He captured the tear with his thumb, then brushed a tender kiss on her cheek where he had found it. "I did it for Matthew," he murmured, his voice rough. "And I did it for you," he added, grazing his lips across her other tearstained cheek. "And believe it or not, Melantha, I did it for me. Because somewhere deep inside this weary warrior's soul of mine, I like to believe I still know the difference between right and wrong." He held her by her shoulders and searched the glimmering depths of her eyes, knowing he had exposed a fragment of his soul to her, yet wanting to have this moment of honesty between them. "Do you find that so impossible to believe?"

His gaze was pleading, even tormented. The air hung frozen between them as he waited for her response. Yesterday it would have been easy for her to answer his question, for she had believed she knew exactly who and what he was. But that was before he had bravely dangled fifty feet above the ground, his body straining as he lunged toward the earth and pulled her beloved brother from certain death. In that moment he had shown himself for what he really was. A warrior who would risk everything for a child he barely knew.

Because he had a compa.s.sionate heart.

Her tears began to fall in hot, pain-filled streams. She bowed her head, vainly trying to hide her anguish from him.

Her distress cut him to the bone. He could only imagine the depths of her suffering, although he knew what it was to lose those one loved. But he had tried to escape the ruins of his domestic life, while Melantha had been forced to stay and a.s.sume responsibility for those left behind. Not only for her brothers but for everyone in her clan, whom she desperately tried to feed and clothe with every sc.r.a.p of cloth and morsel of food she procured as the Falcon. It was an awesome, daunting task, and one that she performed with steely courage and uncomplaining resolve. He was suddenly filled with a desire to tell her how fine she was, how brave and strong and rare. But he feared the words would sound meager and hollow coming from him. After all, he was a MacTier. If not for the actions of his clan, she would never have suffered the atrocities she and her people had endured. But for his people, her father would still be alive, her clan would be well fed and well clothed, and she would not bear the jagged scars of fear and deprivation and hatred. He had not been part of that fateful raid on her clan, but it did not matter, he realized harshly. He had lived his life as a warrior, and had raided and ruined countless lives as his legacy.

Self-loathing poured through him, making him feel sick.

"I'm sorry, Melantha," he murmured, releasing his hands from her shoulders. "Forgive me." He began to turn away.

Melantha thought she was falling, so acute was the sudden void swirling around her. She did not understand the emotions gripping her, except that she suddenly felt tiny and fragile and alone, and she couldn't bear it. She threw her arms around the solid expanse of Roarke's shoulders and buried her face into his chest, letting a sob escape her throat. Stay, she pleaded silently, feeling as if she were being crushed from within. Please stay.

Roarke froze, uncertain.

And then he closed his arms around her and ground his lips savagely against hers.

She did not fight him, but pushed herself even farther into his embrace, as if she wanted to be completely enveloped by his heat and strength. Roarke groaned and deepened his kiss, tasting the honey-sweet darkness of her mouth, inhaling the clean, sun-washed scent of her skin, feeling the willowy lean softness of her pressing against him. He tore his lips away to rain a trail of kisses upon her silky cheek, the delicate curve of her jaw, the cool column of her pale neck. His fingers found the laces at the top of her linen shirt and swiftly bared the creamy skin of her throat. A slender silver chain lay draped around her neck, bearing a small silver orb with a shimmering stone of deepest emerald. It surprised him to see that she secretly wore a pendant of such beauty, for it was not like Melantha to indulge in something so frivolous. He nuzzled his way beneath it, thinking it could not be of any value, for if it had she would certainly have sold it for food or blankets or weapons. His tongue drew hot, wet circles across the smooth silk of her while he opened her shirt even farther, until finally the pale swells of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were released into his hands. He grazed his rough jaw against their incredibly fine softness, reveling in the feel of something so lush against his weathered skin. Taking one coral-tipped bud into his mouth, he began to suckle.

Pleasure shot through Melantha in a fiery streak. She plunged her fingers into Roarke's black hair, holding him at her breast as liquid heat poured through her. He worshipped the taut peak of her breast with hungry reverence, then shifted his attention to the other, drawing it deep into the hot recesses of his mouth and sucking long and hard, until she felt she would melt from the exquisite sensations radiating through her. She was vaguely aware of Roarke freeing her shirt from her leggings as he continued to taste her, and then the rumpled fabric was skimming over her head and she was naked to the waist, with the dark fall of her hair caressing her bare skin in a silky veil. A long, pink scar snaked down her left arm from her shoulder to her elbow. Roarke paused to trace his finger along its ragged trail, feeling anger surge through him at the thought of anyone attempting to harm her. The injury was not old, perhaps two months at best, and had probably been inflicted during one of her raids as the Falcon. He dared not ask about it, for fear of shattering the bond between them, and so he simply caressed it, his manner void of judgment or pity. He had seen thousands of scars in his life, for no warrior could live for long without acquiring at least a few, but he was unaccustomed to seeing them on a woman. Dismissing this intrusive reminder of her life as an outlaw, Roarke cupped his hands around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pressed his face between them, inhaling deeply of her, and then he began to kiss the cool flesh beneath. His hands abandoned her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to learn the contours of her waist, her hips, her thighs, his touch insistent and possessive as his palms roamed over her. He fell to his knees so he could better revere the flat plane of her belly, grazing his lips across the milky skin, and then the soft wool of her leggings was peeled away and his face was pressed into the dark triangle between her thighs. Melantha gasped in horror and tried to push him away, but Roarke shackled her wrists in the powerful grip of his hands and bound them to her sides, pinning her helplessly against the wall as his tongue slid into her most intimate place.

Pure pleasure ignited inside Melantha, forbidden and frightening and wonderful, rendering her silent and still. Roarke tasted her lightly at first, his tongue flitting into the honeyed wetness of her in a teasing, rhythmic cadence. Melantha stood unmoving, no longer fighting him, but unable to release her breath or ease the rigid set of her body. And then Roarke drove his tongue into her with a searching stroke, and she cried out and fought to free her wrists. Roarke responded by tasting her deeply once more, gradually releasing his grip on her as he continued to lap at her slick heat. A low groan of masculine arousal rose from his chest as he felt her fingers thread urgently into his hair. In and out his tongue swirled, learning every intimate fold of her, tasting her and caressing her and exploring her. Melantha could not bear it an instant longer, she was certain of it, and yet she stood there and endured his shamefully exquisite caresses, feeling a dark excitement at the sight of him kneeling before her, pleasuring her with such carnal abandon.

A tight bud of intense sensation began to bloom within her, making her breaths come in shallow little pants and her flesh feel as if it were afire. Any inhibitions she might have had were overwhelmed by the swell of pleasure now pulsing within her. Roarke cupped her breast as he continued to devour her, holding her steady before him with nothing but the silvery web of throbbing need he had woven over her. Melantha opened her thighs slightly and held his head at her wet womanly heat, knowing he would surely think her wanton, and not caring, finding herself unable to care about anything except the sweet prison of rough, cool stones at her back and Roarke's mouth on her heated body and the silky feel of his hair in her hands as he forced her to breathe faster, shallower, harder, leaning into him and over him and focusing with fervent concentration on the exquisite sensations mounting throughout every fiber of her body. A dull ache was stretching within her, a previously unknown void buried deep inside, and a moan spilled from her lips. Roarke's finger eased into her as he continued to stroke her with his tongue, filling the aching hollow, stretching her and caressing her until she felt she would surely go mad from such magnificent torment. Her hands gripped his granite-hard shoulders, needing to hold on to him for support now, and small, desperate gasps escaped her throat. Suddenly the sensations within her melded into one, keen and shimmering and white hot, and Roarke tasted her with swift, hard caresses as he buried his finger inside her, until it was more than she could bear, and she felt herself begin to shatter in a golden burst of liquid fire. She strained against him, every muscle and bone in her body taut, and then she cried out and collapsed, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her head buried against the hard pounding of his chest.

Cradling her with one arm, Roarke swiftly unwrapped his plaid and dropped it in a rumpled pool upon the floor, then eased Melantha back against its warmth. An amber spill from the torch bathed her skin in apricot light, illuminating her pale beauty in velvety shadows. He stripped away her boots and fallen breeches and rapidly removed his own shirt and boots. Then he spread himself over her, his body hard and aching with need. Her creamy skin was like silk against him, still warm and flushed with desire. He wanted to bury himself within her, to lose himself to her softness and heat, but he knew she was inexperienced and would require gentle care. He inhaled a steadying breath, forcing himself to gain control. Melantha stared up at him, pa.s.sion still smoldering in the luminous depths of her eyes, smoky and profoundly stirring. He bent his head and kissed her with rough tenderness, wanting her to the point of madness. If he were able he would wash away the pain she had endured, would cleanse her mind of all she had witnessed that terrible night her beloved father had been slain, and all the suffering that had followed. But all he could offer her was the refuge of his touch, with the warmth of his plaid and the heat of his desire shielding her from the coolness of the torchlit pa.s.sage, and the unforgiving world that awaited them in the morning.

He kissed her deeply as his hands skimmed over her, rousing her sated flesh once more. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, then set her hands free to explore the marble contours of his chest and shoulders and back, lingering at the thick cord of scarred tissue upon his shoulder, and the ragged scar that had severed the muscles of his back. Her fingers felt soft against his ravaged body, but any soothing effect they might have had was eradicated by the incredibly erotic effect of her tentative touch. Roarke plundered her mouth as his fingers slipped into the hot slickness between her thighs, stroking and probing until she was rising against his caresses once more. Knowing she was ready he positioned himself between the slender columns of her legs and entered her, just a little, shackling his need to a wall of self-control, so determined was he not to hurt her. He kissed the wine-stained tip of her breast as her body adjusted to him, distracting her with his suckling, and when she sighed and arched her back he entered her farther, slowly, carefully, giving her the time she needed to open herself to him. It was agonizing to hold himself over her so, caught between ecstasy and torture, every muscle in his body straining for release. He turned his attention to her other breast, vaguely wondering if he were trying to divert himself more than her, feeling the taut thread of his control stretched to its limit as Melantha shifted restlessly against him, her hands still roving the sinewy contours of his shoulders and back. He withdrew slightly, fighting to regain his control. Melantha murmured a ragged protest and grabbed hold of his b.u.t.tocks, suddenly pulling him into her as she raised herself up to him, enveloping him in the hot, tight clasp of her magnificent body.

Roarke groaned, struggling with the incredible sensations surging through him. After a moment he raised his eyes to look at her. She seemed more startled than frightened, but her body had gone utterly rigid.

"Easy, Melantha," he murmured hoa.r.s.ely. "The discomfort will pa.s.s-I promise."

He bent his head and began to kiss the silky skin of her throat as his hand moved down to where they were now joined. He caressed her lightly while his lips found hers and tasted the ripe sweetness of her mouth. She sighed and opened her legs a little wider, releasing the tension that had gripped her a moment earlier. He began to move within her, slowly, gently, stroking her and kissing her as he made her his, whispering gentle words of praise and rea.s.surance as she began to pulse in rhythm with him. Over and over he sank himself into her, losing a little of himself with each aching thrust, trying to bind her to him as he filled her and covered her and worshipped her, and knowing it was futile. Melantha was strong and courageous and untamed, and she would never belong to anyone.

He kissed her fiercely, almost angrily, searching out the deepest secrets of her mouth, her silky cheek, the elegant curve of her neck, all the while burying himself into her again and again, holding her and tasting her and stroking her, wanting her to be his, not just in this pa.s.sion-filled moment but always. It was madness, he realized that, for there was no escaping who and what he was, and she would never forgive him for it. Deeper and deeper he drove into her, pleasure and despondency melding into one as her arms wrapped tightly around him and she rose to meet every stroke, soft little moans unfurling in her throat, her body holding him in its hot, wet embrace, until he no longer knew where he ended and she began. He wanted it never to end, wanted never to be separated from her, wanted never to leave the shadowed confines of this torchlit pa.s.sage. And suddenly he could feel himself slipping over the precipice of ecstasy, and he cried out, a cry of pleasure mingled with unbearable regret. He pushed himself into her as far as he could and kissed her fervently, spilling himself into her, losing the last vestiges of himself to the incredible beauty and heat of her, and feeling as if he were suddenly, irretrievably lost.

They lay together a long moment, their hearts pounding in frantic unison, their bodies still intimately joined. Melantha clung to Roarke tightly, unable to comprehend the vortex of emotions churning within her. She wanted Roarke to hold her and keep her safe, to whisper gentle, calming words into her ear and keep her warm beneath the muscled cover of his body. But shame was already gnawing at the pit of her, dousing her desire and rendering her cold. He was a MacTier warrior, part of the clan that had so brutally attacked her people and murdered her father. The fact that he might not have been part of that raid scarcely mattered-had he been ordered to be there, he would have enthusiastically taken part. And more, he had been sent by Laird MacTier to kill her band and capture her so that she could be executed before his people. For all she knew he still intended to do so, given the opportunity. She shifted and pushed against him, wanting his unbearable weight off her before she was crushed.

Roarke sensed the change in her instantly, even before her once-gentle hands shoved against his shoulders. Profound sadness seeped into him, stripping away the last of his desire. He wanted to talk to her, to somehow convince her that what had pa.s.sed between them was not wrong, or something she should regret. But it was already too late, he could see it in the dull glint of loathing in her eyes, could feel it in the angry stiffening of her body and the cooling of her flesh. Whatever madness had burned so brightly between them was now extinguished.

Feeling hollow and alone, he rolled off her and began to dress.

Melantha clumsily donned her shirt, leggings, and boots. Shame gripped her in a suffocating wave, eradicating the pleasure she had felt in Roarke's arms. She could not begin to imagine what darkness had possessed her to behave in such a thoroughly wanton manner. She had not only disgraced herself but she had dishonored the memory of her darling da, and all those other brave, fine men who had died while fighting Roarke's clan. She had vowed to spend the rest of her life hating all MacTiers to the depths of her being, and to doing whatever she could to punish them for destroying her life. This was what sustained her, this and her overwhelming devotion to her brothers and her people. By giving herself willingly to Roarke, she had shaken the foundation of hatred that nourished her. Appalled by her conduct, she forced herself to adopt an air of cool indifference in a desperate bid to restore some shred of formality between them.

Sorrow tore through Roarke as he watched Melantha struggle with her emotions.

"I presume you wish to escort me back to my dungeon?" he asked, his tone flat.

She nodded warily, uncertain what he intended to do next.

"Very well."

They walked together in awkward silence through the dim pa.s.sage, which suddenly seemed frigid and bleak. Gelfrid still snored comfortably by the door to the storeroom, blissfully unaware that one of his prisoners was missing. Melantha produced the key and nervously opened the door. Roarke did not know if their pa.s.sion had made her uneasy, or the very real possibility that he might suddenly take her prisoner and free his men, using her as a hostage to escape the confines of this castle. For a moment he seriously entertained the thought, feeling weary and longing for nothing other than to be home. But there were still a few more days of work to oversee, and although the MacKillons were making progress with their training, they were not ready to meet an invading force. Guilt and an innate sense of responsibility forced him to enter his chamber. He turned to face her before she could close the door.

"Melantha."

She raised her eyes to his. Uncertainty shimmered in their depths, uncertainty and confusion. And shame. She was fighting desperately to hide it from him, but he could see it, as clearly as if it were branded across the milky skin of her forehead. He longed to reach out to her, to brush the dark silk of her hair that had fallen against her cheek, to enfold her trembling form in his arms and draw her close, protecting her from the MacTiers and her memories and the torment that was punishing her so cruelly. Instead he remained where he was, knowing the wall between them had risen once again, and not having any idea how to scale it.

She did not belong to him, he reminded himself harshly. For one brief, magnificent moment she had, but now it was pa.s.sed. It had not been anything but a sweet, stolen illusion, as magnificent and ethereal as a wisp of snow that is hopelessly destined to melt against the ground, or else be crushed beneath the weight of the storm that follows.

"I'm sorry," he said helplessly, knowing it could not begin to ease her anguish.

She looked at him in surprise, as if she had expected him to say anything but that.

And then she bit her trembling lip and quickly closed the door, sealing the wall between them.

CHAPTER 7.

"A quick release and my arrow drove clean into the target, showing that with a sharp eye and uncommon skill, 'twas a shot that could be made," boasted Magnus proudly.

"Excellent work, Magnus," praised Laird MacKillon.

Hagar bobbed his balding head in agreement. "No wonder Melantha insists you be part of her band."

"A pity you were aiming for the bale of hay far to the left of the bucket at the time," muttered Thor sourly.

Magnus's white brow shot up in indignation. "I most certainly was not!"

"Then why had you told your men that was the target?" challenged Thor.

"That was their target," Magnus qualified. "But when ye've such keenly honed skills as mine, ye must challenge yerself, or else ye lose yer touch."

"And I suppose you were challenging yourself that day you nearly speared my foot to the ground?" Thor's voice was quivering with anger.

"Now, Thor, I've told ye time and again ye were in no danger," said Magnus. "I was aiming for a wee stone beside ye, and that's what I hit."

Thor gasped in outrage. "You said it was a leaf!"

Magnus shrugged. "The details aren't important."

"You can't remember because there was no leaf!" roared Thor. "And no one in their right mind would want to put a hole in a slops bucket!"

"Bea did complain about the mess it made," reflected Hagar.

"If Magnus says he was aiming for the slops bucket, then I'm sure he was," intervened Laird MacKillon. "After all, his exemplary skills as an archer have been proven time and again during his raids with the Falcon."

"In case ye've forgotten, I was the one who felled Roarke just as he was about to slay Melantha," Magnus reminded Thor. "Now, there's a shot to make ye choke on yer unsavory accusations!"

"Who in their right mind aims for a man's backside?" scoffed Thor. "You should have shot him through his greedy, shriveled MacTier heart, then plunged your dirk deep into his gut and hacked out his stinking bowels-"

"It worked, didn't it?" Magnus challenged.

"It certainly did," agreed Laird MacKillon, "and Roarke seems to be none the worse for it. Thor, why don't you tell us how your training is going with the MacTier Viking?" he suggested, changing the subject.

"I never met a more objectionable, impatient, arrogant know-it-all in my entire life," huffed Thor irritably.

"I have," Magnus muttered.

Thor's dark little eyes bulged in fury as he reached for his sword. "By G.o.d, Magnus, if it's a fight you're wanting-"

"Your pardon, gentlemen, but we've no time for this," objected Laird MacKillon. "We still haven't heard from Laird MacTier regarding our ransom demands, and the MacKenzies have refused to agree to an alliance until they receive payment in gold. As we don't know what the MacTiers plan to do next, it is essential that we be prepared for an attack. Are we?"

"Almost," said Magnus evasively.

"Shouldn't be much longer," added Thor.

Hagar looked at them in confusion. "How much longer?"

Magnus scratched his snowy head, considering. "A week," he decided. "Two at the very most."

"Two weeks may be fine for teaching a lad to pitch an arrow at a slops bucket," snorted Thor, "but to train him to wield a sword takes longer."

"Any b.u.mbling lout with an arm can wield a sword," Magnus challenged heatedly, "but to shoot well ye must learn to be one with the arrow-"

"And of course you were one with the arrow that nearly broke my b.l.o.o.d.y foot-"

"How much longer?" interrupted Laird MacKillon.

Thor thought for a moment, stroking the hilt of his weapon. "It takes a lifetime," he finally decided.

"I'm afraid we don't have that much time," fretted Hagar.

"Strange Laird MacTier hasn't answered our ransom message yet," mused Magnus. "Ye'd think he would have arranged to pay for the lads'return by now."

Hagar regarded him worriedly. "Do you think it's possible he doesn't want them back?"

"Of course he wants them back!" barked Thor. "Do you think great big chaps like that are easy to come by? Why, he must have spent a fortune just growing them to that size!"

"Then why doesn't he send a message saying he plans to pay the ransom?" wondered Laird MacKillon.

"Could be he's not botherin'with any missives, but is just sending the ransom to us directly," suggested Magnus.

"It would take time to organize all that food and clothing," reflected Hagar. "And don't forget, there are livestock and weapons involved as well, not to mention the gold."

"That would take some effort to arrange," agreed Laird MacKillon, steepling his aged fingers together. His wrinkled brow furrowed with concern. "But what if he decides he simply doesn't want the lads back?"

"Then we hack them to pieces where they stand!" declared Thor happily. "We take those mangled pieces and chop them into wee bits, and boil them over a fire to make a nice, thick stew!"

Hagar looked somewhat sickened by the prospect. "I really don't think I'm up to eating them."

"We can't kill them," protested Magnus.

"Why not?" demanded Thor.

"For one thing, it would start a war between us and the MacTiers, and that's a battle we've no chance of winning," Magnus pointed out.

"Of course we could!" Thor argued. "A few more weeks of training and our lads will be able to face any army in Scotland!"

Laird MacKillon's eyes widened in astonishment. "Really?"

"No," returned Magnus flatly.

"You're forgetting about our secret weapons," Thor said.

Hagar regarded him curiously. "What secret weapons?"

"The traps! Those MacTier chaps and Lewis have come up with some dandy ones!"

"The traps won't hold off an entire army," protested Magnus.

"Maybe not, but they can whittle it down to a size we can easily slay," Thor argued.

"It would have to be a very small army," retorted Magnus.

"But what if no one comes at all?" Hagar wondered. "Then what do we do with our prisoners?"

Thor huffed with impatience. "Are you not hearing well these days, Hagar? We've already agreed to make them into stew!"

"Your pardon, Thor, but we cannot kill them," said Laird MacKillon. "Not after they have been such pleasant, helpful company."

"I don't find that Viking pleasant at all," Thor objected.

"He didn't seem agreeable at first," allowed Hagar. "But I must say, after watching the poor fellow bravely down an entire jug of my daughter's posset without so much as wincing, I find I have had to reconsider my opinion of him."

Magnus slapped his thigh. "Now, that was a feat, to be sure," he said, chuckling. "Over the years I've developed a belly that can withstand the stuff, but I'd never want to drain an entire jug!"

"If we can't chop them up for stewing meat, then what are we to do with them?" demanded Thor.

Laird MacKillon sighed. "I suppose we would have to let them go."