Tamed By Your Desire Part 36

"I'll fetch ye when it's ready," Wynda called after them.

Torches were placed at intervals, illuminating the narrow staircase. Alex glanced down at Fayth and noticed the small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"You find it amusing that my servants are so disobedient? I'm sure you'd find nothing of the sort in Graham Keep."

"Oh no," Fayth said. "Ridley would flog the skin off a servant who took such liberties."

"Well... I cannot flog her. I mean, she does fine work, and your bath will be clean and hot, I vow it-"

Fayth's laughter filled the stairwell, bright and clear as bells. Her eyes shone, deep dimples shadowing her cheeks. "I think she's wonderful, Alex."

Her smile, completely uninhibited and utterly arresting, left him fumbling for words. They had reached the landing. He stopped and turned to her. "I was... concerned, because you're accustomed to finer surroundings and treatment. I mean to say... they are the finest of people, and I think Gealach is fine, but you probably don't, and you're not used to such common treatment-"

"I'm a prisoner, remember?"

"Aye, but that doesn't mean I cannot show you the hospitality owed to a la.s.s of your station."

She stared up at him for a long time, her mouth set in a thin, thoughtful line. He took her arm again, leading her to a small room near his. He opened the door and let out a sigh of relief to see Wynda had cleaned it thoroughly. He had acc.u.mulated a great deal of insight-furniture and other such things lifted in raids-but as yet had used it little. They had been hauling what they didn't sell down to the tunnels beneath the tower, where it sat, covered in sheets. But Wynda had obviously set the men to hauling up one of the finer beds and bedding. A woven silk rug covered the floor. There was an ornate chest at the foot of the bed and a small table and bench beneath the narrow recessed window. The shutters had been painted green and trimmed with yellow flowers that left the shutters to circle the walls. Pots and baskets bursting with flowers of yellow, purple, blue, and crimson adorned every flat surface. They surely came from Wynda's personal garden.

The Rhins and Macher boasted an unusual array of foliage that bloomed much of the year, owing to the mild sea climate. Wynda had a special plot in the courtyard, protected from the strong winds, that was to be left alone upon fear of excruciating punishment. Alex was touched that she had raided her own garden to make Fayth's room comfortable.

"Will this do?" Alex asked.

Fayth looked around the room, her expression inscrutable. "Yes." She crossed her arms gingerly beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, careful of her wound, and eyed him speculatively. "I a.s.sume you didn't show me to my room for the pleasure of my company?"

He nodded, closing the door behind him. "You truly believe Carlisle will not trade you for Gealach? I still intend to pay him generously-in addition to returning you."

She shook her head slowly, but firmly.

"What about Ridley?"

"No. I am worthless to him. He only cares about the Clachan Fala." She shrugged. "Had you that, well, then perhaps he would consider your offer."

"I don't have time to chase after a magical gemstone that might not exist."

"I'll help you."

Alex couldn't stop the laughter that erupted at her offer. "You must be truly desperate to offer me aid."

Her cheeks flamed and her eyes narrowed. "You think I'm of no use?"

Alex tried to temper his amus.e.m.e.nt. "Why are you so insistent about this? I thought you didn't believe in it?"

"What does it matter if I believe, or if it's even real? You planned to use it to find Patrick. Why not accomplish two things?"

"And you get nothing out of it-just the warm knowledge of knowing you helped me."

The old Fayth was back, scowling at him, arms crossed over her chest. "I would be reunited with my stepmother if you found Patrick. And if we did find the Blood Stone, then everything would be fine. You could keep Gealach and I could be free."

Alex shook his head. "Why would that be the result? Your stepmother obviously has plans for the Blood Stone. You expect her just to forget them so I can use it for my own purposes?"

Her head bobbed but not in an affirmative. She obviously hadn't thought this through and hadn't considered a possible conflict with her beloved stepmother.

"Fine!" she cried, throwing up her arms and turning away. "Just go away."

Well, her short-lived truce now made sense. She'd been planning to reason with him all along. He felt a pang of guilt that he was forced to be so unreasonable, but he couldn't be impulsive, not with Gealach at stake. He hesitated, wanting to explain himself to her. But then her words came back to him. She was just a prisoner. No matter what he told her, it would change nothing between them. He was still an outlaw, a Maxwell, and a murderer. Nothing he said or did would ever change those things. Not even Gealach.

"Don't try to escape." When she didn't acknowledge his words he said, "Fayth, I mean it. You'll get more than an arrow in the arm this time."

She whirled around, her face flushed. "Just what I need, another man telling me what to do!"

"I'm only trying to protect you-"

"Like you protect all your prisoners? Like you protected Jack?"

He deserved that, he supposed, though it made him furious to have it thrown in his face. Rather than stay and endure more of her abuse, he turned on his heel and left.

0="14"14.

FAYTH STOOD ON the roof of Gealach Tower, hands resting on the parapet, gazing out across the North Channel at Ireland. She closed her eyes as the chill breeze blew against her cheeks. When she opened them again, Ireland was still there. Alex had been right, you could see for miles on a clear day and the view was breathtaking.

She was still annoyed she'd been unable to convince Alex to help her find Mona. She'd felt so sure from the way he looked at her and touched her that he would help her. He helped everyone else, why not her? His refusal had been bitterly disappointing. She still couldn't shake the odd feeling of betrayal, which was absurd! He was her enemy, after all; had she really expected him to join forces with her? To be her savior? What a simple little fool she was!

She turned at the sound of footsteps behind her, but it was only her guard, circling the roof idly. She turned back to the open air. It seemed her whole life had been a prison, constantly guarded. Only as Hugh had she known freedom. She was in skirts again, her hair plaited at her neck, her body cleaned of work and road dust. She wondered whose garments she wore. They were not servants' attire, but the clothes of a gentlewoman. The bodice was stiffened violet taffeta. The skirt was a fall of fine silk, marbled murrey and bice. Linen petticoats and silk undergarments. Everything was too big, of course. Fayth ran her hands self-consciously over the loose bodice, envying the woman who had once filled it out.

Far below, towering waves crashed against the jagged rocks, sending up white spray. Birds glided over the sea, diving to capture fish, then disappearing into the cliff the tower sat upon, where their nests were hidden. Was there a beach below? Hidden from her sight by the lip of the cliff? She would love to explore this place thoroughly, if only she weren't a prisoner.

Her guard was wandering again, his steps echoing off the battlement, but Fayth didn't turn. Her thoughts drifted to Mona and Caroline, her mood turning maudlin. Would Alex warn his brother of Ridley's plans? Would it be enough to save Caroline the misery of losing her husband and home? And Mona... Fayth was losing hope she would ever find her stepmother. She was useless to those she loved most.

"I see you didn't ignore my invitation from lack of interest."

Fayth turned quickly, hands clutching the parapet for support. Alex stood behind her, looking over her head to the distant sh.o.r.e. She moved away from him, his nearness sending a disturbing wave of awareness over her. She loathed this infernal fragility. Her wound no longer ached, but the arm itself was as weak as a piece of string dangling at her side. Just this morning she'd begun lifting things, to build her strength, and now her arm was sore as a result. It still angered her that a mere arm wound had so debilitated her, but at least she recovered, however slowly.

Alex stepped away, as if sensing he unsettled her. They'd been at Gealach two days and she'd seen little of him in that time. He'd invited her, via Wynda, to walk to the roof with him this morning. She'd ignored the invitation and waited until after dinner to venture up herself. Now here he was anyway.

She turned away to walk the perimeter of the wall. Her guard had been sent away, which meant she would not be rid of Alex easily. "It's unnecessary to spend time with my gaoler." She really thought that was best. When she was with him she had all sorts of stupid and reckless impulses.

He said nothing, nor did he follow her. She stopped at the opposite wall, no longer able to enjoy her outing. Annoyed, she turned toward him. He stood in the spot she'd vacated, looking out over the sea as she had, his head lifted as if smelling the air. He wore no hat and the sun caught the copper and blond strands threading his dark hair. He was tall and straight, with strong broad shoulders. Even now, when he was still-and at times he was so still and watchful he unnerved her-he reminded her of a tightly coiled spring, a force on the edge of release.

Though he kept himself neat, he had little regard for fashion. His leather doublet and breeches were well made and functional, his boots, st.u.r.dy but worn. His long, sleek hair tied back with a simple leather thong. And yet, she found him infinitely more attractive than any of the fops that paraded through Graham Keep.

Oh, why did he have to be a Maxwell? Why did he have to be Red Alex?

Drawn to him, she approached slowly, circling the wall. When she was several feet from him, she stopped. He glanced at her briefly, before looking back out to sea. He seemed distracted and Fayth felt free to study his profile. He'd shaved the beard away and his tanned skin was unblemished except for the scars he bore. Scars she had inflicted. A thin pink line where she'd cut him with his helm. A jagged puckered scar on his temple where she had bashed him with a jug. And another, hidden from her view. A ravaged shoulder where she'd shot him.

Confusion churned in her belly, constricted her chest. Every time she gazed upon the wounds she'd inflicted she was blanketed with guilt. Even though he was a Maxwell and her abductor, she would take back every hurt if she could. Wesley would think her pudding-hearted, that she regretted maiming Jack's murderer. And he would be right! Fayth chewed at her nail, her gaze shifting between Alex and the view. What was the matter with her? Her heart was at constant war since she'd met him. He'd overturned everything she believed, thought she understood, so that she knew nothing at all anymore.

Alex shifted, leaning his hip against the parapet. He stared down at her, hands crossed over his chest. He saw where her gaze was fixed and he rubbed the scar on his temple. "Not too pretty, eh? Scarred as I am."

She flushed, lowering her eyes and clasping her hands together tightly. She'd been thinking the opposite, that he was a pleasure to look at, comely beyond words. "As I inflicted them, it would speak ill of me if I could not look upon my work." But she couldn't, not without remorse.