Flame

Chapter 11

11

The sky threatened to smother him, for there was no air in the gray fog.

It didn’t matter if it were night or day; he knew where he was. The rain was pouring down, and the dismal pall that surrounded him was thick and black with smoke from the heavy guns the English had used to pound their ranks to tattered heaps of broken bone and bleeding flesh.

He could taste his own blood in his mouth, the burning heat on his face.

Gavin tried to raise his head out of the mud. The smoke from the cannons enshrouded him, blinding him, but he knew he was back at Flodden Field, lying in the muck with the dying and the dead. Around him, a river of blood was pushing down the hillside, gathering up souls in its relentless current. Closing his eyes, he laid his head back down and waited for the flood to claim him.

His time had come. At last, his end was here.

The small hands, shoving hard at his shoulder, forced him out of his slumber. As his eyes opened a c***k, Gavin attempted to focus on the tumultuous scene of battle. But it had all disappeared, and he recognized his bedchamber. The wall of flames that surrounded his bed was not another dream. He awoke with a start.

The spirit-like creature was tugging ferociously at a burning bed curtain by his feet. With disbelieving eyes, Gavin watched as one of her hands swept back her wild golden mane from the leaping tongues of fire, as the other continued to fight furiously with the blazing material. Seemingly without fear, she reached through the flames and struck hard at his feet with a small bandaged fist.

“Awaken! Rouse yourself, for God’s sake!”

Her voice was no more than a desperate whisper. Gavin shook his head to try to clear it. His chest constricted, and he coughed, unable to take in a clear breath. The smoke was heavy and the fiery blaze was spreading to the top of the canopied bed.

The woman turned sharply at the sound of his cough. He watched in sudden horror as the flames caught at the hem of her skirts, spreading upward rapidly. Leaping from the bed, he grabbed at his cloak and wrapped it tightly around her, reaching down and smothering the flames on her dress with his hands. She struggled against him, pushing at his arms as she tried again to reach for the burning bed curtains. The giant warrior held her back until he was certain that she was no longer on fire.

Then, shoving her behind him, Gavin himself moved to the burning bed. Ripping down the curtains, he yanked off the canopy and threw them all onto the stone hearth. Pulling the bedclothes from the mattress, he spread them over the burning rushes on the floor and trampled out the flames.

The heavy smoke hung like a black cloud in the room, mixing with the sickening smell of burnt cloth and making it almost impossible to breathe. They were both coughing now, and, looking behind him, Gavin saw the woman turning away and throwing off the covering he’d wrapped around her. In the dim light of the chamber, her golden hair reflected the flickering light from the hearth, but there was little else he could see. Crossing the room, the laird roughly pulled open the shutters of the narrow windows, shutters that had been open when he’d retired. The night air rushed in, and as he turned back to her, the sounds of banging and shouting came from the outside of his door.

“The door is barred...he must be asleep...break it down...”

Her panic was as apparent as it was immediate. Gavin saw her bolt for the open panel by his bed. Racing across the chamber, he grabbed her by the arm before she could disappear again. She struggled hard in his arms, but he was not about to let her escape.

“M’lord! Gavin!” Edmund’s voice could be heard the loudest. “Break it down, I say. The fire is...”

“The fire is out. I’m coming,” Gavin shouted back as he dragged her roughly toward the door. But as he reached out to lift off the bar, she twisted herself in his arms and their eyes met.

He stared for a moment, stunned and unable to speak.

“Joanna?” he whispered finally, unconsciously loosening his hold on her.

She stared back at him with blue eyes as dark and as deep as the sky at dawn. But then, realizing she was free, she made another dash for the wall panel.

The shock that had coursed through him was dispelled in an instant, and Gavin reacted with the speed of lightning at her attempt to escape. Catching her by the wrist, he swung her around.

“Not so fast, my bonny bugbear.”

Again, the sound of his men’s impatient pounding drew his attention toward the door. She planted her feet and held back as he dragged her across the chamber.

“Coming,” he shouted. “There’s no need to rouse the entire household.”

“Please.” Her dark eyes pleaded. Desperation rang in her voice. “Don’t let them find me here. In the name of heaven, let me go.”

“But you’re alive,” he returned, his eyes drinking in the pale, flawless skin of her face; the unruly mane of golden hair; the full, unsmiling lips. “How in the devil’s name can you expect me to...?”

“I cannot be seen.” She coughed, tugging anxiously to free her wrist. “You did not see me here. I don’t exist.”

“You think me a fool? I am not letting you go—not until you explain what you have been doing for these many months.”

“I’ll...I’ll come back. I promise, I’ll come back and explain it all to you,” she vowed, glancing toward the panel again and pulling in that direction. “I just cannot allow them to know that I still live.”

“Who? Who cannot know that you’re alive?”

“Can you reach the door, m’lord?” the shout came from the corridor.

“I beg you, don’t let them find me.” She shook her head helplessly.

Gavin looked about the smoke-filled room. Lifting her struggling body, he carried her toward the door and dumped her unceremoniously on her feet beside the entry.

“Stay and do not move,” he growled threateningly as he quickly unbarred the heavy door, swinging it open wide and trapping the startled young woman behind it.

The astounded expressions on the faces of the men gathered in the hall greeted him. The steward Allan was carrying a torch. “Aye. What is it?” Gavin barked.

“Well...the smoke, m’lord.” Edmund’s eyes made a sweep of the room. “We smelled it, and then saw it coming from around your door.”

Gavin scowled out at the group of warriors crowding around the entrance. The smoke drifting past their heads from behind him was beginning to abate somewhat. “It’s over, lads. All is well. I must have knocked a wick lamp over with my hand. The fire is out. Now be on your way. All of you.”

None of them appeared ready to leave. They simply stood and stared at him, unwilling to return to the Great Hall if their leader needed them.

“Do you want a change of bedding, m’lord?” the steward asked.

Gavin glanced over his shoulder at the scorched bed and then back at Allan. “Nay, tomorrow will do well enough. There’s no reason to awaken your sister or anyone else at this hour.” He paused for a moment. “On second thought, I could use another wick lamp.”

With a quick nod, the steward handed the torch to Edmund and disappeared down the hall. Gavin glanced at his warriors again. “What are you waiting for, lads? Back to your rest. Away with you.”

All but Edmund and Peter moved reluctantly down the corridor at their laird’s command.

“Are you certain it was you who started the fire, m’lord?”

“Nay, I’m not certain how the blasted thing started,” Gavin answered. “But at this hour of the night, I’m not about to raise hell looking for ghosts.”

Peter stared at him with amazement. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough, m’lord? I mean, it’s not like you to be so...”

“I said that I’m fine, you scurvy baboon,” Gavin answered, glowering as Allan arrived with the wick lamp. “And now I intend to go back to bed. And nay, I don’t need either of you staying behind to tuck me in. Now, be off with you.”

Taking the lamp from the steward, he slammed the door in the faces of the three who continued to stand gaping in the corridor as if their master had grown a second head.

Joanna pressed the palms of her bandaged hands against the panel of the wall behind her and waited, fighting to stay calm in the face of her rising anxiety.

As the door banged shut, she glanced briefly at him as the giant once again dropped the bar in place. Then, fixing her gaze on the ruined bedding piled high in the hearth, she refused to turn and look in his direction.

Conscious of his gaze on her, Joanna turned her eyes upward to her own portrait—the youthful, laughing expression mocking the woman standing in rags against the wall. How long it seemed since she had sat for that painting. How long it seemed since she had been that young woman. The portrait amused him, perhaps. But how would this man react now that he was faced with the scarred, ravaged woman Joanna had become? The truth was far uglier than that fantasy of color and oil.

She shot a quick glance at him. The Lowlander was leaning comfortably against the door, his arms folded across his impossibly broad chest. In his hands, the wick lamp looked like a tiny toy. His dark eyes were roving over her. Well, he deserved that much, she thought. It isn’t everyday someone meets the dead.

“I couldn’t be certain you would still be standing here when I closed the door.”

“You thought me a ghost? A goblin?” Her voice was unsteady. “Some eldritch fiend that would steal off to hell when your back was to me?”

“I feared you were only a dream.”

It took incredible self-control not to turn and face him. “Some horrible nightmare, I would assume.”

“Nay, not a nightmare. But a recurring dream.”

Joanna quickly stole a look at his face. He seemed amused by her discomfort. “So, m’lord. You dream of being burned to cinders and rescued by spirits often?”

He shook his head. “Nay, not of burning. Now, of being rescued by spirits—that’s quite another thing. What man wouldn’t fancy being rescued by so bonny a phantom as the one standing before me now?”

Joanna couldn’t help either the sudden fever that she felt burning her cheeks or the intense heat that was suddenly spreading through her.

“Ah, you can blush,” he said quietly, nodding. “Apparitions do not have the blood for that, I believe.” A smile played over the corners of his mouth. “I am Gavin Kerr, mistress.”

There was not much that did not reach her ears. “The new laird. I know.”

“But do you also know that, since becoming laird of Ironcross Castle, dreaming of you has become a habit of mine?”

Now she couldn’t tear her eyes away from those dark mischievous eyes. She saw them lower and focus on her lips. She swallowed, stumbled, looking for the right words. “Must you...speak to me...?”

“What, lass? Speak of dreaming?”

“Nay.” She shook her head, daring herself and looking down to his bare chest. “Must you speak? You are...ah...you are undressed, m’lord. It’s a wee bit disconcerting.”

Holding the wick lamp out, Gavin straightened from the door and looked down at himself. “So I am.”

She averted her eyes, trying to look at anything else but him.

Gavin blew out the wick lamp and placed it in a wall sconce beside the door. “But then,” he continued, “the sight of my body surely can be of no consequence to you, considering the way you have been using my chamber nightly for your sport.”

“Sport?”

“Aye, for nightly hunting. Entertaining. Why, it has served you well even as a dinner hall. Do you deny it, my wandering spirit?”

“What makes you think it was me?” she challenged, glancing at his face. The diminished light made her a bit more comfortable, but only until he took a step closer to her.

“Has it not been you?” he asked, his eyes looking into hers in a way that swept away all vestiges of tranquility within her. She tried to look away again, but he reached out and took a hold of her chin, lifting it until their eyes once again locked. “Tell me, has it not been you who has, time after time, stolen her own portrait from under my nose.” His touch made her burn hotter than the fires she’d faced earlier in rescuing him.

“Well?” he asked again, his thumb resting gently on her cheek.

She shrugged her shoulder in response. She was too shaken by his closeness and his touch to attempt a coherent response. His skin was red gold in the flickering embers of firelight, and Joanna’s ability even to breathe had ceased.

As he dropped his hand and walked toward his bed, confusion wracked her brain. How could it be possible that an ache so much like disappointment plunged like a stake into her chest as he released her? She stared at him as he reached for his kilt on the floor by the great bed.

She couldn’t help looking at his broad, n***d back and hard, muscular buttocks. A tightness quickly gathered in her middle. He was incredibly tall and a powerfully built man. Marks from old wounds stood out white on his shoulders and arms, and she had seen a terrible jagged scar along his left ribs, just beneath his heart. But he was more stunningly perfect than any likeness of man she had ever seen in life or in paintings. She let her eyes travel down his lean, sinewy legs, watching the flex of muscles as he wrapped the kilt about his waist.

“I still cannot see the reason for your discomfort at my nakedness,” he said, without turning.

She jumped, startled at the feeling of being caught. As she stared, he unfastened his broadsword from a thick belt and dropped it on the bed before wrapping the brown leather strap around him.

Gavin turned and faced her. “I’ve lost track of how many times you have broken into this chamber, but you must have seen me in bed on numerous occasions. Is this not true?”

Embarrassed and angry with herself for being so bold, Joanna turned her face away, trying to cool the heat racing through her. “Once or twice,” she whispered.

“And then, of course, there was the time when you came in here to steal the portrait while I was dozing in the tub. I believe I was less than modestly attired at that time as well.”

“Hmm...I can only suppose that you were adequately attired for the situation, m’lord.” She tried to hide her smile. “Not that I noticed.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” he replied, folding his arms over his chest. “That you didn’t notice?”

“It matters little whether you do or not. But regarding the painting, I would hardly consider taking what is mine ‘stealing.’”

“You consider that portrait yours?” The laird smiled mischievously as his eyes raked over her. “Have you forgotten, Mistress Joanna, that you’ve been dead for well over half a year, now?”

“You might find me as ugly as a corpse just risen from the grave, but I assure you, I am not dead.”

“And I assure you, I would willingly die a thousand times over if I thought someone the likes of you would be keeping me company for all eternity.”

Joanna gaped at him. His eyes radiated heat. His expressions were surely empty words of flattery, but the look in his face continued to disconcert her. His eyes were black and flashing as they now fixed boldly on her face. She struggled for a moment to find her voice—and her composure. “As...as I was saying, I can assure you, m’lord, I am flesh and blood...and alive.”

“So I can see.”

Joanna almost wished he would stop staring at her. Was he blind? She was certainly no goddess descending to him from the heavens. But then his reaction to her was so much like a dream. So many times she had wished to be whole again. To be a fraction of what she had once been.

“Why you look at me this way?” she asked, returning his bold stare with one of her own.

“This way?” he asked with a half-smile. “I’ve only begun to feed my curiosity, and I have far to go before it’s satisfied. And as I can see, you have begun to do the same.”

Joanna jerked her gaze away. He had a point, and she knew it. It was all too obvious that she herself had allowed her eyes to feast openly on him. And watching him dress in this fashion! But she had never before felt the liquid fire that was coursing now through her veins. Standing there, gazing into the embers of a dying fire, Joanna realized now that she had somewhere, long ago, given up the expectation of such feelings.

“Where were we, lass?”

The mere sound of his voice shook her out of her wild reverie, and a sudden panic took hold of her.

“I’d better be on my way. It’s so late. Too late. You will sleep if I leave you be.” She looked up at him, unable to tear her eyes away from his hard face as he approached her. “You must certainly be tired. I shan’t take the painting again.”

Joanna couldn’t continue. The words withered on her lips, her breath caught up short as he came to a stop only a half-step away. All she could see was the span of his wide shoulders blocking her escape. She leaned her head back against the wall and stared up into his black eyes. A shiver coursed like a fever through her.

“You are not leaving.”

“It’s late, and you...”

“Haven’t even started yet.”

This was a dangerous man, and she knew she should be frightened, but somehow she wasn’t. “What do you mean by that? About not...”

The laird ignored her question, and she found his eyes slowly appraising her—from head to foot, and back again.

“What is it that you’re after?” she asked hoarsely.

He paused for a long moment. “Answers.”

“And that is all you...?” Joanna bit at her lip, embarrassment boiling beneath the skin of her face.

The laird’s full lips lifted in a smile at her impulsive utterance, and he reached up and framed her face with his large hands. His hands were stunningly cool on her skin, and Joanna’s eyes fixed on the dark curls that adorned the scarred musculature of his chest. A long moment passed, and suddenly she realized that she was wondering what it would be like to run her fingers through those curls, to feel them against her cheek.

“Well, lass. You’ve managed to read my mind. There are many questions that are nagging at me. But not one of them is interesting enough to break this spell you have cast on me.”

“I’m a ghost, m’lord, not a witch. There has been no spell cast here,” she said softly as his fingers made a sensual journey of the planes of her face. He was driving her mad. Joanna reached up and took hold of his wrist. “Your own imagination is driving you to this. It is simply a portrait that holds you.”

“So bonny you are, Joanna MacInnes,” he whispered. “So soft, just as I imagined you would be.”

“You are mistaken. I am not she, m’lord. That beauty sits over your hearth. But she is gone. I carry the scars of...”

“Hush.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly over hers. Joanna’s eyes flew open in shock, and she stared in awe as his lips hung a breath above hers. His dark, mysterious eyes drifted over her features, caressing her face. “You are beautiful...and real...and alive.”

Then, as if in a dream, Joanna moved her hands from behind her and wrapped them around his neck. With a passion that blinded her, she lifted her lips to his.