Читать книгу My Lady Captor - Hannah Howell - Страница 10

Wincing slightly as he awoke, Ruari instinctively tried to move and as his battered body protested, he warily opened his eyes. It did not really surprise him to find someone by his bed. He had sensed that he was being watched. And he had not been left alone once in the three days he had been at Dunweare. What did puzzle him was why the Hays would make such a young, delicate girl his nurse and guard. The slim elfin-faced girl staring at him so intensely could not have reached womanhood yet. He began to squirm inwardly beneath the steady gaze of her huge blue eyes and he scowled at her.

“I dinnae think ye should be in here, lassie,” he said, frowning even more when she idly brushed a thick lock of blond hair from her angelic face and nodded.

“Ye are uneasy,” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “’Tis to be expected. Most of the mortal folk I meet are uneasy around fairies.”

“Fairies?” Feeling thirsty, Ruari carefully inched himself into a sitting position only to find the tankard and ewer of water no longer on his bedside table.

“Aye, I am Euphemia, a fairy and a changeling. The fairies took the true Euphemia the day she was born and set me in her cradle. Of course, these poor deluded folk have raised me as one of their own. They simply willnae heed me when I try to tell them the truth.”

“Trying to make folk listen to ye can be a tiresome chore,” he agreed, wondering if there was insanity in the Hay blood.

As he thought over the events of the past three days, he began to think that a deep strain of madness did indeed taint the Hays. He had heard strange noises in the night—crying, moaning, even a chilling laughter—yet no one could explain the sounds when he inquired about them. Now this young girl talked of fairies. With her fair hair loose and tangled, her gown light and flowing, and a coronet of wilted ivy in her hair, she did resemble one. It had the taste of madness as far as he could see. Ruari eyed her with an increasing wariness, wondering if she was the one making all the noises in the night and if she was dangerous. The idea of being murdered in his sickbed by a tiny, pale girl-child who was not in her right mind was acutely distressing.

“Have ye seen my water?” he asked, hoping he could turn her mind to more mundane and sane matters.

“I suspect the spirits took it. They have been most troublesome of late. Sorcha claims ’tis because I am soon to be a woman, but that is foolish. I am of the fairy folk. Ye would think the spirits would ken that and cease to haunt me.” As she spoke she climbed onto his bed.

Ruari edged back as she leaned closer, one tiny hand on either side of him, her long hair tickling his chest. “What is this talk of spirits?”

“Mayhap they havenae troubled you, but surely ye have heard the noises in the night?”

“Aye, I have heard them.” When she straddled his body with hers, Ruari felt a distinct thrill of alarm. “I thought perhaps one of your kinsmen was troubled in his mind.”

“Nay, ’tis but the curse of the Hay women. ’Tis said an old Pictish witch put this curse upon us.” She leaned toward him, placing her hands on the headboard of the bed on either side of his head. “Whenever a girl of this clan approaches womanhood, the spirits come to torment us. ’Tis a bother, but to tell the truth, I am not sure I believe in curses. If ’twas only that, someone would have discovered a way to put an end to it all.” She edged her face closer to his. “There are so few men about Dunweare.”

“I did notice that.” Sweet heaven, the child is trying to seduce me, Ruari thought, and struggled to move away only to discover that he had no room left to move. He was already backed up hard against the headboard. “I am verra thirsty, child. Could ye go and see what happened to my drink?”

Euphemia ignored his request, her wide gaze fixed upon his mouth. “Mayhap Sorcha is right when she says I am now a Hay and will soon be a woman, that when the fairies left me I ceased to be one of them. If she is right and I am soon to become a woman, that makes the lack of men at Dunweare verra troublesome indeed.”

“Weel, ye cannae use me to ease that problem,” Ruari snapped and tried to reach out, grab her, and push her away only to discover that such a movement caused him more pain than he wished to endure.

“Why not? Ye are a mon, and I am now more woman than child.”

“Mayhap, but I am eight-and-twenty, lass. Old enough to have fathered you. ’Twould be best if ye cast your eyes elsewhere.” Ruari gently raised his right arm, fought to ignore the way the movement pulled achingly at his wounds, and tried to push her away. He was unable to give her a push hard enough to dislodge her, however, for it caused him too much pain.

“Ye are certainly older than I would like, but as I have said, there isnae much choice at Dunweare.”

Before Ruari could respond, she clasped his head between her hands and pressed her mouth against his. He did not have time to fully experience his shock over the young girl’s brazen attack, however. The sound of something crashing to the floor quickly grabbed his full attention. Certain that someone had entered the room and misinterpreted the scene, Ruari shoved the girl aside, cursing at the pain that ripped through his body. He frowned when he saw no outraged kinswoman.

“I thought someone was here,” he muttered then cursed as the water bowl and ewer were hurled across the room. Even as he tried to turn and shelter Euphemia, the girl leapt to her feet on the bed.

“Enough! I grow weary of these tantrums!” she yelled, shaking her small fists toward a chest as it was shoved away from the wall.

Unable to pull her down and out of the way, Ruari wriggled down to avoid the objects tossed around the room. Euphemia neatly ducked each object as she continued to curse the air. He turned his attention to the door when he heard someone banging against it. The door was not locked, yet whoever was on the other side was having great difficulty opening it.

“Curse it, let me in,” cried a voice Ruari recognized as Sorcha’s.

“No one is keeping ye out,” he called back.

“Is Euphemia in there? I think I hear her.”

“Aye, she is here.”

Sorcha cursed and fought to open the door. She could tell by the way an unseen hand held the door closed and the noises coming from within the room that the spirits were making themselves known to Ruari. What she wanted to know was what Euphemia was doing in Ruari’s room. The girl had been specifically ordered to stay away from the prisoners. Sorcha swore that, when she got into the room, she was going to make Euphemia sorely regret her disobedience. Even as that angry thought crossed her mind, the door flew open, and Sorcha stumbled into the room. As she caught her balance and her breath, she looked around the room, noticed that the disturbance had ended, and turned her full attention on Euphemia.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, walking to the bed and yanking the girl off it.

“I came to visit our prisoner,” the girl replied, fruitlessly trying to wriggle free of Sorcha’s grip as she was dragged to the door.

“Ye were told to stay out of this room. Aye, told firmly to stay as far away as possible.”

“Ye have no right to tell me what to do.”

“I will show ye how much right I have later and I am sure your mother will be glad to repeat the lesson.” Sorcha pushed her young cousin out of the room. “And dinnae try to hide. I will find you.”

“Ye are just trying to keep him all to yourself,” Euphemia complained as she stumbled into the hall.

“Dinnae be such an idiot.”

Sorcha slammed the door behind her still-complaining cousin. She had a deep well of sympathy for little Euphemia, but the girl sorely needed some discipline. As she moved to tidy the room, she thought over Euphemia’s parting words and she began to get very suspicious. Neil had recently complained that Effie thought of nothing but men, often bemoaning the lack of them at Dunweare. Sorcha suddenly knew exactly why her cousin had disobeyed everyone and crept into Ruari’s chamber. She turned to look at Ruari, only to find him staring at her in fury and confusion.

“And just what were ye doing with that child?” she demanded, hoping that an abrupt attack would divert him from the questions she knew he wanted to ask.

“I was doing nothing at all. That mad girl came in here, babbled something about fairies and spirits, and then decided I was here for her amusement.” Ruari winced as he tried to shift his battered body into a more comfortable position.

“And of course it ne’er occurred to ye to try to use her silliness to devise an escape.” Despite her sharp words, she quickly moved to give him some gentle assistance.

“Nay, I had no time to be so clever. That foolish child decided I was brought here to help her change from a child into a woman. Then somehow she made things fly around the room. ’Twas then that ye arrived.” He watched her as she checked his wounds. “I demand ye tell me what game ye are playing.”

“Game? What do ye mean?” She frowned when she noticed he had nothing to drink. “What happened to your tankard and the ewer?”

“Gone. And the game I speak of is those noises no one will explain and all that just occurred here. That lass spoke of spirits, but I am not such a fool.”

“Mayhap not, but I suspect ye are thirsty.” Sorcha went to the door, opened it, and, seeing her aunt Bethia, asked the woman to fetch some food and drink for Ruari.

“I grow verra weary of this,” grumbled Ruari as Sorcha returned to his bedside and he grabbed her by one slender wrist to hold her by his side. “Ye will tell me what I wish to learn. I demand some answers.”

“Ye are a verra demanding sort of gentlemon, arenae ye.”

“And I begin to think ye and all of Dunweare are mad. There is that woman Neil who isnae only as big as any mon I have seen, but ofttimes acts like one. Then there is that wee birdlike woman who fusses o’er everything, talks without drawing breath, yet says naught.”

“My aunt Bethia.”

“Aye, her. And then there is the woman who says not a word and flinches each time I but blink.”

“My aunt Eirie. She is a timid woman.”

“Timid as a much-whipped cur. And let us not forget that wee deluded lass who was just here. She spoke of being a changeling and of spirits. From what little I have seen of Robert, he appears to be a sensible mon save that he heeds what all of ye say. Oh, aye, and let us not forget the curse the child spoke of.”

“Ah, she told ye of our curse, did she?”

Before Ruari could reply, Bethia scurried into the room. She cast Ruari a nervous glance as she set a jug of mead, a small tray of bread and cheese, and a tankard on the table next to his bed. She paused, shifting from foot to foot when she saw how he was restraining Sorcha, but a quick shake of the head from her niece sent her hurrying out of the room.

“I have only been here a few days, but I begin to understand her skittishness,” muttered Ruari.

Sorcha twisted free of his grasp. Ignoring his scowl, she moved to pour him a drink. She handed him the tankard, pleased to see that he had recovered enough to drink without help. As she cut him some bread and cheese she briefly debated with herself on how she should answer his persistent questions. He already suspected that the Hays were all mad, so she decided to tell him the truth and let him deal with it however he chose to.

“What is all this talk of spirits and curses?” Ruari asked as he picked at the bread and cheese she set before him.

“’Tis said that far back in the thick mists of the past, one of the Hay women roused a fierce jealousy in a Pictish witch. The witch cursed her and every Hay woman to follow her. Whenever a Hay woman of Dunweare is to become a woman, she must suffer through the torments inflicted by ill-tempered spirits. ’Tis those spirits ye hear at night, Sir Ruari. ’Tis those spirits who took your drink. They are verra fond of hiding things. ’Tis those spirits who put your bedchamber in such disarray.”

“And ye believe this nonsense?”

She shrugged. “Why should I not? Each time a woman of Dunweare begins the change from child to woman the troubles begin. We have all suffered through it. ’Tis Euphemia’s turn now.”

Ruari took a deep drink of the sweet mead to wash the food down then shook his head. “I was of the opinion that ye had some wits, but ’tis clear that yours are as scattered as those of the rest of your clan.”

“I see that ye have your doubts about what I am telling you.”

“Doubts?” Ruari laughed, wincing at the pain it caused.

“While ye are feeling so amused, I may as weel tell ye the rest.”

“There is more?”

Sorcha found his ridicule more annoying than she knew she ought to. “The women in my clan are often born with special gifts.”

“Vast imagination?”

She ignored him. “I can see the spirits who walk the land, see them and speak to them.”

“Then why havenae ye had a stern word with the ones hurling your possessions around?”

“I can neither see nor hear those spirits and I fear the ones I do speak with ken little or naught about those troublesome ones. None of the Hay women with the gift has been able to reach them and reason with them.”

“How inconvenient. Tell me, can ye call upon any spirit ye wish to?”

Sorcha could hear the heavy note of mockery in his voice. To her dismay, it hurt. She was not sure why, but she wanted Ruari to believe her, to accept her completely. That could prove dangerous. She knew she was doing a pathetic job of protecting her feelings, her heart. It was why she had done her best to avoid him since their arrival at Dunweare, but her family had begun to grow too curious about how she was acting. Telling him the full truth about herself could so disquiet him he could kill her growing infatuation with his own words. Sorcha just wished it did not have to hurt.

“Nay, I cannae call on anyone I wish,” she replied. “I must settle for those spirits who decide to appear to me. My grandmother could reach out to others, but I have ne’er tried. I see and hear quite enough.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I realize ye find this amusing—”

“Why shouldnae I? ’Tis naught but a jest.”

“’Tis no jest. Did ye not just see what happened in here?”

“Aye, and I mean to learn how ye played that trick. If ye think to afrighten me, it willnae work.”

“To what purpose should I wish to afrighten you?”

“Who can understand the workings of a woman’s mind?”

“Opinions such as that could cause ye a great deal of trouble at Dunweare, sir.”

“And ideas such as yours can cause ye a great deal of trouble.”

Suddenly Ruari was angry and, to his astonishment, afraid for her. He reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her close. Her closeness proved a distraction. He became intensely aware of her clean scent, the touch of lavender that wafted from her hair and clothes. Her thick, dark braid rested on his chest, and he could all too easily envision it undone, its silken waves caressing his skin. When he realized he was staring at her full mouth, hungering for a taste of her lips, he forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He could not believe she was mad or simpleminded, so she had to be suffering delusions bred of her kinsmen’s wild tales. It was time someone made her aware of how lethal such delusions could be in a land rife with superstition.

“I am fully aware that my gifts are not widely accepted,” Sorcha murmured.

“Not widely accepted? Such a gentle way of speaking, especially from a lass who has proven to have a sharp, stinging tongue. Such ideas can get ye killed, ye fool lass. Ye speak of things people dinnae understand, things people fear. Such tales can raise talk of the devil, and ye must ken what dire fate that can bring.”

“Aye—death.”

“Then why babble on so?”

“I dinnae babble and I rarely speak of these things. I but felt ye deserved the truth since ye are caught up in our trouble through no choice of your own. And I think seeing ghosties isnae truly something that would rouse people’s fears to a deadly height. It does make them uneasy. That can stir up some verra dark gossip and much unpleasantness.”

“Then cease talking such muck.”

“’Tisnae muck, sir. ’Tis the simple truth. I cannae change that. I am what I am.”

Ruari stared into her huge brown eyes. He saw no glint of madness or amusement that would prove she was playing some jest. The girl truly believed what she said. After what had just happened, he discovered there was a part of him that believed her and he swiftly subdued it. He had often heard of those who could peer into the shadows so many people feared and see what lurked there, but he had always scoffed at such tales. Ruari sternly refused to relinquish his skepticism.

He grew strongly aware of how alluring her small, heart-shaped face was and allowed that fascination to take hold. Being tempted by Sorcha was preferable to hearing her speak of ghosts and ill spirits. He decided the wisest thing to do was to ignore her talk, neither to ridicule nor accept it. He wished she was as easily ignored.

“Mayhap ye think ye speak to the spirits because ye are lonely,” he said, his voice quiet and soft as he moved his hand just enough to stroke her thick braid.

“Lonely? Dunweare swarms with my kinsmen.”

Sorcha found herself all too aware of their closeness, but she was unable to pull away. Her gaze was fixed upon his mouth, each movement of his lips causing her pulse to race. Men were scarce at Dunweare, and thus far she had escaped all knowledge of how tempting some of them could be, both physically and emotionally. She heartily wished she had remained so blissfully ignorant. Ruari Kerr’s allure reached so deeply inside of her it was frightening.

“Ye are lonely for a mon, sweet Sorcha. How old are ye?”

“Twenty,” she whispered, knowing she was being seduced by the soft caress of his deep, rich voice, but unable to fight him.

“Long past marrying age. Mayhap, my bonny brown lass, ye are pining so for a mon ye have conjured one up in your mind.”

“And ye claim that I speak nonsense,” she muttered, but her brief flash of irritation was swiftly smoothed away by his sudden smile. The man looked so good when he smiled Sorcha was sure it was a sin.

“Lasses can grow as lonely as any mon. Your wee cousin Euphemia is proof of that.”

“My wee cousin needs a sound cuff offside her empty little head.”

“And what do ye need, Sorcha Hay?” Moving carefully to avoid any pain, he reached up to follow the fine lines of her face with his fingers. “Ye need something. I can see it in your eyes. They are huge, dark pools of longing.”

It was hard for Sorcha to subdue a blush. The man saw too much. She prayed he did not see that her longing was not for just any man, but for him alone. The intense feelings swirling inside of her were exciting, frightening, and confusing. His touch, the way his lightly callused fingers moved over her face, made her want to lean closer and pull away at the same time. She was indeed filled with longing, but it pulled her two ways. She ached to find out just how good Ruari Kerr could make her feel, but she also longed to flee from him, to forget him and all the new confusing emotions he stirred up.

“I need ye to release me ere I reopen a few of your wounds,” she said, but knew her threat lacked strength. Her voice was low and husky, robbed of the steel needed to relay a warning.

“Nay, I think ye but try to flee from what ye truly need. Ye hide in tales and imagination, locked away from the touch of a mon.” He threaded his fingers into her thick, soft hair and tugged her mouth down to his. “Ye need the heat of passion in your blood to burn away all the delusions besetting ye.”

Before Sorcha could reply to his arrogant statement, he brushed his lips across hers. All thought fled from her mind. She doubted she could put two sensible words together upon pain of death. A shudder tore through her when he gently nibbled at her mouth. She put her palms upon the bed to push herself away from him but lacked the strength to complete the move.

“Ye are a strange lass,” he whispered as he teased her lips with small kisses. “Boyish in some ways, quite mad in others, yet thoroughly tempting. Enough play, I think,” he growled and kissed her.

Sorcha uttered a soft, low moan as he ceased his teasing and began to kiss her thoroughly. She greedily opened her mouth when he prodded her lips with his tongue. The slow, heated strokes of his tongue inside her mouth caused her to tremble from the strength of the desire racing through her.

Suddenly Sorcha panicked. She tore her mouth from his, stared at him in open-mouthed shock for a moment, then scrambled off the bed. Without another word, she fled the room. Ruari Kerr had certainly shown her how good he could make her feel. If one small kiss could so enflame her, she was not sure she wanted to discover any more. Even as she ran away, however, she fought the urge to return to him, to his kisses and his touch.

Ruari eyed the door closing behind Sorcha with speculation. He idly touched his lips, still warm and damp from their kiss. He savored how her sweet taste lingered on his tongue. Sorcha Hay was all that he considered unsuitable in a bride, despite her good birth, and he had a few hard questions concerning her sanity. It had been a long time, however, since any woman had fired his blood with one short kiss the way Sorcha did. He decided his stay at Dunweare could prove to have some benefits.