The Highlander's Forbidden Bride Read online

  “Looks like you’ll be sharing my bed a lot longer than you ever thought possible,” Carissa said, sitting up with a smile and a slow stretch.

  He wished he could strangle her right there and then, but that would make him like her, and he wasn’t anything like her. No matter how he had lived these past two years, he had not become a barbarian…at least he prayed he hadn’t.

  “While that is not an appealing thought,” he said, keeping his focus on rubbing the warmth back into his hands, “what is appealing about our forced cohabitation is that it will provide more than enough time for me to get answers from you.”

  “If you prefer talking to sex, that’s up to you.”

  “Have you no morals?” he asked with a vehement snarl.

  She sighed dramatically. “I forget I talk with a Highlander, honorable through and through.” She gave a shrewd laugh. “But I have heard stories that Highlander’s truly enjoy—”

  “Enough!” he shouted. “I will not degrade myself by resting between the legs of my enemy, or for that matter going where far too many men have been.”

  Carissa popped out of bed. “Too bad. You’re missing the enjoyment of your life.” And with that said, she yanked off her nightshift.

  Ronan stood speechless, staring while she took her time dressing. Damn but she was gorgeous. She had the most curvaceous body he had ever seen. And where he thought she’d have hard muscles from her noted and often used skill with a sword, her arms bore no trace of it. Rather, her arms appeared soft, her skin silky. Her slim legs were toned but not hardened, and her stomach not completely flat but with just enough of a curve to match the rest of her. No sculptor could ever do her body justice. She was perfection. The thought was like a shot of icy water in his face, and he quickly turned his head away.

  “Enjoyed the view?” She laughed, having finished dressing in a dark blue wool skirt and blouse and busy twisting her hair up to pin to the back of her head with an intricately carved bone comb.

  While her clothing was plain, down to her leather boots, she looked exceptional, as did her hair, a few strands breaking loose to add a carefree wickedness to her appearance.

  She was fast with her quips, and, unfortunately, he wasn’t. It took him a moment or two to evoke a wise response, which is why at times he preferred silence to be his answer. Silence oftentimes said more than words.

  “Too shy to admit it?” she taunted. “Well, I’m not. You are a splendid male specimen. It’s a shame you only let me look but not touch.”

  He cringed with gritted teeth as he rounded on her. “Do you forget how much I hate you?”

  “No, you have made that abundantly clear. But you don’t need to love or even like someone to couple with him,” she said.

  “I do,” he claimed adamantly.

  “Have it your way,” she said with a shrug, and pushed the rushes aside with her foot.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I’m going down into the root cellar to gather food staples so I can cook the morning meal since I’m starving.”

  “You know how to cook?” he asked, surprised, recalling that she had slaves who had done everything for her.

  “I can manage a simple meal,” she said, “but then you don’t have to eat my cooking if you do not want to.”

  His grumbling stomach answered for him, and she laughed as she yanked up the door in the floor. She turned and reached past him for a candle on the mantel, her soft wool sleeve whispering across his face, and he caught his breath.

  “Like my scent?” she asked softly, candle in hand.

  He quickly regained his senses. “What fool likes the smell of death?”

  After a lazy, sultry laugh, she said, “That isn’t death you smell, that’s my scent, and obviously you like it.”

  He dug his fingers into the edge of the mantel, angry with himself and swearing beneath his breath that he should be trapped here with an evil woman who would seduce her enemy to gain her freedom. He had to keep his wits about him and keep Carissa at a distance.

  Carissa sagged against one of the posts in the small cellar. She should be used to maintaining a farce; after all, she had done so since she’d been young, but she was so tired of being someone she wasn’t. However, she had played her part far too long and far too successfully to think anyone would believe otherwise of her. She was so good at her ruse that she often forgot who she truly was.

  And to have to play this game with Ronan tore at her heart, especially after hearing him claim that he preferred love to sex with a stranger. He hadn’t even hesitated or gone into a long explanation. He stated it simply and forcefully, letting her know he would have it no other way.

  How she wished he could love her with such intensity. She laughed to herself, the quiet rumble rippling down her throat. How did she ever allow herself to fall in love with him? As soon as the first stirring had occurred, she should have distanced herself from him, but she hadn’t. This was all her own fault, and now she was left with the consequences.

  Enemies didn’t forgive, and they certainly didn’t fall in love. She was amazed she had been able to fall in love at all, having been taught that love was for fools. Her father had warned her repeatedly that love destroyed. It caused empires to fall and brought nothing but madness to great leaders. He had insisted that she avoid it completely, and when the time was right, he would arrange a lucrative marriage for her. That was, after all, a daughter’s duty to her father.

  However, she discovered that love couldn’t be ruled, and it certainly couldn’t be ignored. But she also learned it could cause more pain than she ever imagined possible.

  How she would ever be able to survive time alone with Ronan and in such close quarters wasn’t a prospect she liked to imagine, unless of course it was under different circumstances. But with that not being the case, here she was, doing what she had to do, playing the coldhearted, self-centered daughter of Mordrac, in order to survive.

  As she collected the food staples, she repeatedly reminded herself not to stray from her role. Ronan had immediately questioned her cooking skills and rightly so, since that was the chore of slaves. But it was a slave who taught her the benefit of cooking. The old woman, Ula, had told her it was an art that could bring peace, pleasure, and control to her life. Carissa had thought her crazy, but Ula was far from mad; she was perceptive, wise, and grateful to Carissa for saving her.

  What else could she have done? If Carissa had not claimed the slave for her own use, her father’s cruelty would surely have seen the old woman dead in no time. So she had insisted she required the slave’s help, and her father relented.

  It was at night when she and Ula were alone that the old woman began to teach her how to bake bread and buns, apple buns being her favorite, and mix herbs to make tasty stews and meats. And she looked forward to every moment spent with the woman.

  Unfortunately, Carissa knew she was endangering Ula’s life by learning how to cook. Her father would be furious that his daughter was doing the work of a slave. And besides, Ula missed her village and her family, though she assumed all was lost after the barbarians attacked.

  Carissa made discreet inquires and found that Ula’s son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren had survived and had made it safely to another village. Carissa made arrangements for the woman’s escape and reunited her with her family.

  Ula shed tears when they bid each other goodbye, and as she hugged Carissa tightly, she told her that someday Carissa would shed tears once again, but they would be tears of joy, for goodness comes to those who are good.

  Carissa wanted to believe that, but it was difficult. Even more so when her father realized the slave was gone. He demanded to know what had happened to her and Carissa related a tale she knew would please her father and cause no more questions.

  She had told him that the old woman had died and, as the ground was frozen from the winter snow, Carissa had had the body tossed into the woods for the animals to feast on. As she expected, the s
tory delighted him. So much so that he gifted her with precious jewels.

  The question now was, did she dare take the chance and let her cooking skill be known? Or did she play ignorant and suffer through tasteless meals?

  She had been confined for so long, that she ached to break free and truly live, which if Ronan had his way, wouldn’t be for long.

  A rumble of laughter spilled from her. What a fool she was for loving a man who wanted her dead. But then, he didn’t know who she truly was, and she didn’t know if it would matter if he did. What a laughable state of affairs.

  “What are you laughing at?” Ronan yelled down to her.

  “The thought that I should want to bed the man who wishes me dead,” she called up to him, and that was the truth. She would love to know his touch, taste his kisses, and dare to be intimate with him, if only for a short time. But the crux of it was that she too would prefer being loved to bedding a stranger.

  “Hurry,” he urged. “The cold is drifting up here.”

  She hurriedly finished gathering the items she needed and climbed the ladder. Surprisingly, he leaned down to help her, taking several items out of her hand, then taking hold of her arm and assisting her out of the cellar.

  His hand was warm, his grip strong, though not hurtful. And when he was sure she was safe on her feet, he gently released her. It was a simple helping hand that meant so much more to her, for no one had ever helped her in such a manner.

  He placed the items he had taken from her on the table and went to sit in the rocking chair, his brow knitted tight.

  “Say what’s on your mind,” she challenged, while starting to mix ingredients for apple buns.

  “My thoughts are my own.”

  “We share tight quarters, nothing will be our own,” she said.

  “My thoughts remain my own, no matter how tight the quarters,” he insisted.

  “Then don’t wear them so blatantly on your face for me to see.”

  “Ignore them,” he ordered.

  “How can I ignore a sour expression?”

  “Don’t look at me.”

  “I like looking at you,” she said, staring directly at him. “You are a handsome man.”

  Ronan glared at her, his mouth set tight.

  “This is where you return the compliment,” she said with a chuckle.

  “You’re an ugly, coldhearted—”

  “Watch what comes out of your mouth, Highlander,” Carissa warned, “or I’ll make certain I cut out your tongue before I leave you for dead.”

  Ronan jumped up, sending the empty rocking chair rocking as he approached her. “Is that what you did to Hope? You warned her enough times that she spoke too much. Did you cut out her tongue?”

  He stopped mere inches in front of her, his green eyes glaring with anger.

  “Answer me,” he demanded.

  “No, I took mercy on the poor fool and killed her swiftly.”

  Chapter 8

  Ronan reacted without thinking, his hands went straight to Carissa’s neck, though they fell away quickly enough when he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar scent. He stumbled, bumping the table as he shook his head.

  Apples. Hope had forever smelled of apples.

  Her fruity scent had always followed her. It was how he knew when she had entered the stable pen where he had been held. It had always been a welcome relief from the constant stench.

  He glanced down and saw the dried apples in the bowl. Her scent brought back a rush of memories that pained his heart even more. And he wondered if somehow she had reached out in death and reminded him of a promise she had asked of him.

  Late at night, when all slept and the world seemed at peace, Hope would sneak into the stables and visit with him. She would bring him food to help him grow strong, though Mordrac had ordered the captors to be given but one meal a day. They would whisper, so as not to be heard by anyone.

  One night Hope had asked him to promise her something that he had had a difficult time doing, but she had pleaded with him and he, out of love, relented. She had asked that he not hold anger or hatred in his heart if fate should keep them from being together. After he promised, he did, however, teasingly tell her that he would hunt down fate and demand an explanation.

  She had laughed and snuggled beside him, and the scent of apples had filled his nostrils just as it did now.

  “Apples,” he whispered, and looked to see that Carissa was staring at him, and what he saw puzzled him. Fear was evident in her wide eyes and pale face, and never had he known her to fear anything.

  She seemed to regain her composure after a quick shake of her head, color flooding back into her cheeks, her blue eyes intent. “I’m making apple buns.”

  He noticed that her hands trembled slightly as she scooped up dried apples to chop into smaller pieces. She had been upset as much as he had, but then, the possibility of being choked to death would do that to anyone.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he snapped, more annoyed with himself for losing his temper and reacting as he had. He wanted her punished, but it would be a fair and fitting one.

  “I’ll manage.”

  His stomach grumbled.

  “It sounds like you’ll eat no matter the taste,” she said.

  “I’ve eaten slop to survive before; I can do it again,” he said, knowing she understood that it was she herself who had served it to him.

  “Then it will be like old times, won’t it?”

  “Not quite,” he reminded. “This time you’re my prisoner.”

  Ronan finally sat at the table having waited almost an hour for the food to be done. He didn’t care what it tasted like. He was starving, not having eaten since early yesterday morning.

  Carissa sat, leaving him to serve himself. He didn’t waste a minute. He spooned a good portion of creamy porridge into his bowl and helped himself to the largest apple bun drizzled with a honey-colored liquid. He poured himself cider that she had heated in the hearth and reminded himself that no matter the taste, he had to eat it. His strength depended on it.

  He took a mouthful of porridge, prepared to swallow in one gulp, until he realized how flavorful it tasted. And then he savored it and was anxious to eat more. After several spoonfuls, he tried the apple bun. It tasted so delicious that he devoured it in seconds. He continued to fill himself until the only food left was one last, small apple bun.

  “Finish it if you’d like,” Carissa said.

  Ronan grabbed it and with two bites it was gone. He sat back in the chair with a contented smile. “That was good.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” Carissa said.

  And he could see that she actually did. Her cheeks were rosy, her smile delightful, and her eyes bright.

  But he had to ask the obvious. “How does someone who has slaves doing everything for her learn to cook?”

  “I thought it best I be prepared in case circumstances should arise where I needed to tend to my own meals, and obviously it was a wise choice.”

  “Can you stitch as well?”

  “I am adept with a needle,” she admitted.

  “I have a shirt that needs mending,” he said with a grin.

  “I stitch flesh better than cloth,” she said bluntly.

  “Isn’t tending the wounded another chore for one of your slaves?”

  “Not when your father trusts no other hands to tend him.”

  “Your hands could not be tending him that long that he had no other to help. How many years are you? Eighteen at the most, and you needed time to learn, so that leaves you tending your father for—”

  “I am twenty years, and I have mended my father’s wounds since I’ve been seven.”

  Ronan leaned forward in the chair. “How is that possible? You could never be proficient with a needle at seven.”

  “If a needle was thrust in your hands when you were five years old, and your father commanded you to learn, you could.”

  “Your father did that to you?” he asked, as
if such a thing were incomprehensible.

  “It was my duty.”

  “You were five, your fingers tiny. And stitching cloth is different from stitching flesh,” he said.

  “I didn’t learn to stitch on cloth.”

  Ronan stared at her. “Are you saying that your father had you learning on wounded warriors?”

  “No, he wouldn’t be that cruel to his men,” she said. “He had me practice every day on dead warriors.”

  “What?” he asked, and shook his head, not believing what he had just heard. “You were only five.”

  “As my father constantly told me, I was not too young to learn. And it taught me another valuable lesson besides learning how to stitch.”

  “This I must know,” he said, “for I cannot imagine what a child of five can learn from stitching dead warriors.”

  Carissa raised her chin. “It taught me not to be afraid of death, for no one can hurt you anymore after you die.”

  She was letting him know that her death would only bring her peace. If she thought of death as an end to her suffering, then he certainly wasn’t punishing her, he was freeing her, and that truly disturbed him.

  However, it also disturbed him to learn what Mordrac had done to his five-year-old daughter. The image of her—so very young—stitching dead men was horrifying, and he couldn’t help but wonder what else the evil man had made his daughter endure.

  Carissa stood and reached for her cloak, hanging on the peg by the door.

  Ronan also stood. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out to collect some snow to clean the plates, then get rainwater from the barrel to start a stock for a hearty soup for later.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Don’t trust me?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

  “You’d have to be a fool to attempt an escape in this weather and with only a wool cloak to protect you.” He walked over to her and captured her chin with his fingers. “And if anything, Carissa, I know you’re no fool.”

  He draped his fur-lined cloak over his shoulders, grabbed the bucket near the door, and, taking a tight hold on the door, he opened it and stepped outside, closing it firmly behind him.