Warriors: The Rose and The Warrior Part 22

Roarke hesitated, uncertain how to respond.

"I packed you some extra food for your journey," said Gillian, shyly stepping forward to hand Eric a cloth-wrapped bundle. "I thought you might get hungry."

Eric regarded the carefully arranged package in surprise.

"You didn't by chance pack us some of your splendid posset, did you?" teased Donald.

"No," said Gillian, her gaze fast upon Eric. "But I shall always keep some ready-in case you ever return."

Her blue eyes were glittering like a sun-dappled loch, so beautiful and so filled with regret that it made Eric's heart ache to look upon her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, to tell her not to be sad, that if she wanted him to stay he gladly would, if only she would say the words. But duty required him to follow Roarke, and an unfamiliar sense of propriety told him it was not fitting to drag a maid into his arms before her entire clan, especially when he had no formal claim upon her. And so he simply held her gaze, feeling not at all like a fearsome Viking warrior, but strangely powerless and wholly inadequate.

"Well, then, my brave hero, it seems this is farewell," said Katie, walking boldly up to Myles. "Now, I'll have your word that you'll not be turning any other la.s.ses' heads with your flowery talk about hips and arms," she scolded with mock severity.

"I'll not be speaking to any other la.s.ses at all," Myles swore.

Katie laughed. "That's just what I wanted to hear, never mind that you won't be able to keep your word beyond the first la.s.s who smiles your way after me!"

"La.s.ses never smile at me," replied Myles. "Only you do."

She was about to laugh again, but was stopped by the earnestness of his expression. "Well, then, they're fools," she said softly. She leaned into him and kissed him soundly upon his cheek.

"Good Lord, what the devil has possessed Melantha?" demanded Magnus in astonishment.

She was hurrying across the gra.s.s in her bare feet, her slender form barely covered by the thin chemise floating about her, the plaid under which she and Roarke had lain together clutched hastily around her shoulders. Her hair was a loose tangle of mahogany, and Roarke found himself longing to reach out and touch it, to run his fingers through its impossible softness and gently brush it off her face.

Instead he forced his hands to his sides and regarded her with deliberate calm, giving no intimation of the pa.s.sion that had raged between them the previous night.

"Here, now, la.s.s, what in the name of St. Cuthbert do ye think ye're doin' flyin' about half-naked when ye should be lyin'in yer bed restin'?" demanded Magnus sternly.

"I-I came to say good-bye," stammered Melantha, staring at Roarke.

"Of course you did, dear," said Beatrice, "and now that you've done so, let's get you back inside where it's warm."

"Let her stay," objected Thor, wrestling his pipes back up onto his bony shoulder. "I've another tune to play."

"Your pardon, Thor, but unfortunately there's no time for another of your tunes," Laird MacKillon said apologetically. "I do believe the weather is about to turn, and these lads must be on their way."

The early morning sky was choked with clouds and a sharp wind was rising, whipping Melantha's hair against her cheek as she clutched her makes.h.i.+ft cloak even tighter.

"I thought you told your clan three days," she said to Roarke, wondering if she sounded nearly as desperate as she felt.

" 'Tis best we go now," Roarke told her. "The longer we wait, the more time my clan has to grow angry and demand vengeance. The moment I return I will speak to Laird MacTier and stop him from sending any further forces."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. He was leaving to protect the welfare of her people.

Why then did she feel as if he were abandoning her?

"You are not safe until my men and I are gone, Melantha," Roarke added gently, sensing her distress. "You know that."

She inhaled a steadying breath, fighting to maintain some semblance of control as she stood before him. "You were supposed to deliver the Falcon to your laird," she pointed out. "How will you explain your failure to do so?"

Roarke shrugged. "Unfortunately, I never found him." He lowered his voice so that the MacTier prisoners could not hear him. "My people only know that the MacKillons captured us-they have no idea that the Falcon is one of them. I don't intend to enlighten them."

"But what if your laird sends you out once again to capture the Falcon?" she persisted.

"My days of leading such missions are over," he replied. "I intend to retire to the holding I have been promised as payment for a lifetime of service."

She could not contain her surprise. "Laird MacTier has built you a holding of your own?"

"He has not built it," Roarke corrected. "He has a number of properties subject to his control which require someone to protect and manage them. I am to be granted one of those estates."

Her expression hardened. "You mean homes that have been taken by force."

"It isn't what you think," Roarke countered. "These holdings have been acquired over many years, and they are stronger and more bountiful for being in our possession. The people who live there go about their lives just as they did before, secure in the knowledge that they are now protected by the entire force of the MacTier army."

"How very comforting," observed Melantha, her voice dripping scorn. "To be guarded by those who attacked you and stripped you of your freedom and possessions. I suppose the only reason your benevolent clan did not see fit to make such an arrangement with us was because they believed there was nothing of value left to protect."

"I cannot change what my clan did to your people, Melantha," he said, knowing it was beyond her ability to ever forgive him for that. "However, I am going to try to convince Laird MacTier to send your clan aid, to help replace that which you have lost."

A bitter laugh erupted from her chest. "Why would he want to help us?"

"Because I will tell him he should," Roarke replied. "If he refuses, then I give you my word that once I am settled, I will send your people provisions myself. All I ask of you is that you cease your raids on the MacTiers and their allies."

"Can you possibly believe that I will accept stolen provisions from an oppressed people?" she demanded, incredulous.

"Any estate I oversee will not be oppressed," Roarke said impatiently.

"They will have been terrorized into submission long before your arrival," she countered. "You will just continue to hold a sword over their heads, forcing them to obey you out of fear."

"Your pardon, Melantha, but are you almost finished bidding our guests farewell?" wondered Laird MacKillon. "I do believe the weather is about to turn for the worse."

Heavy drops of rain began to splat against them.

"Make way for my pipes!" shouted Thor, cuddling his beloved instrument in his arms as he headed back toward the castle. "Stand aside, I say!"

"I am trying to help your people, Melantha," persisted Roarke, disliking the way things were ending between them. "Why can you not accept that?"

"I don't want provisions that have been stolen from others," Melantha informed him coldly. "If my people are in need, then we will take directly from those who have stolen from us-not from their victims."

The rain was falling harder now, soaking her hair and chemise. She pulled her plaid tighter and continued to face him, like some magnificent forest creature who was accustomed to the elements and wholly untroubled by the storm rising around her.

"If you don't mind, lads, I'll be saying farewell now," said Laird MacKillon, waving as he shuffled toward the keep. "Safe journey."

"It is gettin' a wee bit damp," Magnus agreed. "Are ye lads sure ye don't want to wait until the rain is past?"

As he stared down at Melantha, Roarke was sorely tempted to use the rain as an excuse to stay. He had silently bid her farewell when he stole from her chamber early that morning-knowing as he did that if he lingered even a moment longer, he would take her into his arms and never leave her side again. He had hoped she would not waken until after he was gone. Yet he would not have relinquished for anything this moment of seeing her standing before him, rain drenched, angry, and filled with fire.

"We must leave now," he said.

"Well, then, I wish ye a fine journey," said Magnus. His blue eyes were twinkling with merriment as he warned, "Keep a sharp eye for outlaws-I hear the forest is filled with them!"

The rest of the clan quickly followed his example, waving at Roarke and his men as they hurriedly escaped the torrent now las.h.i.+ng against them.

"I cannot tell you what to do, Melantha," said Roarke quietly. "But remember this-if you continue to wage war against the MacTiers, you will only be punished in return."

"What would you have me do?" she demanded. "Do you believe I should stand by and watch my people starve?"

"All I ask is that you give me a little time, Melantha. Whatever happens, I swear to you, I will not let you or your people suffer anymore."

He regarded her with piercing intensity, as if he were trying to reach into her soul, to delve beneath the protective layers she had so carefully forged around herself and etch his vow on her heart. In that moment she almost believed he could protect her from suffering, so strong and sure did he seem as he stood before her in the rain. Crystal drops were falling off his black hair, and his s.h.i.+rt and plaid were clinging to his muscular frame, emphasizing his powerful masculine beauty. She remembered lying within his embrace, wrapped within his heat and his strength, feeling almost safe. But she was not safe, she reminded herself fiercely. Her holding was still vulnerable, there was insufficient food and clothing to sustain her people through the coming winter, and even if Roarke refused to hunt down the Falcon himself, it was unlikely that Laird MacTier would abandon his pursuit of her. As for his offer to send aid, she did not believe MacTier could be persuaded to help his enemies, and she would never accept anything from Roarke's conquered holding.

"I do not believe your laird will help us," she told him. "And I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that my people have enough for the coming winter. It is no less than what you would do, Roarke, if it were your people who were threatened with starvation and cold because of the savagery and greed of another."

Her expression was resigned, as if she took no pleasure from her p.r.o.nouncement. She looked at him a final long moment, her pale face glistening with rain, her hands gripping the soaking wet plaid that could no longer offer her even the slightest protection.

Then she turned and disappeared into the castle.

"...and so I managed to convince Laird MacKillon to release us the next day, rather than keeping us for the three days he had originally proposed," Roarke finished.

Laird MacTier stared out the window, considering in pensive silence the explanation Roarke had offered him. He was not a man accustomed to defeat. Over the course of his thirty-two years as chief of the MacTiers he had learned a few basic rules of war, and he adhered to these with near religious fervor. He never attacked an enemy unless he was absolutely sure he had dispatched the power and the resources to vanquish it completely. Therefore he was having difficulty understanding why an army of over two hundred of his best warriors, equipped with the very latest design of siege machine, had been bested by the ragged remains of a clan he had all but annihilated some months earlier.

What was even more mystifying was the inconceivable a.s.sertion by his most favored and accomplished warrior that he should not bother to retaliate.

"Am I to understand that you do not seek vengeance for your own abduction?" demanded Laird MacTier, turning from the window.

"None of us were harmed," Roarke explained. "In fact, we were treated well."

"Until they put dirks to your throats and threatened to cut your heads off rather than release you," countered Laird MacTier dryly.

"Laird MacKillon was trying to stop your forces from using their siege machine."

Laird MacTier arched a querying brow. "My forces?"

"Our forces," Roarke quickly corrected.

"You cannot suggest that I should ignore the fact that four of my warriors were taken hostage by this ridiculous little clan. They chose to attempt to extract a ransom from me. They must be taught that I do not take such matters lightly."

"But ultimately no ransom was paid, therefore you did not lose anything," argued Roarke. "My men and I are well, and all of the prisoners taken on the eve of the attack have been returned to you. It seems to me the matter has been resolved-what more is there to be gained by attacking the MacKillons once again?"

Laird MacTier frowned, unable to believe that Roarke could not see what was patently obvious. "I cannot tolerate having members of my clan taken hostage. To do so only invites further abductions."

"You refused to meet their demands. That made it clear that the MacTiers will not yield to those who attempt to extort from them. And you sent your army, demonstrating that you are willing to use force if necessary."

"I am willing to use force," Laird MacTier agreed. "And that is why I intend to crush those d.a.m.n MacKillons. 'Tis bad enough I have the Falcon's band stealing from me and sending my men home stark naked. No doubt that is what made the MacKillons think you were easy prey. I must make an example of them, to dissuade others from attempting further attacks."

"The MacKillons never would have ransomed us if they hadn't been in desperate need of the items they requested."

"I cannot think of any clan that isn't in desperate need of gold," retorted Laird MacTier.

"The gold was of far less import to them than their requests for food and clothing," Roarke objected. "After our a.s.sault upon them, they were left nearly dest.i.tute. Their stores for winter were stolen, and every one of their animals was either dragged off or slain and left to rot."

"They had an entire forest of food waiting for them," said Laird MacTier dismissively. "All they had to do was go out and hunt for it."

"That might have been true if they had been attacked in the spring," conceded Roarke. "But they were raided in the autumn and then they suffered one of the worst winters in their clan's history. Most of the animals either starved to death or left the woods in search of food themselves. There was not nearly enough meat to sustain the clan, and scarcely any grains or vegetables left to make up the difference."

Laird MacTier looked at Roarke in astonishment. "What the devil is the matter with you, Roarke? You've raided scores of clans just like the MacKillons, and not once have you ever expressed any concern about their welfare."

He was right, Roarke realized, taking no pride in the observation.

"I never spent any time with any of the clans I raided. With the MacKillons I was forced to witness the consequences of our a.s.sault."

"That is the nature of war," said Laird MacTier impatiently, unmoved by Roarke's apparent enlightenment. "There is a victor, and there are the vanquished. We must constantly work to increase our strength and resources, and that comes at a cost to others. Ultimately, all that matters is that we have fortified the power of our own clan. We are not responsible for the vulnerability of those who cannot defend themselves against us."

"We may not be responsible for their inability to defeat us," conceded Roarke, "but we are certainly responsible if we reduce them to a state in which they are left to starve."

Laird MacTier regarded him with irritation. "You cannot make me believe that every last one of them would starve. Somehow, a few strong members of the clan would find a way to survive. These ones might even try to help the others."

"You're right," agreed Roarke. "And if surviving meant ransoming a few MacTier warriors in exchange for food and clothing, how can you fault them for that?"

"Your capacity for absolution in this matter is most unlike you, Roarke," Laird MacTier observed.

"I would like to believe that I am not so hardened a warrior that I cannot learn to empathize with the plight of others. All I'm asking is that you consider the circ.u.mstances which forced the MacKillons to ransom us-circ.u.mstances which we inflicted upon them. All the MacTier prisoners were treated well and released unharmed. I cannot see the merit in punis.h.i.+ng the MacKillons further."

"Perhaps you are right," Laird MacTier allowed. "What of your hunt for the Falcon?" he asked, changing the subject. "Did you find anything that might prove valuable in leading us to him?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Laird MacTier's disappointment was obvious. "I suppose you were abducted early in your search. I have every faith that you will deliver this miserable outlaw to me shortly."

Roarke did not respond.

"You do intend to complete your mission?" It was a statement, not a question.

"I will resume my hunt for the Falcon if you wish it. However, I am not certain that I am the best warrior to find this elusive thief."

Laird MacTier regarded him in surprise. "Why not?"

"It is difficult for any warrior to recognize, much less admit, that he is reaching the end of his days as a fighter," he began, choosing his words carefully. "But when he lies upon the ground and dreams only of a soft bed beneath him and a solid roof over his head, he begins to realize that he is not the young man he used to be."

Laird MacTier raised his hand, stopping him. "You need explain no further, my friend. When you first returned from your long years away I told you that you would soon be rewarded for your outstanding loyalty. I am well aware that you have devoted your entire life to expanding the wealth and influence of this clan. Your countless successes over the years have been unmatched by any of my other warriors-yet your remarkable talents and devotion have denied you the comfort of a wife and a home."

"I had Muriel and Clementina," Roarke reminded him, unwilling to let their memory be so casually discarded.

"Of course," Laird MacTier hastily agreed. "And I know it was most painful for you to lose them while you were away fighting for your clan. At the time there was nothing I could do except send you off to fight again, in the hopes that the demands of battle and the glory of conquest would somehow ease the burden of their loss."

Roarke stiffened at his a.n.a.lysis. Laird MacTier made it sound as though inflicting misery and death on others had been a balm for his own suffering.

"There is a handsome estate about two days' ride from here that I recently acquired," Laird MacTier continued, seating himself at his ornately carved desk. "The lands are not extensive, but they are comely and fertile, and the people there should prove easily manageable under the right master. I am sure you will find it most agreeable. You may leave tomorrow."