Page 35 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

He swallowed with a vicious clearing of the throat. Four and ten…the age he’d been when he’d returned from France. He wasn’t talking about landing on MacNicol’s shore anymore. His uncle had taught him to sail at that age, too. Necessity, whatever that meant, had warranted it. Something had happened at that age. Something he didn’t like to talk about. Something she sensed was far more nefarious than anyone knew.

“We decided, if the world was going to scorn us and put us under their blade, when we knew nay of their reasons why, we’d turn the battle scars into something we were proud of. He was an incredible artist. Owe studied among the finest painters in Paris. He designed my first tattoo, and cut it into my skin for me.”

“It must have hurt,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “I welcomed the pain. It reminded me I was still breathing. Our life in Europe was over. But his art and my writing, it sustained us. Our maman—” Again, he cut himself off.

His what? “Writing?” Is that what he’d been about to say before he’d mentioned his mother? He did speak in poetry. No wonder his apparent love of literature. “Is that what ye studied?”

He nodded.

“Ye made them into art. And yer body into a canvas.” Her finger kept swirling contemplatively upon his side as his heart drummed steadily in her ear.

“A cartography of what we’d survived. Owen was my best friend, too, lass, as Marjorie was yers. With his death, I lost everything. With him went the last of my bloodline, and a laird without a bloodline isna’ worth much. With mine vanquished save me and G—”

Chapter Nine

Shite.

He was out of line. And yet, Tormund felt her gentle finger swirl upon his ribs, her arm holding him.

“I’m listening, Torm,” she whispered. “Ye and Ghost?”

She wanted to know. But how could he tell her? That excitement in her voice when she’d spoken of the Blackfriars in Inverness, as if prying at the lid he kept locked upon the vault of memories within, that longing when she’d spoken of a wee James being hated simply for who he was—a sentiment Tormund knew all too well—and children of her own she hoped to have. The fear he felt brewing that in nine months his angel could bear his, and how much he realized he wanted such a simple joy when he knew he could never have it openly, then that kick to the teeth about wishing Marjorie’d had a babe…

Would she feel betrayed to learn the truth? Would she understand why he’d kept such a secret from the world? Or mayhap she’d be elated. She’d make a fine mither any man would be proud to call his woman. The fierceness in her voice at how she’d defend her own bairns had resonated deeply within him. Mayhap he and Brighde could forge together what his brother had been unable to do. Only if I can keep her a secret from my enemies, spoke the devil upon his shoulder.

The tiny spark of hope banked, leaving familiar deadness in its place.

He breathed her lavender and quelled the jumping in his muscles so he might bask in her touch, let himself think of France, truly think on the life he’d once had there. A different world and time that had ended so violently and had set him on his life’s course.

Any woman of his would wear a target on her back. Until now, he’d never entertained the idea. He couldn’t let a bond form with Brighde. Needed to cut her loose from the roots he felt her trying to plant in his skin. Tonight was meant to be a goodbye. So why the hell was he jesting about sailing away for a year and thinking on forever?

“With Owe’s death, all was forfeit,” he added with finality.

Her swirling finger stopped. “Forfeit…” His brow knitted and he looked down at her, at the pensiveness capturing her brow.

The night had grown far too serious.

He hoisted her atop him, grinning as she cried out in surprise and gripped his shoulders, her heavy plait snaking off her shoulder and thumping him hard aside the head like a soft blond flail mace. Looking into her eyes, the stars beyond, and her bodice lacings still dangling loose and forgotten from within her enemy tartan, bedecked in his lavender posy like the finest brooch, something gripped him. Something he didn’t have a name for but felt an awful lot like fear and an unbearable urge to damn the consequences and claim what he didn’t deserve. An unbearable unease to send her away, sever this connection, so it might protect her the way Marjorie hadn’t been so fortunate.

Fear? He was so numbed to fear, knowing he was going to die someday and it would likely be a violent death at that; everything else merely felt like practice leading up to the finale. But she’d said he feared after the race, and he was beginning to think she might be right.

It was fear. Fear that he could fall for a lass like her. Fear she’d learn the truth. Fear that his secrets would pour out and he’d be unable to stop them. Fear she’d suffer the consequences for loving a MacLeod, like Marjorie had. Like his mother had. Feeling compelled to cut open his scars and finally let the toxic blood flow should alarm him. A lass who, even if he could somehow convince James to risk a second sister on a MacLeod, would be widowed soon enough if she wasn’t caught in the crossfire first. And what if he’d sown a bairn on her already? He’d abandon them both just as Owen and Marjorie had left—

“Torm,” she gasped, feeling his arousal as he nudged beneath her, her thighs splayed around him, for no amount of dark thoughts could quell his body’s desire.

She grinned down at him, a goddess looming over him, and he grinned back, belying the tumult in his heart. Brighde meant fire goddess, just how he’d found her, dancing around the bonfire. Wrapping his fist in her braid, he tugged her down to him.

“Since we both wish for the same boon, why no’ declare me the winner so we can have what we want.”

She laughed. “Declare ye the winner? Until ye destroyed our board, I believe I was close to ferrying my king to freedom.”

“And I had him pinned on two sides.”

“Except ye needed four sides pinned, man. It’s clear ye ruined the game to sabotage yer loss.”

“Then ye’ll have to taunt me with a new challenge.” He nudged his hips beneath her. Ye’ll have to see me again. So much for one more taste and goodbye.