The Return of Black Douglas (11 page)

She couldn’t lie to him. It did not seem fitting for the time, the place, or the man, and she was just a little scared to have this feeling and not know where it came from or what had caused it. She trembled, but from his nearness, not the cold. She yearned for him to take her in his arms and kiss her until she could not bear it any longer. After all he had done for her, he deserved honesty.

“I’m afraid of what might happen when I’m around you. I’m afraid of what I might do. You are a threat to me… a threat I do not understand. I feel you could surround me with your strength, so much so that I could no longer breathe.”

She turned her head away, feeling a mixture of shame, embarrassment, relief, and dread. She could not continue talking. She had said far too much already. Her fences were down, her defenses penetrated. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and open to attack.

“I don’t know why I’m babbling like this.” She put her hand to her head. “I’m so confused right now and tired. Please, forget everything I said.”

“A compelling thought but fruitless, for those are words I canna forget. Not now and mayhap never.” He reached for her and folded her in his arms. She swayed against him, her resistance easing.

“Don’t pay any attention to me. The mead is making me say and do things I shouldn’t.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I ha’ reached the same conclusion.” With a kiss to her forehead, he said, “My horse needs to rest, and so do I. We will ride again afore daybreak.”

She smiled and felt like she was floating in a vat of warm chocolate
.
She was exhausted and the mead-chocolate-Alysandir combo made her relax. After all, the last time she’d slept was five hundred years from now. She watched him spread his plaid on the ground in front of the boulder. A moment later, she was on the ground wrapped like a cocoon in the plaid. When he joined her, she thought he would turn his back to her, but instead he took her in his arms.

“Are you going to make love to me now?”

“Do ye wish me to?”

Oh, yes.
“I refuse to answer that because it might implicate me.”

“If it will ease yer mind, when I make love to ye, it willna be the mead talking.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank you for being a gentleman and not taking advantage of me.”

“I didna say I wouldna take advantage of ye.”

The man scent of him and the warmth of mead in her veins caused her resistance to recede.

“I will take that kiss now.” Before she could sputter, his mouth was on hers, feather-light. She was unprepared for the rush of feelings created by the touch of his lips upon hers, full and searching, his tongue touching hers, probing, encouraging. The sensation was addictive, carrying both promise and fulfillment, and it settled around her like a cloud of opium smoke.

The touch of his hand at her throat sent a wave of dizziness over her. The words whispered against her cheek made her yearn for more, and she feared he knew that inside, she was a quivering mass of craving desire and aspiring hopes. He lifted his head, his lips brushing against hers again and again, and she felt as if she had been blessed by angels, smiled upon by the gods, exalted and raised to angelic heights.

She sighed blissfully and felt his smile against her cheek. He drew back to study her face in the dying light of the fire, and she wanted to yank him back to kiss her again, but longer this time.

Her breath caught, and she felt the beat of her pulse hammering against her throat. She knew he was going to kiss her again and that it would be a real, toe-curling kiss, the kind she always dreamed about and never had. When his lips claimed hers again, she was undone. His arms came around her, and the world seemed to fall away until there was nothing but the two of them.

She inhaled the scent of him, and something warm and liquid spread through her, more powerful than the mead she’d had earlier. This was the real thing, and it suffused through her veins until she was sure he could hear them hum and vibrate like the strings of a well-played harp. She was on fire, burning for his touch.

“I have wanted to do this since I first saw ye across the meadow wi’ yer legs gleaming in the sunlight, but dinna worrit. I will have ye, but not tonight.” She almost cried out when he pulled back and placed a gentle kiss against each of her eyes. “Sleep now. The morrow will come early, and I wouldna have ye traveling in an overly weary state.” He kissed her eyes again, her nose, her cheeks, and her lips. “Fear not. I will protect ye.”

And she knew he would.

She realized suddenly that she had no idea where they were going. She had assumed, of course, that he was taking her home with him, since his brothers would be bringing Elisabeth there when they found her. But she wanted to be sure.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Caisteal Màrrach.”

“Is that your home, or are you leaving me elsewhere?”

“Ye are wi’ me, lass. I keep what I have. Caisteal Màrrach is my home and where ye will reside.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. Alysandir turned, giving her his back so he faced the fire and the open glen. His sword lay beside him, while a few feet away his horse grazed quietly. She felt warm, peaceful, protected, and safe knowing this man would not harm her, that he would give his life to protect her.

Sometime later, she felt his hand take hers. He pulled her arm around his chest, tucking her hand in his and cradling it against his heart. She melted against him like a double-dip cone dropped on the Galveston seawall in 105-degree weather. She sighed blissfully. Later, when she had time to analyze his gesture, she might think it a signature move that he used with the many women he’d bedded, but now, she was warmed by the tenderness of it.

It seemed a moment later when she felt something nudge her leg. A voice cut into her consciousness. “Lass, wake up. ’Tis time to go.” She opened her eyes to mere slits in time to see the toe of his boot coming to nudge her again. “Make haste, lass. We canna abide here any longer if we are going to reach Màrrach before dark.”

She moaned and hoped this was a dream, but when she was nudged a third time, she knew it was real. “Up wi’ ye now.”

Surely that was a jest. It was so dark that the moon had already gone to bed and the sun was still asleep. She closed her eyes and fell right back to sleep, only to be roused a while later by the nudging of his boot, more firmly this time. “Either ye get up, or I will undress and join ye there.”

She sat up quickly and remembered her accumulation of wounds. She saw the crackling fire and was about to say something grumpy when she heard a noiseless whisper creeping through the trees, rattling the branches, and filling the empty spaces deep within her.
Damn you, Black Douglas! What are you up to?

Alysandir handed her a cup of something fresh from the fire and she drank it, not caring what it was. It was hot, and that was enough. She noticed that he was eating something.

“And my oatcake is where?”

She didn’t care if she sounded like a shrew. She was grumpy and sore as hell after her falls and run-ins with gorse and bracken. Her wounds, along with a certain family ghost, were irritating as hell.

Without saying a word, Alysandir tossed her an oatcake. She caught it in mid-air and ate it quickly. Soon, they were riding again and she was lulled back to sleep while strong arms held her as safe and securely as they had done the day before.

When she awoke, the sun was a brilliant orb overhead. It was a good omen. They rounded the top of a gently sloping hill and then continued down the other side until his horse stopped in the middle of a noisy little burn, his fetlocks awash and flanks wet. Alysandir relaxed his hold to slacken the reins. His horse stretched out his neck, stirred and splashed the water with his nose, and then drank deeply.

“Does your family call you Alex?”

“Nae.”

He turned in the saddle, listening, with the palm of his left hand resting flat upon the crupper of his horse. Isobella held her breath, listening, too, but all she heard was the murmuring burn where the water ran over the rocky shallows and the gentle, sucking noise of the horse and the splash of water when he pawed.

“Are ye tired, mistress?”

Their gazes met and held, and a shiver rippled over her.

“More stiff than tired.”

His horse tossed his head a couple of times, jingling the snaffle bit, and then responded when Alysandir nudged him with his spurs and they crossed to the other side. When they stopped, Isobella leaned forward and rubbed the horse’s mane. “Ye like horses,” he said.

“Love them! I have a horse of my own, a gelding named Morrigan.”

“Morrigan, the Celtic god o’ war? This is a fashionable name for a horse where ye are from?”

She smiled. “Not really. It’s a name that appealed to me when I read a book about Celtic deities. And your horse? What is his name?”

“Gallagher.”

“And in Gaelic?”

“
Ó Gallchobhair,
and it means “foreign helper.”

Foreign helper
. Warmth suffused her, and she considered his horse’s name to be the second good omen since meeting him. But then, he could mesmerize her by counting horse droppings, for there was such beauty in the Scot tongue and the
beautiful lilt of Gaelic that he spoke.
She could almost feel his essence reaching out and touching her, for his sense of belonging and family pride resonated with each word, and she knew what it was to envy the strength of kith and kin. His family had lived on this island for centuries.

His roots ran deep and strong. And what of her roots? Thoughts of her own family sliced sharply into her heart. How could she bear never seeing her family again or riding Morrigan or laughing with her girlfriends? And Elisabeth. Were they all lost to her now, too?

She felt tears prickle her eyelids, but she quickly brushed them away and focused on how fortunate she was to have landed smack in the middle of an archaeologist’s paradise. She glanced at Alysandir, who had ridden into her life and saved her.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue. Things were looking very grim before you arrived.”

“Ye have no assurance yer situation will improve now that ye are with me.”

She smiled to herself.
Oh, Alysandir Mackinnon, I know all about your family name, your code of honor.
Even the blood racing through her veins seemed to be humming with excitement that she had been found by this remarkable knight and no other. It did not occur to her until much later that perhaps this was what the Black Douglas had had in mind all along.

Chapter 15

An ally has to be watched

just like an enemy.

—Attributed to Leon Trotsky (1879–1940)
Russian revolutionary

Alysandir caught the ambrosial scent of her hair and smiled at the crooked part. Like her face, her hair was beautiful, in spite of its unruly state, and he was glad she did not bind it with cords of blue or ribbons of a rosy hue. They suited her, these wild and rebellious curls flowing in no logical order. He imagined her in a low-cut, tightly laced corset of green, with her hair tumbling down her shoulders.

He leaned closer and inhaled the fragrance that curled around him like a courtesan’s arms. Saint Columba, how he longed to thread his fingers through the mass of it and to hold her fast, bound to him while he ravaged her sweet mouth again and again before he entered her. In truth, he had thought of little else since their meeting.

Like the sphinx, she was an enigma and a mystery to him, quite the most unique woman he had ever met. She appeared naïve, lush, lovely, and so appreciative that he regretted he could not trust her. But innocent women of her ilk did not wander around glens unprotected, unless they were intentionally placed there for a purpose. What was hers?

He could not help his suspicions. In the first place, she was a woman. Secondly, she had not revealed where she was from or how she and her sister had ended up in the middle of his quarrel with the Macleans. At one time, the sacred belief that people were innately good had existed in his heart, but actions can quickly shatter faith. He had learned the hard way that those who appear the most innocent are often the most suspect.

The greenness of his youth was gone. Trust and confidence were now plants of slow growth within the bosom of an older and wiser man. God help him, but he knew in his heart that he dared not trust anyone save his brothers.
The axe forgets, but the cut log does not.

He knew she was no common whore, but would she soon offer her body to hide her true purpose? It angered him to think that she had been thrust into the hands of a stranger, risking her life, to accomplish a goal. If this be true, then she was naught more than a pawn—a beautiful woman being used for the advantage of those she served. Or was she forced into such to protect her family?

Nothing would save her but the truth. But God help her if she took him for a fool. Now wasn’t the time to question her, but once they reached Màrrach, things would be different. Be she spy, witch, or maleficent, he would know her story.

“Do you think your brothers will find my sister?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Aye, they willna come home until they do, unless, of course, the English have taken her. If so, my brothers will return with the news and not yer sister. But dinna worrit. ’Tis difficult, but no’ impossible to steal her back from old Angus Maclean.”

“I would hate to think anyone could lose their life trying to rescue her. Elisabeth would abhor such action.”

“When dealing with Angus Maclean, one must always use guile and deception. When entering the den of the fox, ’tis best to play the fox.”

She said a quick prayer that the English would be far away from wherever Elisabeth was and that her twin would not be hostile toward the Mackinnons when they rescued her.

Isobella breathed deeply. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Why,” he asked, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. “Do ye need to get word to someone?”

She fought the urge to melt against him. “No, of course not.”

“Then does it really matter where we are? Wherever I choose to take ye, whatever I choose to do is far better than yer prospects afore I found ye.” He guided his horse around a boulder and headed in a new direction. “’Tis a strange manner of dress ye are wearing, lass. It doesna cover much and leads the thoughts of a man astray. Why is it the fashion for ye, while yer sister was dressed differently?”

“It was a quirk of fate that we made different choices yesterday,” she replied and hoped he had no more questions.

“Ye are a strange lass with a strange way of talking and a strange manner of dress. If ye are not English, then where is yer home?”

“America,” she replied, thinking he had never heard of it. She felt an immediate stiffening of his body.

“Ye canna be from America, for according to the Spaniard Juan Ponce de León, there are no people there but tribes, and there are no towns or villages. It is said also that he did not find the Fountain of Youth. So, tell me, mistress, where do ye call home, for it canna be America.”

Damn Ponce and his big mouth!
“Truly, I am from America, but not the same America of Columbus or Ponce de León.” She decided not to add that her America was in the twenty-first century.

This time, his body went rock hard and the muscles of his arms flexed powerfully. ’Tis a dangerous game ye play, mistress. I think ye are spying for the English.”

She was shocked. He had been so nice to her. Did he really think she was a spy? “I am not English! My ancestry is Scottish, Italian, and Irish. And I am not playing a game.”

“Ye are no’ telling me the truth, either.”

“I haven’t told you
all
of the truth, but I haven’t lied.”

“Then tell me the rest of it.”

“I cannot. Not because I don’t want to tell you or that I am hiding something. It’s a long story, and I am quite weary. I would rather wait for another time and place to tell you because you will have many questions and I am not up to answering them. I am not being evasive, but it is an incredible story. However, I can assure you that every word of it is true. I know this because I have difficulty believing it myself.”

“Is that yer way of saying ye are no’ a spy?”

“I’m not a spy.”

“Who brought ye here?”

“You would really find that preposterous and…”

“I speak Gaelic, English, and French, but I dinna ken the word ‘preposterous.’”

She knew that had to mean the word came into use after 1515. Being here was getting more complicated by the minute. “‘Preposterous’ means absurd, unbelievable, exaggerated, and outrageous.”

“‘Exaggerated’ I dinna ken.”

This communicating thing was going to be her undoing. “But you do understand ‘absurd’ and ‘unbelievable.’?”

“Aye. They are words that describe much I have heard ye say. Am I to believe ye came here from America by magic?”

She nodded. “Actually, that is very close to the truth.”

“And did ye wish to return?”

“I do not know if that is an option available to me.”

“‘Option’ I dinna ken.”

“It means choice, as in I do not have a choice about returning.” She didn’t want to mislead him, but she was afraid he might decide to toss her on her duff and ride on without her if she talked about time travel and a mischievous, meddling ghost.

She caught a glimpse of the russet hindquarters of a deer as it broke cover and darted across the track in front of them. Everything began to weigh down upon her again. She understood his doubt, disbelief, and distrust. She did not blame him. He really couldn’t trust her. She could be anyone, even someone who threatened the security of his family.

Isobella, you are an idiot! How can you possibly expect to pull this off? It’s a lose-lose situation at best.
If she didn’t tell him the truth, it was into the dungeon; if she told him, he would not believe her, ergo the dungeon. Either way she lost. Not the best place to be when up against a warrior on his own turf.

“You have been kind. You deserve an answer, and I promise to give you one. Right now, I am hungry and tired from an unbelievably long journey. I ache all over. I’m in a strange place with strange people. I miss my home, my family, my friends, and the life I had. I am worried about my sister. If you don’t want a crying woman on your hands, you would do well to change the subject.”

He put his hand on her thigh and rubbed gently. “Not with your hands, Lancelot. I was thinking more along the lines of conversation.”

He spurred his horse to a faster pace. The silence settled around them like an opaque veil, and the world seemed cold and dull and without luster as he became impervious to her.

She must have fallen asleep, for sometime later, he said, “Wake up, mistress. We will be there soon.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry with anticipation as she caught her first glimpse of a castle still some distance away. Its outline was sharp and clear in the fading light of a summer day—a mammoth in granite, dark, threatening, unfriendly, and unknown.

Your fate sits upon those dark battlements
, a ghostly voice whispered in her ear, and Isobella shuddered at the thought.