Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 21

"You were coming to crush my band and capture me," she retorted coldly. "If I had let you go, would you and your men have simply walked home and left us alone?"

Roarke hesitated. "No." He wished he could have said otherwise.

"And if you had managed to capture us, what would our fate have been?"

He shook his head impatiently. "It doesn't matter-"

"It does matter, Roarke," she interrupted fiercely. "You had been given orders by your laird, and it was your duty to carry them out or face the consequences of failure. What would you have done to me and my men?"

He stared at her in frustration. "We had orders to crush the Falcon's band and return with the Falcon himself as our prisoner."

"And that is what you would have done, isn't it? You would have butchered Colin, and Magnus, and Finlay, and Lewis. And you would have captured me and dragged me back to your holding, where I would have been tried before your laird and executed."

"I would never have allowed anything to happen to you, Melantha."

"You nearly cut my head off the first time you saw me."

"Only because you were trying to kill me."

"I was trying to kill you because you were going to slay my men!"

Roarke closed his eyes, suddenly weary. He did not want to talk about killing and duty any more. A sharp blade of guilt was twisting in his gut, making him feel tense and defeated. He had betrayed his own clan tonight, he realized bleakly. Those men down there were his own people, linked to him by history, loyalty, and blood. Some of them he had recognized, although he did not believe any of them were men who had ever fought under his command.

Even so, the magnitude of his treachery was appalling.

Never, in over twenty years of service, had he ever acted against the welfare of his laird or his people. His life had been far from perfect-the lonely deaths of his wife and daughter were an agonizing testament on that point-but he had prided himself on his clear, unquestioning loyalty to his clan. He had always carried out his duties with single-minded purpose, leaving no room for contemplating the devastating effect his actions might have had on others. It had been his lifelong mission to strengthen his clan, to expand its borders, and to constantly enrich its coffers by bringing home the bounty of war. This was not some barbaric doctrine of oppression; it was merely a fact of life in the Highlands. Those holdings he captured then fell under the MacTier influence. He had abated any guilt by a.s.suring himself that the conquered clans were now better off, because they would be protected from others who might dare to attack them.

The MacKillons had made him realize that his perception of his clan's aggression was horribly distorted. An a.s.sault on a people exacted a terrible price, and forcing a clan to bend to another could only breed loathing and discord.

He swallowed thickly, wondering if his entire life as a warrior had been nothing but an infliction of misery on others.

"Why did you do it?" queried Melantha softly.

He opened his eyes and regarded her in confusion.

"Your clan was here to rescue you," she elaborated. "All you had to do was go out and join them, and you would have been free." She shook her head, struggling to comprehend his actions. "Why did you choose to stay with us and fight your own people?"

"Why did you threaten to kill me this evening, and then fly through the air to shield me with your body?"

"I don't know," she whispered, but even as she said it she knew it was a lie.

Roarke raised his hand to gently trace his finger along the white fabric of her bandage. Had she moved a second earlier or later, had she twisted her body slightly or stumbled, the arrow would have burrowed into her chest and she would have been killed. He could not imagine what had inspired such an act of selflessness. He had come here seeking to capture the Falcon, and yes, loath as he was to admit it, to escort the outlaw to his death.

Instead, the Falcon had thrown herself in front of an arrow meant for Roarke.

He took her palm and kissed it gently before pressing it hard against his chest.

"There are no absolutes for us anymore, Melantha," he said, his voice low and rough. "No absolute hatred, no absolute loyalty or trust. We can only go moment to moment, making our choices from the deepest part of our soul, instead of letting others make them for us."

"I never let anyone make my choices for me," Melantha whispered, lost in the silvery depths of his eyes as she felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her trembling hand.

"I know," he said solemnly.

He leaned forward and lowered his head until his lips were almost touching hers, still holding her palm against his heart. She had saved his life tonight, just as he had tried to save the lives of her people. They were both trapped in the vortex of a battle that neither wanted to fight, and that was something in which neither of them had any choice whatsoever. Tomorrow he would leave her to return to his clan and convince his laird to abandon his campaign against the MacKillons. After that he would retire to the holding he had been promised, and try to make some kind of life for himself that went beyond the constant infliction of misery and death. It was what he wanted, he told himself fiercely.

And so after tonight Melantha would be lost to him forever.

He groaned and captured her lips with his, crushing her against him with bruising force. A cry escaped her throat as she desperately returned his kiss, her tongue sweeping into his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down against her. Roarke tasted her deeply as his hands roamed over her, tearing away the light woolen blanket so he could feel the contours of her body through the maddeningly thin veil of her linen chemise. Melantha pulled in frustration at his plaid and jerkin, and Roarke appeased her by rising quickly to shed the offending garments.

Melantha stared in fascination at the naked warrior standing before her, his bronzed body chiseled into a thousand hard angles and sinewy curves illuminated by the flickering candlelight. There were scars etched across the powerful planes of his chest and stomach and arms, each one a testament to a life spent in battle. How many times had he faced death, and somehow managed to elude its grasp? It was impossible to think that his injuries had not affected him, or that his advancing age had not begun to stiffen muscles that were once fluid with youth. And yet he exuded a commanding power she had never known in any other man. The light of the candles was soft, but in that moment she could see him with absolute clarity, every weakness, and every strength.

And she wanted him with an intensity that was terrifying.

She kept her gaze locked upon his as she slowly skimmed the gossamer veil of her chemise up the paleness of her body, enjoying a dark pleasure as his eyes smoldered with desire. The gauzy fabric whispered over her head before she tossed it onto the cool stone floor in a crumpled pool. For an instant she was suddenly shy, but Roarke's searing study of her kept her from crossing her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with maidenly modesty. She had known him once before, had felt the hard pressure of his body wrapped around her own and the exquisite glory of holding him deep within herself as he caressed her to the brink of madness. She wanted that again, that feeling of him moving against her, and with her, and the sublime knowledge that for one ethereal moment, he belonged to her alone.

She held out her arms.

Roarke stretched out over her, plundering her mouth with his tongue as he reveled in the feel of her slender form pressing against his hard body. He wanted her with a need that was staggering, a hunger so consuming he was certain it could never be abated. And so he tore away his mouth to ravenously kiss the softness of her cheek, the fine hollow at the base of her throat, the sweet pink sh.e.l.l of her ear. He did not linger long anywhere, but continued his journey along the delicate structure of her shoulder while his hands captured the lush mounds of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He buried his face into their softness before taking a claret peak into his mouth, and then he suckled hard and long, groaning with pleasure as Melantha plunged her hands into the thickness of his hair and held him tight against her.

Quickly he moved down the creamy flat of her stomach, until finally he came to the silky darkness between her thighs. He drew his tongue lightly up the downy cleft, barely grazing the hidden petals beneath, and felt a hot stab of masculine pleasure as a small, carnal moan escaped Melantha's throat. He continued to flicker his tongue over her, tormenting her with the veiled promise of more, until finally she opened her legs wider in wanton desperation. He stroked her fully then, tasting the hot, wet folds of her with slow, sure laps, up and down, in and out, teasing her and torturing her as he flicked at every little hidden pleat. He burrowed his tongue deep inside her as his hands moved possessively over her legs and thighs and hips, drinking in the scent and taste and touch of her, and then he was swirling against the rosy slickness of her once again, until shallow little pants began to rise from her throat and her body grew restless with need.

Melantha felt as if she were being consumed by fire, so intense were the sensations pouring through her. Her body was all liquid heat and softness, while at the same time she felt as if every muscle and bone were locked so tight she would surely shatter. She opened herself farther to Roarke's exquisite caresses and watched him as he lapped at her, feeling a dark, forbidden thrill at the sight of him devouring her so ravenously. An aching hollow was building within her, and she moaned in frustration, then sank back against the pillow as she felt him press his finger deep into her, filling her as he continued his hot, wet kisses. In and out his finger slid as his lips and tongue licked and suckled at her, igniting every fiber of her being into a raging fire, making her writhe and stretch against the cool linen sheets as her body burned for more. She could not bear this exquisite torment a moment longer, she was certain of it, but instead of stopping him she raised herself against him, taking quick, desperate little sips of air as her body grew rigid and her blood began to pound through her veins. And then suddenly everything stopped, and she was unable to move or think or breathe; all she could do was reach and reach for the incredible ecstasy dangling before her, and when she grasped it she cried out, a cry of wonder and utter joy. Roarke instantly rose up and buried himself deep inside her, filling her emptiness and covering her with the warm, hard shield of his powerful body, holding her safe as she exploded into a glorious shower of stars.

Roarke kissed Melantha tenderly as she locked her body to his, holding him tight within the deepest recesses of her as her fingers bit into the muscles of his back. And then she sighed into his mouth and eased her hold on him, the stiffness of her body flowing away like warm sand. A low growl unfurled from his chest as he began to move within her. He wanted her to the point of madness, and now that he was inside her he only wanted her more. In and out he thrust, feeling as if he were dying with each aching penetration, a slow, glorious death in which he ceased to be whoever the h.e.l.l he had wasted most of his life being and instead became a part of her. She twined her legs with his and drew him deeper while her hands roamed the rigid planes of his shoulders and back and b.u.t.tocks, scorching his flesh with her hungry touch, binding him to her body and heart and soul, until he thought he would weep from the impossible magnificence of it. He wanted to be lost within her forever, to feel her softness wrapped around him, the whisper of her breath gusting against his neck, and the sweet, clean scent of sunlit forests forever permeating the air. She was his, but only for this brief, stolen moment, and the knowledge was so agonizing his heart began to break. In and out he moved, desperately fighting his intensifying pleasure as he fought to chain her to him, feeling if he could just hold her longer, touch her more, bury himself ever deeper inside her, then surely he could cleave her to his soul. But there was no more time, for suddenly his body began to thrust faster and harder despite his efforts to restrain it. And then he was shattering, pouring himself into her as he called her name, filling her with his strength and his need as he covered her mouth with his and kissed her savagely.

They lay together a long while, their bodies still joined, their flesh burning between them. But the night air swirled around them in cool currents, eventually chilling their skin. Roarke gathered Melantha into his arms and held her close as he pulled the sheet and plaid over them, unwilling to accept that their time together was almost at an end. They clasped each other in uneasy silence, each unwilling to speak and break the fragile bonds that were already disintegrating between them.

After a while warm droplets began to fall against Roarke's chest. Grasping Melantha's chin, he tilted her head up and regarded her with concern.

"What is it, Melantha?"

Her eyes were glittering with anguish. "Nothing," she whispered.

"Tell me," he urged, brushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead.

She swallowed thickly and stared at him, obviously torn. And then she inhaled a ragged breath and whispered in a voice so faint he could barely make out the words, "I was thinking of my father."

He drew her closer and began to stroke her hair, caressing her with a soothing touch as he held her even tighter against him.

She lay against him in silence, afraid. She did not know why she had even admitted that much to him. The memory of her father was as precious as it was painful, and not something she chose to share with anyone. Instead she kept it locked within her, buried deep within the ice-cold depths of anguish and remorse.

"When the battle was over this evening, you thought your father had just been killed," Roarke ventured, wondering if she were still in a kind of shock instigated by what she had seen. "You realize that he was actually killed months ago, don't you, Melantha?" he enquired gently.

She laid her cheek against the granite heat of his chest and nodded.

"But the a.s.sault tonight caused you to think about him?"

"Yes."

He hesitated a long moment, debating whether or not to ask her more. The silvery drip of tears continued to wet his skin, until finally he decided that there was something she needed to tell him, whether she understood it completely or not. Keeping her cradled against him, he laid his hand against the hot stream trailing down her cheek and quietly asked, "How did he die, Melantha?"

She remained silent, fighting for the courage to speak. And just when he thought she would not open this painful memory to him, the words slowly began to come.

"I was asleep when the MacTiers attacked the first time," she murmured, her voice strangely hollow. "The night was cool and there was a heavy cover of clouds blocking the light of the moon, making it difficult to see anything. When he realized we were under attack, my father told me to take my brothers to the lower level of the castle and hide with them. But I did not want to hide. My father had trained me from the time I was five in archery and swordplay, and I saw no reason why I should not help protect our home. And so I disobeyed him. I left Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick hiding with the other women and children, and I fetched my weapons and ran into the courtyard to fight the invaders."

She paused.

Roarke's voice was gentle as he softly prodded, "What happened, Melantha?"

"The MacTiers were everywhere," she whispered helplessly. "Our men were doing their best to fight them, but they were no match for such highly trained savagery. I couldn't see my father anywhere, and I was glad, because I knew if he saw me he would order me to return to my brothers. I climbed up the outer stairs leading to the second level of the castle, thinking I could kill more MacTiers with my bow than I could with my sword, and I began to shoot."

She stopped again.

"Did you kill anyone?"

"I hit five of them, but I only managed to wound them," she reported, her voice steeped in bitterness. "And then one of the MacTiers shouted an order to shoot the woman with the bow on the stairs. And that's when my father discovered I had defied him."

"He saw you?"

"He was fighting with a warrior down by the well. But when he heard about a woman archer, he was distracted."

A terrible dread began to seep through Roarke.

"He-he only turned his head for an instant," Melantha said, forcing herself to continue. "Just long enough to see me, and to call out my name." She swallowed, fighting the sob rising in her throat. "That was all the warrior he was battling needed to plunge his sword deep into his belly."

"Oh, G.o.d," murmured Roarke, feeling her anguish as surely as if it were his own.

"His eyes never left mine as he sank to his knees," she whispered, the words raw and halting. "He looked absolutely terrified. But not for himself," she qualified. "His gaze stayed upon me, and all I could see was this awful fear-for what the MacTiers were going to do to me." A ragged sob began to choke her.

Roarke drew her even tighter into his arms, trying to absorb some of her pain.

"Two warriors grabbed me then, and instead of killing me they decided to just drag me away from the battle. I screamed and struggled against them-not because I cared what they were going to do to me, but because I could see my da was dying and-" She inhaled a shuddering breath. "I wanted to be with him. I pleaded with them to let me go to him, so I could hold him...be with him...I didn't want him to be alone." Her words were drowning in tears. "But they just laughed and took me away. And my beautiful, brave da was left to bleed to death on the ground, watching his only daughter be dragged off by two warriors. And he was in agony, because he was terrified of what they were going to do to me and-he was helpless to stop them."

She ground her face against Roarke's chest. Deep, racking sobs shook her body while her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. Roarke did not know what to do except to hold her. His embrace was so tight he thought he might bruise her tender flesh or even crush a bone, but he did not ease his grip.

He thought about the excruciating burden of guilt, and how it could eat away at a soul until there was nothing but a frail sh.e.l.l left where once there had been a whole person. It was an affliction he knew well, for he believed that if he had only been at Muriel's side to help her endure the shocking pain of their daughter's death, he would have helped his gentle wife to find the strength to go on. Melantha was weeping for the loss of her father, but that was not what was destroying her soul.

What was truly torturous was the belief that she had caused his horrible death.

"It wasn't your fault, Melantha," he told her firmly, pulling her up so he could look into her eyes.

"I killed him," she protested brokenly. "I defied his orders, and distracted him when he was fighting for his very life. Had I obeyed him and stayed with my brothers, he never would have been killed."

"Your clan was under attack, Melantha," Roarke pointed out. "Your father could have been killed at any moment-if not by that warrior, then by the next one who challenged him. And if he had been slain while you hid with your brothers, you would be punishing yourself now for not having fought at his side."

She stared at him uncertainly, weighing the validity of his argument. And then she shook her head, dismissing it. "He died believing I was about to be beaten and raped," she whispered. "I wasn't, but that was his last thought as his life drained into the ground."

"Perhaps," Roarke allowed, tracing the shimmering path of her tears with his fingers. "But do you truly believe that was all that filled his mind in those last moments, Melantha?" he asked, his voice low and gentle. "Your father was not a man who made war, but he understood the importance of knowing how to defend those he loved. That is why he trained you from a tender age in the art of using a bow and a sword. And in those last moments, he was filled with an overwhelming love and pride at the sight of his beautiful daughter standing on the stairs above him, bravely helping her clan to ward off its enemies."

She bit her quivering lip, considering his words.

" 'Tis clear to me your father knew from the time you were a bairn that you were no ordinary la.s.s, and he was determined to see that you were trained to realize the best of your abilities," Roarke continued, his hand caressing the dark silk of her hair. "Imagine the pride he must have felt seeing you shooting arrows into the enemy, showing not the slightest hint of fear as you fought to protect your home. In his last moments he was overwhelmed with the vision of your courage and your love. It is never easy to die, Melantha, but that is as fine an image as any man could hope to take with him as he leaves his mortal body."

Melantha regarded him with anxious uncertainty, wanting to believe him, but reluctant to release the guilt she had so painfully endured for so long. "Do you really think so?"

Her tears had stopped, but her eyes were still glittering, making them large and hauntingly luminous. She was unfathomably beautiful to him in that moment, as all the elements of her melded into one gloriously courageous yet achingly vulnerable woman. She was not his and she never would be, and the knowledge filled him with unbearable loss. But in this hushed moment, as she lay cradled against him studying him hopefully, she was as close to being his as she ever would be.

"Yes, Melantha," he whispered, turning her onto her back and stretching his hard body over her exquisite softness once more.

She rose to meet his kiss, wrapping her slender arms around the chiseled marble of his shoulders. He buried himself inside her and began to move, kissing her tenderly as he quickly roused her once again. He sought to wash away the last vestiges of her guilt, to free her from the torment that slashed at her heart, and in doing so, perhaps a.s.suage some of his own guilt as well.

And so they pulsed together in the flickering candlelight, lost to the splendid fire burning within them, and the aching need that bound their souls into one.

CHAPTER 9.

Melantha sighed and burrowed deeper beneath the warm haven of her covers.

Only the barest hint of light filtered through her leaden eyelids, so she was certain it could not be not much past dawn. Just another hour, she told herself sleepily, nuzzling the feathery depths of her pillow. No one could possibly have risen yet anyway. Another hour, and she would still be among the first to stir within the castle.

A hideous drone shattered the morning stillness, rousing her as effectively as a stake being driven into her ear. Unable to imagine what Thor could be thinking playing his pipes at such an unG.o.dly hour, she heaved back the covers and stalked angrily to the window.

Roarke, his men, and the MacTier prisoners were a.s.sembled in the courtyard below, listening with admirable grace as Thor blasted away on his hopelessly damaged bagpipes. Roarke and his warriors were fully armed and their horses were saddled. The other prisoners were not armed and did not have mounts, but it was clear they were also leaving. Daniel, Matthew, and Patrick were at the forefront of the large group of MacKillons who had a.s.sembled to bid them good-bye. Melantha watched in surprise as Matthew stepped forward and tentatively offered a folded square of paper to Roarke. The enormous warrior opened it, then lowered himself onto one knee and gently ruffled Matthew's hair.

A terrible chill swept through her. Whirling about, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the plaid from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, then raced down the corridor, her bare feet flying against the frigid stone floor.

"...and when you look at it, you'll always remember," finished Matthew, his earnest little face regarding Roarke with something akin to worship.

Roarke nodded gravely, studying the drawings he held in his hands. Matthew's artistry was surprisingly skilled for a mere lad of ten. The first sketch showed Roarke being held upside down by Finlay and Myles as he reached for Matthew and dragged him back to safety. In the interest of modesty, Roarke's plaid stiffly defied the forces of nature and remained squarely covering his backside. But it was the second drawing that moved Roarke beyond the possibility of speech. In it Matthew was standing with his arms wrapped around Roarke, and above it, in simple, childish letters, he had printed a single word.

'Friends.'

"Do you like it?" prodded Matthew, uncertain of Roarke's silence.

"Yes," said Roarke, fearing if he said more his emotions would betray him. He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"When I get to be older, will you come back and teach me how to fight?" asked Patrick hopefully.

"He's not coming back," interjected Daniel.

"Why not?" asked Patrick.

"Because he's a MacTier," explained Daniel. His eyes were intense as he studied Roarke, but they did not seem to harbor the same anger they had reflected from the moment he and his men had arrived. "You're not coming back, are you?"