Highlander Unchained (5 page)

She scoffed. “What for? For abducting his sister? You must be mad.”

His voice grew hard. If she were his sister, he’d take her across his knee for what she’d attempted to do. “For saving you from a foolish mistake.”

“Lord Murray is not—” She stopped. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

He cupped her chin with a firm hand and looked deep into those wide, defiant eyes. Remarkable eyes that in the morning light were as blue as the stormy sea. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Do you deny that you were running off to marry your wee Lowlander?”

“How could you possibly…” She jerked her chin away. “It’s none of your damn business.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it, even though it hurt like perdition. The chit had spirit. Misplaced, perhaps, but she would learn her place. He did not tolerate disrespect, especially from a woman. But with her eyes blazing, hands on her hips, and stubborn little chin lifted toward him, he was glad she didn’t have another dirk.

“Such foul language for a proper ‘lady’ of court.”

She looked as though she’d like to rattle off a few others. Instead, she studied him with increasing scrutiny. “How did you know where I’d be?”

He shrugged.

Her eyes narrowed. “You were spying on me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“But I don’t understand. Even if you were watching me, how could you possibly know it was me leaving the palace? Even Lord Murray didn’t realize it was me until I climbed into the carriage.”

He hadn’t. Not right away. But then again, he’d also had the advantage in knowing what she intended. He’d waited outside the palace gates for three nights. And he’d seen the woman stepping into Lord Murray’s carriage and almost dismissed her, thinking it was a maidservant. But something niggled at him, and he’d taken a closer look. And happened to glance down.

He pointed at her feet. At the tips of the delicately embroidered silk slippers now covered in mud that peeked out from beneath her gown. “The shoes.” He bent a little closer and said in a low voice, “Next time you don a disguise, try not to let vanity interfere.”

Her cheeks flamed. He’d guessed correctly. Glaring daggers, she whirled around and started off. Giving him the space he needed to tend to his wound.

“Don’t take too long, Flora,” he called after her. “Or I will come after you.” There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

She pretended not to hear him and stomped off in the direction of a meadow.

Undone by a pair of slippers,
Flora thought morosely, kicking the dirt with the tip of her ruined shoe.

He was right, curse his wretched soul. She knew it was ridiculous, but she
loved
shoes. They were her one indulgence. She just couldn’t bear the thought of being married in plain leather, and with her wooden pattens on to protect her from the mud, she didn’t think anyone would notice the delicate satin slippers.

But he had. He noticed everything with those penetrating eyes. Blast him.

Flora nibbled on a dry bit of oatcake, which she’d never liked even in the best of circumstances, and washed down the offending grain with a sip of ale. By the time he’d finally decided to stop, she’d been close to begging to attend to her personal needs. Not to mention starving. Hungry enough to choke down oatcakes and be glad of them. The bit of dried beef one of his men had brought her was considerably better, but she’d finished that off quickly.

She sat on a rock a little away from the others, grateful for the moment of reprieve. Sitting for so long, practically in his lap, had been maddening. Every time she tried not to think about him, it seemed she couldn’t think of
anything but
him.

Awareness had been her constant unwelcome companion. After the long journey, she was as tightly wound as a coiled spring, every nerve ending on edge and fraught with tension. It was only natural, she told herself. He’d abducted her. Touched her. Taken liberties with her person that no man had ever dared. What woman wouldn’t be nervous? But it was more than nervousness that had her keenly aware of his every movement, every command he’d issued to his men, even the distinctive masculine scent of him. A scent that made her yearn to curl up against his warm chest and fall asleep.

How humiliating that she’d actually done so. He was her abductor, for heaven’s sake.

But exhaustion and the gentle sway of the horse had cut through her resolve to stay as far away as possible from him, as easily as a knife slid through butter. The uncharacteristic weakness annoyed her.

What did he want with her? And more important, how was she going to escape?

There was a ruthless edge to the man that gave her pause. He was not used to disobedience—that was obvious. His gruff manner, his brusque tone, his natural authority, all spoke of a man who was used to giving orders. But he was too rough around the edges—a leader, not a laird. Probably one of Coll’s
luchd-taighe
guardsmen. Or a captain of one of his castles. Or, more likely, his henchman.

Yet despite what she’d done to him, he’d treated her with remarkable courtesy. But she sensed that he did not make idle threats. So unless she wanted to be tied up, next time she tried to escape she’d better make sure she wasn’t caught.

She sank her chin in her hands and stared at the large standing stone at the edge of the grassy meadow. Watching as the rising sun created a shadow across the ground. These odd stones that were scattered all over Scotland had always fascinated her. Some said they belonged to the Druids, but most believed the stones were placed there by the faerie folk.

Though normally she did not give much credence to the rampant superstition that seemed part of the very fabric of the Highlands, the stones did have a magical quality to them. It wasn’t hard to understand why such abundant lore surrounded them.

A large shadow fell over her, this one from a living rock, and she glanced up to see him standing before her. With the sun shining behind his head and the enormous sword slung over his back, he looked like some Norse god of war coming to wreak havoc and destruction—on her.

“Here, eat this.” He held out a bit more of the beef. “It will be the last until we reach Drimnin.”

She took it with a nod.

“You found the faerie circle?”

“You mean the standing stone,” she corrected.

“No.” He pointed to the circle of rocks around her. “The circle of stones you are sitting on.”

She jumped up, not realizing the stone she was sitting on was one of about thirty low boulders set about in a circle.

He smiled. “Afraid you will have bad luck?”

“I’d say it’s rather too late for that.”

He ignored her barb. “Are you superstitious?”

She shook her head. “No. Not exactly. Respectful, perhaps.” She looked around and thought for a moment. “There is something magical about the place.”

“It’s the Highlands, lass. There is magic everywhere you look.”

He was right. It was impossible not to be struck by the beauty of the landscape around her. The hills, the lochs, the brilliant shades of green for as far as the eye could see. But she knew it was as deceptive as the men who lived here. She knew how quickly this place could change, turning cold, brutal, and remote. Barbarous. An unforgiving place of ancient feuds and endless killing. A place where men raised in war took what they wanted with no thought to the lives they were destroying.

It had happened to her mother, and it had happened to her. Abducted like Persephone on her own descent into Hades.

A hell that looked like the Garden of Eden.

It had been different when she was a child. The few times she’d seen one of her brothers or sisters, they’d recounted stories of how she used to run wild around the hills of Dunvegan. But she didn’t remember. Her father had died when she was only five, and she’d left Dunvegan and never returned. Rory had tried repeatedly to bring her back, but her mother always made some excuse to prevent her from going. Soon, she’d stopped wanting to.

But once in a while, something would jog her memory—like a whisper of something that was just out of reach.

She shook off the memory. No matter what she’d once felt for the Highlands, it had all changed when she’d learned the truth of what had happened to her mother. Of why she rarely smiled. Of why she hated the Highlands and the brutal men who lived there.

Janet Maclean Maclean (twice) MacIan MacLeod née Campbell had been sold from husband to husband, a pawn in the political machinations of men. Manipulated by those who should have protected her. Used. She was a commodity, and they never let her forget it. She was married the first time at fifteen to a man nearly four times her age. The second to a husband who was murdered. The third she never spoke of. And the last, Flora’s father, was another much older man. Finally, on his death, Janet was too old to have children, and for the first time in her life she was free. But it was already too late.

The damage had been done.

Flora straightened her back and turned away from the beautiful vistas. “I prefer the city to the wilds.” Like the others of his ilk, this Highland warrior had abducted her for his own ends. With no care to the plans he’d upset. “And the company of gentlemen to barbarians.”

His face hardened, and he took a dangerous step toward her. “Like the
gentleman
who left you without a backward glance?”

She flinched. Flora was more hurt by Lord Murray’s abandonment than she wanted to admit. “I’m sure he only thought to get help.”

“He only thought to save his foul hide.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.” She didn’t know why she was defending Lord Murray. Her pride stung. Both that she’d been wrong about him and at how quickly he’d left her. The Highlander might have opened her eyes, but she wouldn’t thank him for doing so. What woman wanted to be publicly humiliated by the man who was supposed to be her husband? Who was supposed to care for her, but had so little regard for her that he would leave her to the company of brigands?

But they weren’t brigands. They were Macleans. She hoped there was a difference.

He reached down and took her chin in his hand. Holding firm when she tried to jerk away. His eyes were truly remarkable. A crisp and vivid blue.

“Don’t count on a rescue, my sweet. Not from him. He’s not likely to run back to Edinburgh shouting to the rooftops of a failed elopement—or of his own lack of honor.” He dropped her chin. “If you are done with the flagon, I have need of it.” She handed it to him. “We will be leaving soon. Be ready when I call.” He turned and walked away, leaving her feeling strangely unsettled. A feeling she was becoming used to when he was around.

She watched him return to his men, continuing on toward the edge of the loch. Her pulse jumped. Though it seemed an odd time for a swim, he quickly removed his plaid, leather jerkin, and boots and waded into the water.

She couldn’t look away. He was a striking man. Not just handsome, but blatantly masculine. His features seemed forged of iron, strong and hard. His damp shirt molded against an impressive array of stomach muscles. In his shirt and leather trews, she realized that he was less bulky than she’d initially thought. Muscular and broad-shouldered, but honed tight as a bow. It somehow made him seem more dangerous.

She gasped. Even from here she could see the enormous dark red stain that covered his shirt from under his arm to his waist. He winced as he used the water to loosen the cloth, pulling it away from his skin. She realized what he was doing. Cleaning the wound where she’d stabbed him.

She bit her lip. It must hurt something horrible, but he barely reacted. She turned away, refusing to feel guilty, and found another rock to sit on—this one she made sure was not part of a circle. She sat down and waited.

Her gaze slid to his men. They’d finished tending the horses and had started to build a fire. From the looks of it, a very hot fire.

She frowned, perplexed by the odd behavior.

Her abductor emerged from the loch and sat on the bank, pulling on his boots. The man who looked like a Viking—Allan, she’d heard him called—handed him the flagon. Her abductor grabbed it with a nod and took a long swig. Handing it back to the Viking, he said something that seemed to cause a minor disagreement.

Her heart pounded as if she almost guessed what it was about. He lifted his shirt.

No.

He turned to look at her, as if she’d said it out loud, as the Viking poured from the flagon onto his open wound.

Her chest squeezed as his body jerked, but his face remained impassive. The pain must be excruciating. But except for the tightness around his mouth, she wouldn’t have known it.

She jumped up from the rock, at once understanding the reason for the fire. She’d seen it done once before, as a child. She took a step toward him and stopped when one of his men lifted a dagger from the fire. A dagger with a blade that glowed a fiery red.

Unconsciously, she clenched her hand, recalling the time she’d been trying to help in the kitchen and accidentally knocked over the large iron stew pot that had been simmering over the fire. Without thinking, she’d grabbed for it, burning her hand badly. She still bore the scars on her palm. She couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt on an open wound.

One of the men tried to give him a stick to put between his teeth, but he refused. He lifted his shirt, and her stomach lurched. She could see the gaping wound from here.

She took a step toward him and stopped. His eyes found hers as the side of the blade hit the wound.

The sizzling sound of the blade upon his flesh made her chest twist. Yet despite the pain, he barely flinched. And through it all, he held her gaze.

She could smell…it was horrible. She turned, breaking the connection, unable to bear it any longer.

She’d never witnessed anything like it. It was the most impressive display of control and strength she’d ever seen.

She wouldn’t apologize, but neither could she ignore the fact that she’d done that to him. Nor could she ignore the strange conflicting feelings he aroused in her. How could she admire a man who’d kidnapped her?

She had to get out of here.