury was not old, perhaps two months at best, and had probably been inflicted during one of her raids as the Falcon. He dared not ask about it, for fear of shattering the bond between them, and so he simply caressed it, his manner void of judgment or pity. He had seen thousands of scars in his life, for no warrior could live for long without acquiring at least a few, but he was unaccustomed to seeing them on a woman. Dismissing this intrusive reminder of her life as an outlaw, Roarke cupped his hands around her breasts and pressed his face between them, inhaling deeply of her, and then he began to kiss the cool flesh beneath. His hands abandoned her breasts to learn the contours of her waist, her hips, her thighs, his touch insistent and possessive as his palms roamed over her. He fell to his knees so he could better revere the flat plane of her belly, grazing his lips across the milky skin, and then the soft wool of her leggings was peeled away and his face was pressed into the dark triangle between her thighs. Melantha gasped in horror and tried to push him away, but Roarke shackled her wrists in the powerful grip of his hands and bound them to her sides, pinning her helplessly against the wall as his tongue slid into her most intimate place.

Pure pleasure ignited inside Melantha, forbidden and frightening and wonderful, rendering her silent and still. Roarke tasted her lightly at first, his tongue flitting into the honeyed wetness of her in a teasing, rhythmic cadence. Melantha stood unmoving, no longer fighting him, but unable to release her breath or ease the rigid set of her body. And then Roarke drove his tongue into her with a searching stroke, and she cried out and fought to free her wrists. Roarke responded by tasting her deeply once more, gradually releasing his grip on her as he continued to lap at her slick heat. A low groan of masculine arousal rose from his chest as he felt her fingers thread urgently into his hair. In and out his tongue swirled, learning every intimate fold of her, tasting her and caressing her and exploring her. Melantha could not bear it an instant longer, she was certain of it, and yet she stood there and endured his shamefully exquisite caresses, feeling a dark excitement at the sight of him kneeling before her, pleasuring her with such carnal abandon.

A tight bud of intense sensation began to bloom within her, making her breaths come in shallow little pants and her flesh feel as if it were afire. Any inhibitions she might have had were overwhelmed by the swell of pleasure now pulsing within her. Roarke cupped her breast as he continued to devour her, holding her steady before him with nothing but the silvery web of throbbing need he had woven over her. Melantha opened her thighs slightly and held his head at her wet womanly heat, knowing he would surely think her wanton, and not caring, finding herself unable to care about anything except the sweet prison of rough, cool stones at her back and Roarke’s mouth on her heated body and the silky feel of his hair in her hands as he forced her to breathe faster, shallower, harder, leaning into him and over him and focusing with fervent concentration on the exquisite sensations mounting throughout every fiber of her body. A dull ache was stretching within her, a previously unknown void buried deep inside, and a moan spilled from her lips. Roarke’s finger eased into her as he continued to stroke her with his tongue, filling the aching hollow, stretching her and caressing her until she felt she would surely go mad from such magnificent torment. Her hands gripped his granite-hard shoulders, needing to hold on to him for support now, and small, desperate gasps escaped her throat. Suddenly the sensations within her melded into one, keen and shimmering and white hot, and Roarke tasted her with swift, hard caresses as he buried his finger inside her, until it was more than she could bear, and she felt herself begin to shatter in a golden burst of liquid fire. She strained against him, every muscle and bone in her body taut, and then she cried out and collapsed, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her head buried against the hard pounding of his chest.

Cradling her with one arm, Roarke swiftly unwrapped his plaid and dropped it in a rumpled pool upon the floor, then eased Melantha back against its warmth. An amber spill from the torch bathed her skin in apricot light, illuminating her pale beauty in velvety shadows. He stripped away her boots and fallen breeches and rapidly removed his own shirt and boots. Then he spread himself over her, his body hard and aching with need. Her creamy skin was like silk against him, still warm and flushed with desire. He wanted to bury himself within her, to lose himself to her softness and heat, but he knew she was inexperienced and would require gentle care. He inhaled a steadying breath, forcing himself to gain control. Melantha stared up at him, passion still smoldering in the luminous depths of her eyes, smoky and profoundly stirring. He bent his head and kissed her with rough tenderness, wanting her to the point of madness. If he were able he would wash away the pain she had endured, would cleanse her mind of all she had witnessed that terrible night her beloved father had been slain, and all the suffering that had followed. But all he could offer her was the refuge of his touch, with the warmth of his plaid and the heat of his desire shielding her from the coolness of the torchlit passage, and the unforgiving world that awaited them in the morning.

He kissed her deeply as his hands skimmed over her, rousing her sated flesh once more. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, then set her hands free to explore the marble contours of his chest and shoulders and back, lingering at the thick cord of scarred tissue upon his shoulder, and the ragged scar that had severed the muscles of his back. Her fingers felt soft against his ravaged body, but any soothing effect they might have had was eradicated by the incredibly erotic effect of her tentative touch. Roarke plundered her mouth as his fingers slipped into the hot slickness between her thighs, stroking and probing until she was rising against his caresses once more. Knowing she was ready he positioned himself between the slender columns of her legs and entered her, just a little, shackling his need to a wall of self-control, so determined was he not to hurt her. He kissed the wine-stained tip of her breast as her body adjusted to him, distracting her with his suckling, and when she sighed and arched her back he entered her farther, slowly, carefully, giving her the time she needed to open herself to him. It was agonizing to hold himself over her so, caught between ecstasy and torture, every muscle in his body straining for release. He turned his attention to her other breast, vaguely wondering if he were trying to divert himself more than her, feeling the taut thread of his control stretched to its limit as Melantha shifted restlessly against him, her hands still roving the sinewy contours of his shoulders and back. He withdrew slightly, fighting to regain his control. Melantha murmured a ragged protest and grabbed hold of his buttocks, suddenly pulling him into her as she raised herself up to him, enveloping him in the hot, tight clasp of her magnificent body.

Roarke groaned, struggling with the incredible sensations surging through him. After a moment he raised his eyes to look at her. She seemed more startled than frightened, but her body had gone utterly rigid.

“Easy, Melantha,” he murmured hoarsely. “The discomfort will pass—I promise.”

He bent his head and began to kiss the silky skin of her throat as his hand moved down to where they were now joined. He caressed her lightly while his lips found hers and tasted the ripe sweetness of her mouth. She sighed and opened her legs a little wider, releasing the tension that had gripped her a moment earlier. He began to move within her, slowly, gently, stroking her and kissing her as he made her his, whispering gentle words of praise and reassurance as she began to pulse in rhythm with him. Over and over he sank himself into her, losing a little of himself with each aching thrust, trying to bind her to him as he filled her and covered her and worshipped her, and knowing it was futile. Melantha was strong and courageous and untamed, and she would never belong to anyone.

He kissed her fiercely, almost angrily, searching out the deepest secrets of her mouth, her silky cheek, the elegant curve of her neck, all the while burying himself into her again and again, holding her and tasting her and stroking her, wanting her to be his, not just in this passion-filled moment but always. It was madness, he realized that, for there was no escaping who and what he was, and she would never forgive him for it. Deeper and deeper he drove into her, pleasure and despondency melding into one as her arms wrapped tightly around him and she rose to meet every stroke, soft little moans unfurling in her throat, her body holding him in its hot, wet embrace, until he no longer knew where he ended and she began. He wanted it never to end, wanted never to be separated from her, wanted never to leave the shadowed confines of this torchlit passage. And suddenly he could feel himself slipping over the precipice of ecstasy, and he cried out, a cry of pleasure mingled with unbearable regret. He pushed himself into her as far as he could and kissed her fervently, spilling himself into her, losing the last vestiges of himself to the incredible beauty and heat of her, and feeling as if he were suddenly, irretrievably lost.

They lay together a long moment, their hearts pounding in frantic unison, their bodies still intimately joined. Melantha clung to Roarke tightly, unable to comprehend the vortex of emotions churning within her. She wanted Roarke to hold her and keep her safe, to whisper gentle, calming words into her ear and keep her warm beneath the muscled cover of his body. But shame was already gnawing at the pit of her, dousing her desire and rendering her cold. He was a MacTier warrior, part of the clan that had so brutally attacked her people and murdered her father. The fact that he might not have been part of that raid scarcely mattered—had he been ordered to be there, he would have enthusiastically taken part. And more, he had been sent by Laird MacTier to kill her band and capture her so that she could be executed before his people. For all she knew he still intended to do so, given the opportunity. She shifted and pushed against him, wanting his unbearable weight off her before she was crushed.

Roarke sensed the change in her instantly, even before her once-gentle hands shoved against his shoulders. Profound sadness seeped into him, stripping away the last of his desire. He wanted to talk to her, to somehow convince her that what had passed between them was not wrong, or something she should regret. But it was already too late, he could see it in the dull glint of loathing in her eyes, could feel it in the angry stiffening of her body and the cooling of her flesh. Whatever madness had burned so brightly between them was now extinguished.

Feeling hollow and alone, he rolled off her and began to dress.

Melantha clumsily donned her shirt, leggings, and boots. Shame gripped her in a suffocating wave, eradicating the pleasure she had felt in Roarke’s arms. She could not begin to imagine what darkness had possessed her to behave in such a thoroughly wanton manner. She had not only disgraced herself but she had dishonored the memory of her darling da, and all those other brave, fine men who had died while fighting Roarke’s clan. She had vowed to spend the rest of her life hating all MacTiers to the depths of her being, and to doing whatever she could to punish them for destroying her life. This was what sustained her, this and her overwhelming devotion to her brothers and her people. By giving herself willingly to Roarke, she had shaken the foundation of hatred that nourished her. Appalled by her conduct, she forced herself to adopt an air of cool indifference in a desperate bid to restore some shred of formality between them.

Sorrow tore through Roarke as he watched Melantha struggle with her emotions.

“I presume you wish to escort me back to my dungeon?” he asked, his tone flat.

She nodded warily, uncertain what he intended to do next.

“Very well.”

They walked together in awkward silence through the dim passage, which suddenly seemed frigid and bleak. Gelfrid still snored comfortably by the door to the storeroom, blissfully unaware that one of his prisoners was missing. Melantha produced the key and nervously opened the door. Roarke did not know if their passion had made her uneasy, or the very real possibility that he might suddenly take her prisoner and free his men, using her as a hostage to escape the confines of this castle. For a moment he seriously entertained the thought, feeling weary and longing for nothing other than to be home. But there were still a few more days of work to oversee, and although the MacKillons were making progress with their training, they were not ready to meet an invading force. Guilt and an innate sense of responsibility forced him to enter his chamber. He turned to face her before she could close the door.

“Melantha.”

She raised her eyes to his. Uncertainty shimmered in their depths, uncertainty and confusion. And shame. She was fighting desperately to hide it from him, but he could see it, as clearly as if it were branded across the milky skin of her forehead. He longed to reach out to her, to brush the dark silk of her hair that had fallen against her cheek, to enfold her trembling form in his arms and draw her close, protecting her from the MacTiers and her memories and the torment that was punishing her so cruelly. Instead he remained where he was, knowing the wall between them had risen once again, and not having any idea how to scale it.

She did not belong to him, he reminded himself harshly. For one brief, magnificent moment she had, but now it was passed. It had not been anything but a sweet, stolen illusion, as magnificent and ethereal as a wisp of snow that is hopelessly destined to melt against the ground, or else be crushed beneath the weight of the storm that follows.

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly, knowing it could not begin to ease her anguish.

She looked at him in surprise, as if she had expected him to say anything but that.

And then she bit her trembling lip and quickly closed the door, sealing the wall between them.