The thought of it sickened her, but if she accepted Darach’s help, what would he expect in return? She wouldn’t be another one of his conquests. “I won’t be in yer debt. We don’t need yer help.”
“Ye’ll likely lose yer brother,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “and more than half yer kin. M’ kin have fought the Menzies in the past. I was present fer one such battle and I can tell ye now, yer side willna’ beat them.”
She knew he was right. Her life had been given to Roddie, agreed upon by her and signed over by her brother, chief of the Buchanans of Aberfeldy. Roddie would never abide a broken agreement. There would be much fighting. Much dying. She flicked her eyes to her brother.
She wouldn’t let him die because of her stubborn pride.
“Verra’ well then, Mr. Grant,” she agreed, returning her attention to him. “What would ye have me do?”
She read his answer in his face. Oh, his face. She knew it well. She had thought of it often. She tried to look away from him but his warm, verdant gaze held her captive. His lush, decadent mouth conjured images that made her breath quicken. How could a man make her kneecaps buckle with so little effort? She was entranced all over again by the faintest hint of danger and amusement that made his emerald eyes twinkle.
He was back and she no longer wanted him to be. He tempted her to drag him in for a deep, passionate kiss and then beg him not to leave again, or slap her hand across his face for all the sleepless, haunted nights he’d caused her. Her logic told her he couldn’t be trusted. She had to guard herself against him or he would charm her logic right out of her head like he had before, and then leave her again.
“We’ll discuss it over breakfast,” he told her, oblivious to the danger of his dismissive tone, especially since it involved such an urgent matter. “By the way,” he glanced up vaguely from her brother’s correspondence with Roddie. “Have either of ye heard a word from Ravenglade’s beloved cook, Henrietta?”
The cook? She had to wait until the morning to talk about her future, but he wanted to discuss the cook now?
“I may have heard some gossip about her,” Janet told him and patted a yawn. “But we’ll discuss it over breakfast along with… What was the other topic?”
The slight bend at the corner of his lips infuriated her. “Yer future,” he reminded her.
“Aye.” She didn’t let him rattle her. “My future,” she agreed with a chilled smile of her own.
She peered at him. Were those stitches in his lip? She noticed the slight discoloration around his left eye and cheekbone, darker along his jaw. This made the second time she’d met him and he was beat up and bruised. Did a month ever pass in his life when his face didn’t bear witness to his overconfident mouth? She wondered who pummeled him this time—and how he would ever keep them safe.
“Did ye fall off yer horse and smash yer face into a rock?”
“Do I look that bad?”
He looked damned extraordinary. He didn’t wear his customary Highland plaid, but rather riding pants and dusty boots with a white linen shirt belted and slightly flared at the hips. “Not any worse than the last time I saw ye.”
“That’s a good thing, I suppose.” His short laugh released a dozen butterflies in her belly. “I havena’ been jumped by a dozen men since I rode through yer hometown last spring.”
She’d forgotten how much he enjoyed riling her. “Well, I fer one amdelightedthat my kinsmen who attacked ye were mostly old men, else ye would not be here tonight.”
He tossed back his head and filled the solar with his hearty laughter.
Looking at him made it hard to think, so Janet turned away. She needed to get away and clear her thoughts.
“I’ll be retiring to my room and will see ye both in the morning then.”
The instant she cleared the solar she bolted up the stairs. She had to get her things out of his chamber before he discovered her.
He would think she slept there because she missed him, that she was waiting for his return! And he would be correct, damn it! She simply refused to ever admit it to him. She’d never tell him that she had wished he were there with her at night, locked in her arms, smiling that purely decadent grin at her. Only her. But he was a heartless rogue and she would never let him know her heart.
Her mind raced with what to clear first from the room.
There were fifty-seven rooms in Ravenglade and because many in her clan chose to stay in their own village, in their own homes, most of the rooms were empty.
She dashed to one of them and threw open the door. Then she ran down the hall to his bedchamber, burst inside, and gathered as much as she could in her arms and raced back out. She didn’t realize how many gowns she owned and cursed her own vanity. She collected her slippers, combs, and ribbons and hurried back to her new room a second time. By the fourth trip, her breath came heavy. She should have carried her trunks out first, now she was tired and could manage only one at time. She had to hurry, some of her most valued items were in those trunks.
Darach climbed to the top of the stairs and saw his bedchamber door ajar, candlelight coming from inside. He proceeded cautiously and stepped inside, pushing the creaking door open with him. He looked around. The bedchamber was empty and in disarray, like someone was moving in or out in a hurry. He took a deep breath and let Janet Buchanan’s scent flow into his lungs.
He lifted a pillow off the bed and brought it to his nose. She had been sleeping in here while he was gone. What did it mean? Did she care for him all this time? His mouth went dry and he felt his heart accelerate a bit. He shook his head, refusing to let it mean anything to him. But to her…? Damn, but she must have panicked when she saw him, knowing she had to get out of here before he discovered her. He smiled and looked toward the door. Prideful wench. If she would have admitted to using his chamber he would have been perfectly happy to let her stay, instead of moving everything herself. He looked around the room now. Traces of her still remained—a thin vase of dried flowers set inside the deep window, a small clay pot filled with scented oil she hadn’t gotten to yet, a hair clip she must have dropped. He picked it up and examined it. A few long strands of golden hair were coiled throughout its teeth. He brought it to his nose and inhaled.
He remembered how good she smelled that morning when her clan had captured and beaten him, bound his wrists and ankles, and then left him in her care. It was her scent that haunted him, and the way the firelight in the barn fell over the contours of her face. Hell, she was a flame of fire. Bold and strong-willed—he liked how she stood up to him. He’d tried to put her out of his thoughts but he succeeded only in burying her in his heart, never truly letting her go.
He cursed his cousin Malcolm for bringing him back here and stirring up the embers. He was safer if she remained buried.
