“Hold your tongue, woman, or I’ll cut it out.” She shot him an evil glance before she moved to do his bidding. Fools. He didn’t want to hear any more about damn curses. He was tired of the crazed superstitions of these people. He knew they blamed him for the failure of the crops this year, which was ridiculous considering the wind and rain that had pummeled the small isle.
The wrath of the lady, they claimed. Hector had forgotten about the curse until the old witch Beathag, Coll’s healer, had mentioned it. And with his mother dead, he realized who now wore the amulet—Flora.
Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
Rumors of Coll’s courtship of his sister worried him more than he wanted to admit. His sister wouldn’t betray him by marrying his enemy. But how well did he know her?
If Coll married Flora, Hector knew that the “end” of the curse would be a powerful symbol against him, silly superstition or not. But it was the alliance with Argyll that worried him. Under no circumstances could a marriage between them be allowed to happen.
Just one more reason to want Coll dead. He sat in a chair set before the fire and began to plan. His enemy’s daring foray had given him an idea.
Chapter 15
The party that traveled to the Faerie Pool was larger than Lachlan had intended and included himself, Flora, his sisters, and a handful of his guardsmen. They arrived before noontide and spent the better part of the day eating, drinking, and frolicking in the water. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of frolicking he’d originally planned, but he admitted it had been an enjoyable day—particularly coming on the heels of his victory yesterday against Hector.
Though he was happy to have some of his men back, he could not forget the suffering he’d seen and those he’d left behind. Rain had destroyed the crops, and the fields were bare; the people were forced to give Duart what little they had left. And the stories of Duart’s abuse—especially the womenfolk—filled him with rage. But he needed men to retake his castle against Duart’s much larger force, men he didn’t have. Not yet, at least. But he would. Waiting for the king to decide in his favor was no longer an option; he needed Rory MacLeod—and his fighting force. And that would come with a marriage alliance.
His gaze fell to Flora, who stood knee deep in the water, laughing with Mary and Gilly—both of whom had followed Flora’s lead in borrowing clothing from his men. Gilly had just splashed Murdoch in the face, and the lad was doing his best to ignore her.
After the skirmish yesterday, Lachlan had thought it prudent to bring along half a dozen guardsmen—including Allan, though now he wished he hadn’t. Observing the heartbreak on his sister’s face when her gaze fell upon his captain was enough to convince him that he’d severely underestimated his sister’s sentiments. Allan’s refusal to meet Mary’s gaze—following his laird’s instructions—only made it worse. He could see the flicker of pain in his sister’s eyes each time Allan’s gaze swept over her.
Damn.
“What’s wrong?” Flora had emerged from the water to stand before him on the rocky shore. Deeply conscious of the wet shirt that clung to her body and his own naked chest, he forced his gaze not to drop below her shoulders.
“Nothing.” He leaned over and plucked his shirt from the rock, not wanting to talk about Mary. It was a subject they could not agree upon. Her mother had raised Flora with no sense of obligation or familial duty. To her it was a simple matter, but to him it was complicated by his responsibility to his clan. “It is getting late, we should be leaving.” He started to pull the shirt over his head, but Flora stopped him with a touch. He flinched, the press of her cool fingers a shocking brand against his skin.
“What happened?” she asked, tracing the outline of the mottled bruise on his ribs. “I noticed it earlier.”
He sucked in his breath as her fingers dipped to his waist. Just a simple touch was enough to fill him with heat. “Studying me closely, Flora?”
She blushed. “Of course not. It’s hard to miss, that’s all.” Her gaze locked on his. “You were in a fight.”
“It was nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you took a heavy blow with a sword. Won’t you tell me what happened?”
He’d been dispensing with one of Duart’s men when another had surprised him from behind. The man had managed one blow, but it had been his last. He took her wrist to stop the dip of her hand; she was driving him mad. She gasped at the contact, and he made the mistake of looking down. The shirt was plastered to her skin, revealing the lush shape of her breasts to his hungry gaze. God, he ached to touch her. The memory of what had taken place on this very shore was too fresh. Too vivid. The hard evidence of his arousal grew between them. It was nearly impossible to stand beside this woman he’d bedded, inhaling her perfume, knowing how she felt in his arms, and not being able to claim her. A woman he wanted for so many reasons. She’d invaded his senses, his thoughts, his dreams.
“You’ll stop touching me, my sweet, unless you’d care to finish what you started with an audience.”
Her eyes dropped, widening as she took in his condition. She looked at him a second too long, the weight of her eyes more erotic than a harlot’s trick.
“Well?” he repeated.
She shook her head.
“Then take my sisters with you while you change.”
She started to walk away but turned back to him. “Lachlan, I…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
She looked so flustered, he had to smile. “I know. Now hurry. It grows late.”
He watched her hurry to do his bidding and felt warmth spread over him that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. It felt odd to have someone concerned about him. He could get used to it.
