Suzanne Barclay - Lion's Lady

Suddenly the lump was back in Rowena’s throat. Had she traded one thug for another? “Thank you, sir, I—I am in your debt. I do not know what would have happened had you not come.”

“I do, I am afraid. Georas MacPherson and his brother are old hands at picking on things that are small and fragile.”

Was that how he saw her? Defenseless? Vulnerable? She tried to step back, found the way blocked by the oak.

“Pray do not be alarmed.” He sheathed the sword and extended his large, lean hands, callused palms up. “You are quite safe with me, lass.”

A sense of déjà vu swept through her, taking her back to another time and another man—a lad, realty—who’d saved her from a band of bullies at a clan gathering. Lion Sutherland. Friend, lover, enemy. She stared at him, eyes aching as she tried to pierce the gloom. There was something in the timbre of his voice, in the way he held himself, so straight, assured and proud, that made her tremble. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He cocked his head, considering. A smile flashed briefly. “How remiss of me.” Sweeping off his helmet, he bowed low, courtier to lady. “I am Lionel Sutherland of Glenshee.”

“Sweet saints above.” Rowena swayed, praying for the ground to swallow her up. “It cannot be you.”

“Rowena?” He closed in on her, his hand warm and hard as it seized her chin and tilted it up. “Dieu. ’Tis you.” His grip tightened. “Bloody hell. If I’d known, I’d have run Georas and Dickie through for daring to touch you.” His thumb whisked over her jaw. “Are you all right?”

“Aye,” she murmured, dazed by the unexpected turn of events. It was horrible, yet thrilling to see him again, to stand so close after so long. His hair was shorter, the dark mane just brushing his shoulders, its red lights dulled by the gloom. Nothing could dampen the glow in those amber eyes, though, eyes that could freeze or burn. Eyes that studied her with searing intensity. Aye, he was still a magnificent man, with the body of a warrior and the face of a poet. A man other men followed into battle, a man women sighed over and burned over. She’d sighed and burned. Oh, how she’d burned.

Oh, how she’d grieved when it was over.

The memory of his leaving broke through her dazed state. Shivering with emotion, she tried to draw back.

“Shh. No need to fear, I’ve got you safe.” He drew her into his embrace. The feel of his arms was so familiar, so welcome after six long years of drought, that she shivered again. “Easy.” He stroked her back, as he’d done so often in the past, holding her as she drifted down from the heights of passion into blissful contentment.

Angered by her own weakness, she tried to twist free, but he held her fast. Clearly, whatever he’d been doing in France these six years had built up his strength, not depleted it. “You are hurting me,” she said, knowing his one weakness.

His grip eased, but he didn’t let her go. “I know I hurt you,” he said, his voice low and tight, and she knew it was not the present of which he spoke, but the past.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“I understand, but—”

“Oh, you do?” The temper Rowena had held in check all the while she’d lived with the Gunns suddenly threatened to explode. Shaking free of his grip, she shouted, “Well, understand this, I loved you. With all my heart. When you left, you broke it. You nearly broke me. Do not,” she added, when he reached for her again.

“You have every right to be hurt and upset, but there are things I need to tell you.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear them.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was agitated and trying to work through a problem. Good. She hoped it plagued him into the early grave he so richly deserved.

“At least listen to what I have to say,” he argued. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you?” Rowena’s simmering fury boiled over. She buried her elbow in his rock-hard midsection, ignoring the shaft of pain that traveled up her arm. His grunt of surprise as he bent over was satisfying, but not half as much as the sharp oath she wrang from him when her knee caught him under the chin.

The earth shook as he hit the ground. “Damn.” He dragged the hair from his eyes with an angry swipe. “Where the hell did you learn such low tricks?” he gasped.

“From you. You said a lass should be able to protect herself.” Rowena stood over him, hands on her hips, wounded spirits soaring. Seeing him lying at her feet almost made up for the past. Almost. “And I could not agree more.” Dusting off her hands, she spun around to look for her horse.

But she’d forgotten how quick he’d always been to retaliate. Grabbing hold of her ankle, he jerked her down on top of him. Before she could wriggle upright, he rolled, pinning her to the soggy ground with one heavy thigh. His elbows were planted just above her shoulders, caging her, yet sparing her the brunt of his weight. Eyes bright with anger and something even more dangerous, he smiled down at her. “Even better.”

The feel of his warm, solid body pressing into hers, the scent of his skin, the quick hammer of his heart against hers were so achingly familiar that for a moment her mind emptied of everything but this. She’d thought herself dead to all emotion save her love for Paddy. ’Twas the worst irony to find that even after six years of hating him, with one touch Lion could still make her yearn and burn.

“Ah, Ro. Jesu, but I’ve missed you.” He lowered his head, his breath warm on her mouth.

Buffeted by memories, she waited, wanting his kiss, craving the taste of him. And then what? She’d been down that path before. It promised paradise, but lead to hell. “Nay!” She turned her head aside, shivering as his lips grazed her ear.

“You cannot avoid the inevitable,” he whispered, nibbling his way across her cheek.

She had to. Desperate, Rowena fought back the only way she could. When his lips grazed hers, she bit him. Hard.

“Hell!” Lion reared back, eyes shocked, blood welling from a neat set of marks in his lower lip.

Rowena was so furious with him, with herself, that she shook all over. Nay, ’twas the ground that shook. She looked up, past Lion’s shoulder, to see a troop of mounted men galloping toward them.

“Lion!” called one of them. “I thought you were rescuing the lady, not debauching her.”

Lion rose lithely. “Save your pity, Bryce. I’m the one with bruised ribs and a bloody lip. Any losses?”

“Nay, we chased the MacPhersons off before they could do more than frighten these folk. And the lady?”

“Is just fine, thank you,” Rowena said briskly. She dusted off her hands and searched the crowd of milling men, finding the Gunns knotted together in the throng. Eneas’s disappointment at finding her alive was apparent. Some of the others looked shame-faced. And well they should, riding off and leaving a lady and a lad to face a horde of—“Oh, my guardsman,” she exclaimed, starting back down the road. “He was injured.”

“I will find him,” Lion said, trotting alongside her.

Rowena turned on him. “I do not want your help.”

He had the nerve to look hurt. “Bryce,” he called over his shoulder. “Would you assist the lady Rowena in finding her man?”

Rowena marched down the muddy track, the knowledge that Lion watched her sending an odd thrill down her spine. Seeing him again after all this time was...

Terrible. Horrible.

And exciting.

Dangerously exciting.

That was what frightened her the most.

Bryce Sutherland waited till the little cavalcade, with himself and Lion at its head, had gotten underway before he broached a delicate subject. “How does it seem, seeing the lady Rowena after all this time?” he asked of his cousin.