Moon Shadows (27 page)

She drew in a ragged breath. “I'll say good night, then.”

“Good night, my lady.”

He stood perfectly still as she stepped inside and closed the door. When her footfall faded, he pressed his forehead to the door, wondering at the way his heartbeat still thundered.

It had been a mistake to touch her. One simple touch had unleashed a floodgate, until he'd wanted more. He'd wanted all. And still did, if truth be told.

He'd never believed that any passion could be stronger than the one that had nurtured him all these long years. But the need for justice was nothing compared to the need he'd experienced just now. He'd thought about ignoring the right or wrong of it and simply taking what he wanted, without regard to the consequences.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he began to walk the perimeter of the fortress. His legs, he noted, were trembling.

There was no point in trying to sleep this night. Not while the feel of her slender body pressed to his was still causing an ache to his loins, and the smell of her still filled his lungs, taunting him with every step.

“I
F
ye'll fetch the others, my lady, I'm about to set the food on the table.” Old Brin lifted bread from the hearth, filling a basket, before slicing the last of the fowl she'd roasted on a spit over the fire.

“There will be one more, Brin.” Alana removed the apron that covered her gown, carefully avoiding the old woman's eyes. “The Dark Angel came to our fortress last night.”

“And how would ye know that?”

“I saw movement by the wall and went out to investigate.”

The cook's head came up sharply. “Alone?”

“Aye. I was reluctant to wake the others.”

“Not a wise thing, m'lady, in times like these. Ye'd do well to remember that there's safety in numbers.”

“Now you sound like the Dark Angel.”

“He'd not be one to mince words. He scolded ye for yer foolishness, I'll warrant.” The old woman was peering at her a little too closely.

Alana felt her cheeks grow warm. “He did. And said that he plans to remain here as our protector.”

“Praise heaven.” The old woman touched a hand to her heart. “Now we'll have nothing to fear from Laird Rothwick's warriors.”

“He's but one man, Brin.”

“Aye. But what a man. If I were a lass again . . .” The old woman stopped and gave a girlish laugh. “Perhaps ye'd summon our protector to come in now and break his fast.”

Alana stepped outside and looked around cautiously. She'd been putting off the moment when she would have to face Royce again. She had spent a long, distressing night thinking about their encounter, and the strange feelings he'd stirred in her. Perhaps she'd imagined it. Hadn't her father always said she'd been a fanciful child? Or perhaps it was just the magic of the moment. A man, a woman, and the cover of darkness. Surely that was it. In the clear light of day he would seem like other men. No more, no less. And certainly not some mythical soul walking the earth in the guise of a man, slaying entire armies one at a time, and leaving all women who got too close trembling at his mere touch.

She walked the perimeter of the wall and was forced to swallow a bitter disappointment at not finding him. Had he changed his mind and returned to the cover of the forest? Worse, had he been found by Rothwick's men and taken captive?

She was just turning back toward the fortress when she saw a blur of movement in the stream. While she watched, the man she'd been searching for rose up from the water and began to walk to shore. Though she knew she was intruding on his privacy, she simply could not turn away from the sight of that magnificent body, sheeting water with each step. If she'd thought him impressive clothed in animal skins, he was even more impressive in the flesh. His shoulders as wide as a crossbow, and his hair-roughened chest rippling with muscles. As he strode through the shallows her gaze was drawn to his muscular thighs, each one bigger around than her waist, and those long, long legs, making him stand a head taller than most Highlanders. She had never seen a more perfect warrior.

He turned away, lifting a fur from the ground and draping it at his waist before closing a hand around the long black hair
streaming down his back. As he tied it with a strip of hide, she caught sight of the wicked scar that had, until that moment, been hidden from her view.

The skin between his shoulder blades was rough and puckered, as though it had been ripped open by an angry claw and left exposed until it had healed with ropes of twisted, knotted seams. Each time he flexed his arms, fitting them into the fur tunic, the scar stretched and tightened, looking as raw as if it were freshly carved into his flesh.

When at last he turned and caught sight of her, she had to fight for composure.

He took a moment to strap on his sword and tuck a dirk at his waist and another in his boot before striding closer. “Good morrow, my lady.”

He was staring at her with the same intensity that had made her feel so uncomfortable the previous night.

There was the merest hint of a smile in his eyes. “Had I known you were here, I could have waited for you to join me. Though I doubt you came here just to watch me bathe.”

She felt the rush of heat and hated that her cheeks were betraying her “Forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude. We are ready to break our fast, and we would welcome you at our table.”

She turned away and he easily matched his strides to hers, walking so close beside her, she could feel the brush of his arm on hers. It only added to her discomfort.

“Did you see any of Rothwick's warriors during the night?”

He gave a quick shake of his head. “I heard horses and knew they were close. But though they followed the curve of the wall, they made no attempt to breach it.”

“How can you know that for a fact?”

He arched a brow. “I remained on my side of the wall and matched their movements. It was easy enough to do because they made no effort to conceal themselves, thinking they were alone in the darkness. If they had slowed, or paused, or tried to scale the wall, they would have tasted my welcome with both sword and knife.”

“The element of surprise much like that which I'd attempted last night.”

At her words he paused. This time he did smile, and she
was amazed at how it transformed him. For the first time, there was something besides pain in his eyes. Eyes that actually sparkled with humor.

“The difference, my lady, is that I never revealed myself to my opponent.” His smile grew. “Whereas you walked so close, I could hear you breathe.” He reached out a finger and tipped up her chin, staring down into her eyes, watching them widen at the boldness of his touch. His voice lowered, softened. “Just as I can hear you breathe now.”

She thought about slapping his hand aside, but found she couldn't. She was frozen to the spot. The mere touch of his finger to her flesh had her heartbeat speeding up, her throat clogging with some nameless emotion.

Her reaction to him was the same as it had been last night. Just being close to him seemed to awaken some deep, primal need that had her thinking things she had no right to and wishing for things that could never be.

When at last he lowered his hand and stepped back, she sucked in a breath and quickened her pace until they reached the fortress.

Inside the refectory, Alana was startled to see her father standing by the table. Close behind him was his man-at-arms, Lochaber.

Each man stood tall, plaid tossed over one shoulder in the manner of a warrior.

The women and children who had been summoned to break their fast seemed equally surprised by the presence of the two old men.

“Father.” Alana gave a little cry of pleasure as she crossed the room to press a kiss to his cheek. “It is good to see you below stairs.”

“Good morrow, my daughter.” Malcolm looked beyond her. “You are the one known as the Dark Angel?”

“Aye, my laird.” Royce touched his hand to the sword at his waist before lifting it palm up in greeting, in the manner of a loyal warrior. “My given name is Royce.”

“I am Laird Malcolm Lamont and this is my man-at-arms, Lochaber.”

Royce offered the old man a similar greeting.

“Alana tells me your clan was destroyed by Rothwick's warriors.”

Royce merely nodded, reluctant to say more. It alarmed him that, even after all these years, he felt a wave of pain mingled with fury at the horror that he and his family had suffered on that fateful day.

Seeing the dark look in this stranger's eyes, the old man decided not to press for more. Instead he indicated the table. “Come. We will break our fast together. And you will tell me what you know of Reginald Rothwick's army.”

The old laird settled himself at the head of the table, with Lochaber at his right and Royce at his left. He indicated that Alana and the others should join them.

While the women and children settled themselves around the table, Alana found herself seated beside Royce.

Brin passed around platters of sliced fowl and chunks of bread warm from the oven.

Royce bit into the bread and found himself thrust back in time to another fortress, another refectory, where old Erta would always have his favorite confections cooling on a platter. Life had been so sweet. So simple. So peaceful. He had foolishly believed that it would always be so.

“How many men have joined the ranks of Rothwick's army?” Malcolm Lamont drained a goblet of sweet wine.

Pulling himself back from his thoughts, Royce talked of the warriors who now swelled the ranks of Rothwick's army. “Many once-loyal Highlanders have joined with Rothwick rather than risk death. As the army grows, so does the number of villages that have been burned and looted. Rothwick knows that with each attack, the people grow more fearful of his power. That fear works to his advantage. As more and more villages fall, his army no longer needs to wage war. Their mere presence is enough to have the villagers flee. Those who remain offer no resistance, and Rothwick can help himself to their crops, their flocks, their women.”

Alana thought about the frightened people of Dunhill, preparing to do exactly as Royce had described.

“Ale or water, sir?”

“I prefer water.” Royce accepted a goblet from Alana.

When their fingers brushed, he paused, as though his mind had been swept clean of thought.

What was it about this woman that she had the power, with but a touch, to rob him of speech? Of coherent thought?

In the forest, he'd been forced to go from boyhood to manhood with the thrust of a single sword. After that hideous attack, he'd had to focus all his energy on staying alive. When he realized that his life had been spared, there had been but one purpose in mind. To stop Reginald Rothwick from consuming an entire land and people with the fire of hatred that burned in his evil soul.

But now, at this moment, Royce felt once again thrust back to those carefree boyhood days, when he and his brother would walk among the booths on market day.

Fitzroy, ever the tease, would nudge him with an elbow in the ribs and point at some fair lass to whisper, “Have you tasted those lips yet, Royce?”

Though Royce would blush and stammer, and threaten to wrestle Fitzroy to the ground if he didn't stop at once, he secretly loved being teased by his older brother. And if truth be told, such teasing always led him to wonder about how it would feel to kiss a lass full on the mouth.

He glanced over at Alana and felt a quick jolt through his system at the pretty blush on her cheeks. The problem was, he could no longer claim to be that innocent lad, dreaming of his first kiss. The years had changed him. He was a man, with a man's desperate, driving need. What made it worse, he'd been cut off from civilization for so long, he felt more comfortable in the forest than he did in this warm, welcoming room, seated among people who expected him to behave like one of them.

He wasn't like them. There was a terrible fear inside him that he may be more akin to the animals of the forest than to these good people.

Whether man or beast, he knew this. Just sitting beside Alana had his body betraying him. He knew that he would have to call on all his willpower to keep from insulting the daughter of Laird Malcolm Lamont, for surely she would be repulsed by his advances.

As an uneasy silence stretched between them, Royce
realized that he'd been lost in his own thoughts while the laird had addressed a question of him.

“I beg your indulgence, my laird. You ask what I think Rothwick intends now. Rumors abound that it is his intention to force the few remaining Highland lairds to swear fealty to him.”

Laird Lamont's fist slammed the tabletop. “We would rather die than swear to such a thing.”

Royce chose his words carefully. “It isn't death you and the other lairds should fear. It is the torture and imprisonment of your people if you should refuse.”

“You have proof of such treatment?”

“This is not the place to speak of such things.” Royce glanced over and, seeing the women and children watching and listening, merely pressed his lips together without saying more.

Seeing it, the old man shoved aside his food. “Thank you, Brin. I believe I have had sufficient. I desire a walk around the fortress to clear my mind.” He turned to Lochaber and Royce. “You will join me.”

When the three men walked outside, Alana took in a deep breath. Just sitting this close to the Dark Angel had her forgetting to breathe. The man had a way about him, of watching, of listening, of seeming to turn inward, that was at once subservient and yet commanding. How was it that he could display such strength and still seem to have all the sweetness of youth? He was both innocent and worldly. A man of peace locked inside a formidable warrior.

Alana looked up to see Brin watching her a little too carefully. Like the man called Royce, the old woman had a keen sense of all that went on around her.

Forcing herself into action, Alana pushed away from the table and turned to the others. “While we set the refectory to order, there is much we need to discuss.”