Page 7 of Echoes of a Forgotten Warrior (A Highland Ruse of Love #2)

6

“S tay with me,” Blaire whispered. “I want to wake up with you in my arms. You must keep me warm in every way tonight, James.”

“I want to wake up in your arms too, Blaire,” he told her, thinking of his small, mean room at the blacksmith’s shop, “but this bed is far too small.”

They looked at each other and laughed, then eventually decided to pull the mattress off the bed and the cushions from the couch. They laid them on the carpet in front of the fire, which James lit quickly with the ease of long practice. Again, they snuggled in together.

James could not imagine ever feeling so happy. A peace that he had not felt for ages settled over him like a soft, warm blanket as he wrapped his arms more tightly around Blaire. Watching her sleep was such a beautiful experience. There was no passion now; all he could feel was the warmth of satisfaction and love, and the softness of Blaire’s womanly body.

He could hardly believe what had just happened. They had been so close to putting aside all their inhibitions, throwing caution to the wind and making passionate love. It would have been glorious, but both of them knew that it could not happen yet: the time was not yet right. James closed his eyes and sighed with contentment.

“You are my whole world,” he whispered, and at that moment Blaire stirred and smiled, almost as if she had heard him. James planted a soft kiss on her forehead, then closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh. He breathed in the indefinable musk of Blaire’s body, a smell that was infinitely arousing when the moment called for it, and soothing when it did not, like now.

After staring at her for too long, he fell asleep, and this time there were no more nightmares. Instead, he saw a soft mist, and out of it came the figure of a beautiful woman whose face he could not see because it was covered in a veil. James remembered nothing else till morning, and it was one of the best night’s sleep he had ever had.

B LAIRE HAD GONE TO SLEEP, hoping against hope that she would not be disturbed during the night. She had never slept in the arms of a man before and found it comforting in the extreme. Her head was pillowed in the nook between James’s shoulder and neck, and she could feel his chest rising and falling, the soft sound of his breathing, and the occasional murmur as he talked in his sleep. What was he talking about, she wondered?

Blaire was dreaming that she was looking at James across a wide river. He was standing on the far side and there was a boat near him, close enough for him to reach out and pull it towards him.

“James!” she called. “Get into the boat. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

However, he seemed scared, and in the end he turned away from it and disappeared into the woods behind him.

In her dream, Blaire felt frustrated in the extreme, but she told herself not to be so hard on him. He was a damaged man, after all.

She woke up a few hours later, and for a moment, she did not realise where she was, but as she heard the soft sound of breathing behind her and felt a heavy hand resting on her waist, Blaire remembered what had happened the evening before.

Her body thrilled at the memory and she smiled. She could not believe what had come over her; why had she behaved in such a wanton way? What power did James have over her? She tentatively removed his hand and turned to face him, and as she looked at his sleeping face, she knew what had made her almost give herself to him.

James was beautiful inside and out, and whatever spirit lived inside him called out to the one that lived in her. Blaire studied his face while she had the opportunity; in a moment he would wake up and take his leave.

In the early morning, the first signs of his dark beard were beginning to appear in the shape of a dusting of tiny bristles whose blackness made his chin appear almost blue. His dark brows were heavy and described the shape of a bird’s wing, and his eyelashes were long and dark, casting shadows on his high, angled cheekbones. Blaire stroked the long shiny black hair that was spread out on the pillow, and it felt like silk under her fingers.

She studied the full lips that had kissed her so tenderly only a few hours before, and she longed for more of those kisses. She knew that they would have to rise to face the working day again soon, however.

Blaire was still studying James when his eyes opened and looked straight into hers. For a moment she was mesmerised by their icy brightness, then he smiled and said, “Good morning.” His voice was still husky from sleep, but it was all the more alluring for that.

“Good morning,” Blaire replied. “How did you sleep? No bad dreams?”

He shook his head. “How could I have nightmares when I’m lying next to you?” he asked, then pulled her head down for a tender kiss.

It was heavenly, Blaire thought. The way he caressed her lips with his own made her want to touch him the way she had done the night before, but if she did so, where would it end? She had things to do and people to see, and Rosina might drop in at any moment. Yet, she could not force herself to rise from bed; she was wearing her shift and James only had his breeches on.

James watched watched every one of Blaire’s graceful movements contentedly. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him—or at least he thought so, and he could not believe she was his.

I hope you are mine forever, he thought.

There would be a daughter with black hair and blue eyes, a son with curly brown hair and green eyes, and many more after that. The mere thought of having little ones of his own filled him with an airy sense of joy, but then he came back to the issue of his name and a lead weight dropped into his stomach.

Blaire cooked him porridge and warmed some ale for him. He looked sad, she thought, wondering if his mind had returned to the perennial problem of his identity. She tried to put herself in the same position, but could not. It was unimaginable, and she felt infinitely sorry for James.

She had given him a first name she had dreamed up, and his surname, Smith, had come from his profession as a blacksmith, but what kind of identity was that? Blaire tried to stop thinking about it, concentrating on feeding James.

It was wonderful to have a man in the house, she thought, especially a man like him. He seemed to be enjoying his porridge, even though it was the most plain and simple breakfast she could have cooked for him. It was one of the things she loved about him; he appreciated everything she did for him and never complained.

Unfortunately, he had to go, but Blaire knew that he would do his stint at the blacksmith’s shop first before going to see the Laird. Brian Lamont was a hard taskmaster who would squeeze every drop of sweat he could out of James, and would use any excuse he could to accuse him of laziness and dock his wages. Yet, that was only one of the reasons James went to labour for him. It was simply not in his nature to be a slacker, and whatever he did was always done to the best of his abilities—he knew no other way.

James finished his breakfast and moved over to kiss Blaire softly.

“Can I not change your mind?” she asked sadly.

James wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him. “No, but I will keep you informed of what’s happening,” he told her. He hugged her tightly and strode away, looking as though he could not wait to be out of her sight.

Leaving Blaire was one of the hardest things James had ever done, but he knew that the battlefield was where he had lost his memory, and if he was going to find it again it would be there. Perhaps seeing some of the enemy soldiers would make him remember at least something. He was beyond desperate now.

B LAIRE WAS NOT GOING to see the man she loved scythed down like an errant blade of grass; even the thought made her burn with fury at having to see the man she hated most again. Accordingly, she made her way to Rosskern Castle with the help of a local farmer, who kindly gave her a lift in his cart.

As she walked into the castle, her heart was beating so hard she could feel it thrumming in her ears, but she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, trying to look more confident than she felt.

Suddenly, two guards, who were both armed to the teeth, stepped in front of her. Blaire was terrified, but none of it showed on her face, which had acquired the rigidity of a clay mask.

“I am here to speak to the Laird,” she said firmly.

One of the guards, a big, hefty fellow who towered above Blaire by a good six inches, looked her up and down and asked in an insolent tone, “Is he expectin’ ye?”

“Is that any of your business?” Blaire countered, looking into the man’s dull grey

eyes with contempt.

“Aye, it is!” The guard was obviously furious. “I am here tae look after him, an’ I cannae let just anybody walk in here—I would lose my job. So tell me your name an’ your business, an’ I will have somebody let him know ye are here.”

“My name is Blaire Sutherland,” she answered, “and I am the only living daughter of the Laird.”

The guard’s eyes opened wide in shock, and he appeared to be about to say something scathing, then he noticed Blaire’s bright-green eyes and brown curly hair, which were exactly the same colour as the Laird’s. There were other similarities about them too, like their facial expressions, and suddenly the man realised that Blaire was telling the truth.

“Wait here,” he said gruffly, before turning and walking away.

Blaire became aware that she was suddenly the focus of most of the guards’ and servants’ attention. She stood still and fixed her eyes on a statue of a horse just behind the main entrance, refusing to be intimidated. How long she stood there she would never know, but it seemed as endless as an eternity.

Just as she was beginning to despair, the same guard came back again and glared at her. “Come wi’ me,” he said, his words laden with hostility.

Blaire had no idea where the man was taking her, but she followed him, hoping against hope that she was going to see Laird Sutherland, and was not being led into a trap.

She was led down a dark staircase and went into a long corridor that passed the kitchens and several storerooms where vegetables were kept. It was one of the most functional parts of the castle, but no one of any rank or supposed quality would be seen dead there.

Blaire was beginning to become more and more apprehensive the further on they went. She glanced behind herself nervously, but no one was following them. As they neared the end of the passage, the guard stopped abruptly, turned to his left and knocked on a battered wooden door.

“Enter!” replied a commanding male voice. The guard opened the door and stood aside to let Blaire into the room before closing it behind him. She stepped inside and found herself in a small square chamber furnished with only two chairs, a table and a small cupboard. The room smelled of damp, there were patches of mould on the walls and the floor was dirty. There was a small fire burning in the grate, which took off the worst of the chill in the mean little room.

However, none of this bothered Blaire as she met the hostile gaze of the eyes staring back at her, which were the same shade of green as her own. They belonged to a tall, lean man with thick wavy brown hair just beginning to turn grey, a high forehead and chiselled features which were just like Blaire’s. In fact, they bore a striking resemblance to each other, which was not at all surprising, since they were father and daughter.

They stared at each other for almost a full minute, but it was Laird Sutherland who looked away first. He turned towards the fire and held his hands out to warm them, then he looked back at Blaire.

“I wondered when you would show up,” he said sarcastically. “I thought it would be soon, and I was right because I have had a wealth of experience with people like you, Blaire. Am I right in supposing that you want something from me? If so, you can carry on wanting because you will get nothing from me. I have an extreme dislike for beggars. I despise them.”

Blaire felt for a moment that her iron self-control would snap, and she would lose all control and snap at this hateful creature as hard as she could, but not as hard as he deserved. She was boiling with anger and hatred, but once more she kept her emotions firmly in check by sheer willpower.

“I have not come to beg,” she replied, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have come to reason with you.”

“Have you now?” the Laird sneered. “Better men than you have tried and failed.”

“I am not a man,” Blaire replied, pointing out the obvious. “And I am your daughter, whether you acknowledge me or not. We have a blood tie, M’Laird. Does that not count for something? But even if it does not, surely you can see that all this bloodshed is unnecessary?

Men are losing their lives for this cause; women are losing their husbands, and children are losing their fathers. Would it not be better to sit down and parley with Laird Lovatt to stop any more blood being spilled? Surely, a few words with your supposed enemy is not too much to ask if it will save the lives of so many young men?”

Despite her resolve to stay calm, Blaire’s voice had become impassioned, and she found herself doing what she had sworn not to do—beg.

Laird Sutherland took full advantage of the pleading tone in his daughter’s voice.

“So you have not come to beg?” he sneered. “Instead you have come to plead, to implore, to beseech? Whatever word you use, they mean the same thing, and I will give the same answer in one word. No. No, I will not negotiate with Lovatt. His son Connor killed Katrina, my daughter, and he must pay for that. No one harms my family.”

Blaire knew that her father did not care one whit for herself or her half-sister, but she became desperate as she looked at the Laird’s stony, implacable face. She was unsure if the story of Connor killing Katrina was only a story, but even if it were true, there was still no reason to carry on the war. She was certain that a compromise could be reached.

“Must all the men of your clan give their lives for that reason?” she asked. “If you two will not talk to each other, then why not duel with each other? Is it not a matter of honour? There must be a better way of doing things than causing so much misery?”

“Then why does Lovatt not come to me?” Sutherland asked scathingly. “Or better still, send his son—the one who started this war in the first place? Why are you here anyway? Are you his emissary?”

Men and their pride! Blaire thought angrily. Aloud, she said, “No, I am not. I simply want to see peace in this place.”

“You are not the mistress of the castle or of these lands!” the Laird spat. “Who are you to make demands like this?”

“I am your daughter,” Blaire answered.

For better or worse, this was true, even though she hated her father with her whole being. He had seduced her mother, who had been Lady Sutherland’s lady’s maid, but had treated her with utter contempt after he learned she was pregnant.

He had thrown her out of Rosskern Castle to fend for herself, but, fortunately, she had been taken in by Rosina who, seeing the state she was in, had given her a roof over her head and trained her in the art of healing. When Blaire was born, she had accepted Rosina as a kind of aunt.

The Laird glared at Blaire, having no answer to her statement. He could not refute the fact that he had sired her because their resemblance to each other was too obvious. As green eyes stared into identical green eyes, the hatred between father and daughter was almost palpable.

“I cannot deny that,” the Laird acknowledged. “But if you ever declare this in front of anyone else, I will deny it and disown you. Now, I have wasted enough of my valuable time on you. Get out of my sight!”

He grabbed Blaire’s arm, wrenched the door open and shoved her outside. She stumbled and hit the opposite wall of the passage with her shoulder, but she was still on fire with rage and hardly felt the pain.

“Let me in! You coward!” Blaire yelled as she stood outside the room, fuming impotently. She banged the door with her fists and kicked it with such ferocity that the timbers shook, but it was sturdier than it looked and stood firm, causing her to eventually give up.

Blaire stood looking at the door for a while, trying to calm down. She hated herself for the fact that the monster inside the room was her father. She had done nothing to deserve his blood running through her veins.

Damn you to hell for all eternity! she thought viciously, then her sanity returned. She had failed to make him see reason this time, but there had to be another way, and if there was she would find it.