The Rose and The Warrior (22 page)

“I think I bruised myself,” replied Mungo, rubbing his backside.

“Not you!” snapped Eric. Realizing she might find his harsh tone unsettling, he lowered his voice as he asked Gillian, “Are you hurt?”

Shocked to find herself suddenly caught in the hard crush of Eric's arms, Gillian shook her head. “I—I'm fine,” she stammered, mortified by the thought that he could probably feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. “I'm just finding it a little difficult to breathe.”

Eric instantly eased his hold on her, but he kept one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, as if he feared she might stumble again. “You're certain?”

Gillian tilted her head up. His face was a forbidding mask of hard lines and unforgiving angles, but it was his eyes that drew her attention. Their icy blue gaze was far too intense to be characterized as gentle, but there was a ray of concern within them that touched her nonetheless.

“I'm certain,” she assured him softly.

“I'm sorry I bumped into you, Gillian,” apologized Mungo, ruefully rubbing his posterior. “I didn't know you were there.”

Gillian smiled. “ 'Twas my fault entirely, Mungo.”

“It was both your faults,” Eric informed them brusquely as he escorted Gillian down the staircase. “You must learn to sense what is around you and react swiftly to it,” he informed Mungo. “And you must learn to watch where you are going,” he admonished Gillian. Satisfied that she was not injured, he directed his attention to the men he was training. “Divide yourselves into groups and line up at the bottom of the exterior staircases. Each of you will ascend and descend the stairs twenty times—backwards.”

“That will take us until nightfall!” protested Gelfrid, leaning against his sword as he mopped his sweating brow.

“By the end of the day you will have either overcome your fear of stepping back, or you will be too exhausted to worry about it,” Eric predicted. “Either way, you will learn to fight on the steps without stopping long enough to be split open every time you shift your feet.”

“By all the saints, I swear he's going to kill us,” muttered Mungo, dragging his damp sleeve across his face. “He's going to train us to bloody death.”

“I'm thinking he'll just exhaust us so that we haven't the strength to lift so much as a finger in the event of an attack,” Ninian complained grumpily. “Then the MacTiers will come and finish us off where we lie.”

“I wish they'd come soon,” said Gelfrid. “I'd like to be dead before I have to climb up and down those bloody stairs twenty times.”

Reluctantly they began to assemble themselves.

“I must be going,” said Gillian, suddenly feeling shy in Eric's presence.

“No,” he snapped.

Her eyes widened with startled apprehension.

Frustration swept through Eric. Why was it that every sentence that escaped his mouth sounded so harsh? He raked his hand through his blond hair, struggling to find the right thing to say next.

“You will stay a moment,” he elaborated, then realized it still sounded as though he were giving her an order. “If it pleases you,” he finished awkwardly.

Gillian hesitated. “Are you inviting me to stay with you?”

He frowned. He was accustomed to commanding, not inviting. But as Donald had frequently pointed out, his behavior around women often had the effect of frightening them away, and he didn't want to frighten Gillian. If she would prefer to think he was inviting her, so be it.

“Yes,” he decided, nodding. “I'm inviting you to stay.”

“Very well.” She stood there a moment, waiting for him to say something more. When he didn't, she screwed up her courage and meekly inquired, “Are you angry with me?”

He looked at her in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

“It's just…the way you are looking at me,” she explained hesitantly.

Her comment completely baffled him. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you are displeased with me.”

“I am looking at you the same way I look at everyone.” But that wasn't quite true, he realized. Not everyone had hair like a roaring fire, and skin that glowed like fresh cream tinged with berry juices.

“Oh,” said Gillian, clearly relieved. “Then I imagine that scowl of yours comes in very handy during battle. 'Tis truly fearsome.”

Eric raised his brow. “I'm scowling?”

“It doesn't make your face unpleasant to look at,” she assured him.

“It doesn't?”

“Of course not. It just makes you look rather severe.”

Eric stared at her in disbelief. His experience with women was extremely limited, but he was almost certain she was complimenting him. He hesitated, wondering if he was supposed to pay her some sort of tribute in return. He tried to recall his conversations with Donald, but no suitable comment came to mind. Besides, Gillian did not have any of the attributes he had thought he desired in a woman. Her arms did not look like they could carry a heavy load of wood, but with their slender grace they should not have to manage anything more cumbersome than a basket of flowers. As for her hips, they were narrow and sweetly shaped, not the kind that would bear a brood of children with sturdy indifference, but the type that would drive a man to the edge of madness as he cupped them in his hands and pulled her tight against him.

Heat stirred his loins.

Gillian regarded him uncertainly, unable to comprehend the strained silence that had fallen between them. “Forgive me—I meant no insult,” she apologized, thinking she had offended him. “I should be going.”

“No.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the right thing to say.

She paused, wondering why he wanted her to stay when he wasn't saying anything to her. She was usually the one who had trouble making conversation with people, yet here it was the Viking who seemed to be painfully ill at ease. “Was there something you wanted to tell me?” she ventured shyly.

There was much he suddenly wanted to tell her, but he knew he would never find the right words to express himself. Should he tell her that her eyes were like sapphires? he wondered. But that was wrong—sapphires were dark, and Gillian's eyes were the deep, clear blue of a winter sky, or a clean strip of ocean seen from atop a mountain on a crisp day. Would she understand if he described them as such? Or would she laugh and think his words were ridiculous? Feeling desperate, he tried to think of something else. The groans and shouts of the MacKillons stumbling up and down the stairs permeated the air, distracting him. What else had Donald said women liked to hear? They didn't want to be told about their hips—he'd had a pitcher of ale poured over him to illustrate that point. What about their hair, he wondered? If he told her it was like a fire, would she think that was good? Or would she think that fires were smoky and filled with ashes, and be offended?

“I like your gown,” he said, deciding apparel was a safer subject.

Gillian looked down in complete bemusement at the shapeless, faded, generously stained gown she wore. She had soaked it and scrubbed it to a point where the fabric could scarcely endure another washing, and although she knew the cloth was clean, many of the stains had resisted her efforts—including the dark splash of posset this warrior had thrown at her feet.

Eric could see he had made a mistake, it was etched all over the confused expression on her face. He had absolutely no knowledge of women's gowns, but even he had the wit to recognize that what Gillian wore was little better than a rag. Did she think he was mocking her? he wondered miserably. Anxious to make amends, he quickly added, “What I mean is, I like it on you.”

A hesitant smile crept across her face. “Thank you.”

Her smile eased his agitation considerably.

“I'm afraid I never did quite get your posset out of it.” She tossed him a teasing look.

Her ability to make light of that terrible moment surprised him. And pleased him immensely. “I'm sorry,” he said simply.

“I know you didn't mean to throw it on me. In truth, I don't know how anyone stomachs the taste of that wretched stuff.”

Surprise chipped away some of his discomfiture. “You don't like it?”

“I think it's absolutely vile,” she confessed. “The only reason I make it is because Edwina has decided that I must be the guardian of her recipe. But I never sample it as I make it, which is probably why that batch you had when you first arrived was so strong.”

“It had a rather powerful effect on me,” he conceded. “The posset I drank the other night in the great hall was better.”

Gillian nodded. “That's because it was just fresh milk and ale—I didn't put in any of Edwina's other foul ingredients.”

“Why not?”

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “I didn't want you to suffer as you drank it. Not with the entire clan watching.”

He didn't know what to make of that. Why should she care if he suffered?

“I really should be going.”

He wanted to tell her to stay, but he could hear the MacKillons loudly complaining about their weariness and their broken bones, and how his training was going to kill them long before anyone else could. He sighed inwardly. He supposed he should resume leading them in training. “Very well.”

She smiled at him, a small, hesitant lifting of her perfect lips, and he felt as if he had been warmed by a sudden burst of sunlight.

Then she turned and hurried away, leaving him alone with the griping MacKillons.

Roarke paced the length of his cell like a caged beast, unable to quell the unease gnawing deep with him.

Nothing had been the same since that magnificent night he had lost himself to Melantha. He had not seen her since then, although he had walked nearly every inch of this castle as he inspected the progress on its fortifications. She made no appearances in the great hall, nor did she cross his path in the courtyard, or on the wall head, or in any of the castle's chambers or passages. At first he had wondered if she had gone with her men to procure goods for her clan, but Magnus assured him that Melantha was around somewhere, although the old warrior could not precisely recall the last time he had seen her. It was clear to Roarke that she was profoundly disturbed by what had happened between them, and could not bear to face him.

He tried to focus his thoughts on the far simpler subject of battle. It had been nearly a week since the MacKillons had delivered their demands to his clan, and according to the elders, they still had received no reply. Roarke knew MacTier well enough to know that his laird would never ignore such a humiliating affront. To have four of his finest warriors taken prisoner by a clan as insignificant as the MacKillons was an offense MacTier would not endure lightly. If MacTier had not yet sent a missive telling the MacKillons to go to hell, it could only mean one thing.

An army was on its way to deliver the message in person.

“We're leaving,” he announced suddenly.

Donald groaned and barely opened a sleepy eye. “Now?”

“Now,” said Roarke. He adjusted his belt, cursing silently as his hand reached out of habit for the dirk that wasn't there. No matter. He would take Gelfrid's dirk and sword after they lured him in here.

“It's the middle of the night,” protested Myles, his words slurred by the quantity of the ale he had consumed at dinner. “Couldn't we leave tomorrow?”

“We leave now,” said Roarke.

Eric sat up, but looked decidedly reluctant to move. “We haven't finished our work here,” he pointed out. “I still have much training to do with these MacKillons.”

“You could train them for the next twenty years and they still wouldn't be ready to face an army of MacTiers,” Roarke retorted. “If MacTier has not answered their missive by now, it means they are on their way. We must intercept them before they attack.”

The threat of the MacKillons being attacked had them off their beds and ready for action in barely a second. The irony was not lost on Roarke. Any animosity they might once have felt for their captors had long since disintegrated. All that was left was this nagging sense of responsibility for their plight and a genuine desire to help them.

“Gelfrid,” called Roarke, rapping on the storeroom door.

Deep, contented snoring filtered through the heavy wood.

“Gelfrid!” barked Roarke, banging harder. “Open this door at once!”

There was much snuffling and coughing before Gelfrid sleepily demanded, “What is it?”

“There is an enormous rat in here,” Roarke told him. “We need you to come in and kill it.”

“A rat?” Gelfrid sounded thoroughly unnerved. “Why don't you just kill it yourselves?”

“We haven't any weapons,” explained Donald.

The door to their cell remained stubbornly closed. “I don't know anything about killing rats,” Gelfrid objected, sounding rather overwhelmed by the idea. “Maybe I should go and fetch Mungo and Ninian.”