Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 15

"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 G.o.d, 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 ma.s.sive, stinking body, leaving a steaming river of blood flowing into the ground and staining the dried gra.s.ses 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 la.s.s, 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 la.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. " '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 a.s.sured him proudly. "The la.s.s 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 la.s.s," 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 nouris.h.i.+ng 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 la.s.s 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 pa.s.sage, 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 ma.s.sive 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 b.u.t.tock, 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 st.i.tch 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 st.i.tching 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 b.u.t.tock, and his outright refusal. Had anyone a.s.sessed 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 b.u.t.tock 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 s.h.i.+fting of his own plaid. Just one quick glance to a.s.sure 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 s.h.i.+fted, 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 b.u.t.tocks.

"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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sert a modic.u.m 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 pa.s.sage, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d for saving Matthew as her brother lay staring at her with huge, frightened eyes, and she had thanked G.o.d 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, sc.r.a.ped 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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.s 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 fort.i.tude 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 h.e.l.l 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 partic.i.p.ant." 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?"