One covetous fiend sought to take everything from her, including her freedom. By the Saints, she refused to submit the only thing she had left to another. Assembling every scrap of her courage, she opened her eyes and met the Highlander’s unsettling, crystalline stare. With far more confidence than she possessed, she lifted her chin in defiance.
“I’m passing through this gate whether you allow it or not.” The man parted his lips as if to speak, but she rushed on, “’Tis a matter of life and death I leave, at once. Please stand aside, sir.”
His inflexible countenance conveyed not a flicker of emotion. His gaze roved over her face, as if taking her measure. Bearing the scrutiny, she strove for a calm outer appearance despite the pitch and roll of her stomach.
The howling wind, clamor from the great hall, and the drum of her own heart filled her ears. The man had not removed his eyes from her since the shadows spat him out. The weight of his firm stare bore through her, heightening her discomfort. Fiddling with Devlin’s reins, she shifted in the saddle, unable to sit idle another godforsaken moment.
With a quick glimpse of the men blocking the gate, she constricted her grip on Devlin’s reins and gave a faint tug to his bridle. The beast let loose a loud, warning whiny and clomped his feet in agitation. She braced her legs tight to his flanks in anticipation.
Devlin tossed his mane and Arabella held on for dear life. The massive gelding reared up, kicking out at the man in front of him. Surprise flashed across the Highlander’s features and he jumped aside to avoid being trampled. As soon as Devlin’s hooves hit the hard-packed earth, she clucked her tongue, urging the horse to a full gallop.
The horse had only gained a few yards before a heavy weight vaulted in the saddle behind her, and the Highlander pried the reins from her cold, shaking hands. With a sharp tug to the bridle, he brought the gelding to a prompt halt. Devlin snorted his displeasure and the man wrapped a thick arm around her middle as the beast reared up again.
Heart banging in her chest, Arabella was on the verge of tears.
“Christ, woman,” he growled in her ear. “Calm yourself. Fraser sent us. I’ll explain later, but we need to move. We’ve tarried here long enough.”
The breath she held hissed out of her in a steady stream. Why had the blasted arse not said so sooner?
She might’ve stated the question aloud had she not almost slid from her saddle in relief. The grip of fear squeezing her chest slackened and her limbs relaxed. Too distraught and weary to care, she took him at his word and sent up a quick prayer for the boon.
Slipping from the saddle behind her, the big man strode to a mount held by one of his men. After rifling through his saddlebag, he stalked to her side and shoved a bundle of cloth into her folded hands. Perplexed, she blinked at the tartan material then glanced at him.
He answered her unspoken question with a harsh bite. “Put it on.”
Arabella’s mouth dropped open at the ridiculous command. He was there to rescue her, not order her about.
“I’m warm enough,” she snapped.
He grunted. “Even so. Put it on.”
A scalding reply dangled on the tip of her tongue, but the sternness of his narrow-eyed gaze warned against an objection. She sneered at the woolen cloth and handled the coarse fabric as though it were an adder ready to strike. He remained at her side with his strange, yet oddly beguiling stare fixed on her until she donned the mantle.
As if nature agreed with the man’s demand, a miserable burst of wintry air slapped her in the face and chilled her to the bone. Her teeth chattered while her temper walked a frayed line. Once wrapped in the warm cloth, she aimed her fiercest glare at the big-headed man. She could’ve sworn his lips twitched, but he simply nodded and marched to his horse without another word. Tugging the fabric closer around her head and shoulders, she gave in to the urge and rolled her eyes at his arrogant, retreating form. He mounted his stallion in one swift move and signaled his men to move out.
Just as suddenly, the vastness of her loss hit Arabella as though she’d taken a blow to the chest. She twisted in the saddle for one final glimpse. As soon as she passed through the front gates—her home, memories of her mother and father, her brother, Maggie and Dougal—everyone and everything she’d ever cared for would be lost to her forever. Tears slipped from her eyes, obscuring the once welcoming sight from view. A whimper slipped past her lips before she could recall the sound. Forcing herself to look away, she straightened in the saddle and wiped her eyes with the course mantle she’d scorned only moments before.
Arabella lifted her head to find each warrior regarded her with varying degrees of sympathy and understanding. Left with little choice, she heaved a defeated sigh and nudged Devlin toward the men and the frightening, unknown path her life had suddenly taken.
Chapter Three
Geoffrey Longford stood at the threshold of Penswyck’s great hall—his great hall—and surveyed the spoils of his latest venture. Servants rushed to and from the kitchens providing a repast in honor of his arrival. His soldiers lounged around trestle tables, filling their bellies with food and ale. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, brightening the somber stone. Embroidered cushions adorning high-backed chairs near the hearth added a feminine touch and boasted of elegance. Panes of glass blocked the chilly autumn wind, while fresh rushes scattered across the floor left a pleasant aroma in the air. As the bastard son of a lesser lord and camp follower who stood to inherit naught of his father’s inferior legacy, he’d done rather well for himself.
For years, he toiled and trained to earn his spurs, thereby winning a place at Court. He amassed ample wealth as a good sword arm for many rich, desperate nobles and in the beds of their ignored, pampered wives.
But what good was a landless knight? Naught, that’s what.
Everything he desired—nay, deserved. Everything he deserved was within reach at long last. Smiling, he nodded, pleased with his latest acquisition, or rather, his soon-to-be acquisition. Once he wed his charge, the stratagem he set in motion a year before would at last bear fruit. The vast estate of Penswyck would be his, as well as the comely Lady de Percy.
From the first moment he’d set eyes on her, the quiet defiance reflected in her green eyes had begged him to tame her—to break her. The task should’ve been simple—wed and bed the wench—but the vexing female had spurned his attentions. She’d gone as far as to turn her brother, Iain, against him, sullying his hard work, but he was not one to recoil from a challenge.
Quite the contrary, in fact.
Though, his sole regret in the whole affair was the death of Lord de Percy. He’d rather admired Iain, with his quick wit, charm, and skill with a sword, but the young lord’s life had been forfeit from the start.
Shrugging off any trace of remorse, Geoffrey quit the hall and mounted the main stairs in search of his charge. In all likelihood, she’d spent her days grieving the loss of her brother. The spirited, little dove surely needed comfort and he’d be delighted to offer it to her—for a price.
As he moved down the passageway, two of his men posted outside her tower chamber nodded at his approach. He motioned for them to unbar the entrance and the thrum of his pulse quickened as the door swung open. He strode inside and glanced around the chamber, expecting to find her weeping miserably in front of the hearth. Instead, the long dead fire held naught but a pile of ashes.
His gaze darted over the cold, lifeless room, noting the differences since the last time he’d stepped foot in her chamber. The bed was out of place, shifted closer to an adjacent window where the fur covering lay disturbed. As his suspicion grew, he paced the chamber, hunting for any sign of her. At a trunk in the corner, he bent forward and lifted the lid to search her belongings. Inside lay a heap of knotted bed linens and garments.
Hair prickled at his nape and a slight tremor filed through his limbs. He raised the bundle from the trunk. A rope—the blasted wench had fashioned a rope. He might’ve laughed at the sleight had Arabella not hindered
his plans, yet again.
In truth, he should’ve foreseen such a move. Lady de Percy was unlike the other vain, empty-headed females at Court. She’d proven her cunning on more than one occasion. From demanding her old maid shadow her every step, foiling his attempts to steal a private moment with her, to dining in her chamber when he was in residence, Arabella had taken measures to distance herself from him before she’d poisoned her brother against him. The clever, irritating woman saw through his guise from the start.
His grasp on the cloth tightened. Oh, he could guess her course. Straight to that damned heathen uncle of hers.
Spitting out a curse, Geoffrey flung the bundle in the trunk and kicked the heavy lid shut. He spun around to face the useless soldiers who stood in the doorway warily regarding him.
“Where is she, you dull-witted fools?” he hissed in a furious rush.
Confusion clouded the pair’s features until the meaning of his words sunk into their pea brains. Their gazes darted around the room before one mustered the courage to speak.
“My lord, she was here. I swear it. We’ve not left our post. Not once.”
He pointed at the entryway. “Who has passed through that door?”
The soldier swallowed visibly. “Only her old maid, my lord.”
Each stuttered admission fed the anger simmering inside Geoffrey. He spoke his next words with deliberate precision. “When was the last either of you have seen Lady de Percy with your own eyes?”
“Uh…” The guard’s uneasy gaze flitted away to land on the floor.
Their lack of words cracked open his restraint and freed a storm of fury. Their negligence had cost him. His temple pounded in accord with the swift drum of his heart. His limbs shook with rage, driving him to lash out.
He grabbed a wooden side table and hurled it over, its contents clattering to the rush-strewn floor. Kicking out at a small stool, he sent the seat splintering against the stone wall. He snatched the jeweled dagger from a sheath along his belt and charged the soldier who’d spoken. Fisting the guard’s tunic, he jerked the gaping fool toward him and buried his blade deep in the soldier’s throat. The man’s eyes widened to expose an expanse of bloodshot white, while his mouth worked to draw breath. Geoffrey wrenched the dagger free from the guard’s flesh, unmoved by the warm splatter of blood dotting his face and surcoat, and shoved the dying body to the ground.
He sucked in long drags of copper-scented air in a bid to calm the fire smoldering inside him. With one last fortifying breath, he faced the remaining soldier, who stared wide-eyed at his prone companion.
“Bring me the old woman and send a troop north,” he bellowed, causing the guard to flinch. He stepped closer, narrowing his gaze at the soldier’s pale features. “Find her. Your life depends upon it.”
The man wasted no time backing out of the chamber, leaving Geoffrey in solitude. The bloodied dagger slipped from his hand and clanked on the floor at his feet. He inched backward until his thighs bumped the bed’s oak frame and he slumped on the edge. Suddenly weary, he sank back into the feathered mattress and stared at the cross beams overhead.
The dead guard cooling at his heels mattered little to his conscience. He had far more pressing troubles than the death of one undisciplined wretch. First and foremost, he needed Arabella. Without her, he would never gain lawful control of Penswyck. She was the one, crucial piece to achieving his goal.
Despite the girl’s constant defiance, he had to admit her spirit impressed him. But some wills were made to be broken.
The image of her on her knees, a broken, little dove yielding to him as her master stirred his manhood to life. He relished the thought of her submission. May the Saints show her mercy, for once he got his hands on her, he would have none to offer.
Chapter Four
Calum shifted in the saddle and rolled the aching muscles in his shoulders. Days spent on horseback had taken its toll. His stiff body protested each move he made while his mind struggled to ward off a fog of weariness. Neither of which boded well for their group’s welfare. Despite his weariness, fear of pursuit drove him to place as much distance as possible between them and England, pressing his group to ride hard through the night. Once he safely delivered the lass to Fraser, then he’d fall into his soft, warm bed and sleep for a sennight.
Regardless of his desire to reach the border posthaste, when he’d caught sight of Arabella wavering in her saddle, he relented and sent his second-in-command off to scout a suitable campsite. Unease nagged at him to push on, but the woman had earned a respite. He arched the rigid sinews of his back. So had he, for that matter.
Slowing his mount, he dropped back to ride alongside Arabella’s gelding and searched her features. Heedless to his frank inspection, she slumped in the saddle, her brilliant, emerald gaze dulled to a lifeless green. Dark circles beneath her eyes were evidence of her languor and they stood out against her pale, drawn skin in stark contrast. A mess of red-gold curls framed her delicate, tired face. With her brother’s death and her imprisonment, no doubt she’d gotten little rest in the past fortnight. Calum frowned at the notion, rueful he’d pushed her beyond her limit.
Since fleeing Penswyck, she’d remained quiet and withdrawn, following his orders without as much as a murmur. He expected her grievances, but her continued silence surprised him. In his experience, women tended to complain overmuch. His sister and aunt, in particular, sprang to mind. The thought wrung a shudder out of him. At times, the pair possessed the ability to drive him barking mad.
The lass possessed spirit. Of that, he had no doubt, especially after the woman nearly trampled him with her blasted horse the night before. But the fires had long since waned. Naught but a worn, defeated, young woman rode alongside him, which unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Symon appeared from a copse of trees and reined his mount beside Calum’s. “There’s a clearing just ahead, Laird. A good distance from the thoroughfare.” His stern commander nodded his head at a thicket several yards north. “There’s a tolerable stream as well.”
Calum cut a wry glance at his commander. “Tolerable?”
Rolling his eyes, Symon motioned to Arabella. “For the woman.”
He bit back a grin and raised a hand to bring their group to a halt. “Prepare to make camp for the night.” He glanced over his men. “Daniel, Alex, Tavish, take first watch.”
Their small party moved through a dense patch of forest until the wood parted to reveal a small meadow tucked well away from the main thoroughfare as his commander described. The gurgling brook hummed through the glade while a light breeze rustled fallen leaves. Fading rays of sunlight peeked through a veil of trees, casting an orange glow over the campsite.
He drew his mount to a stop near the edge of the clearing and dismounted. As he stretched his sore limbs, he immediately sought out Arabella’s slight form amongst the men. She lagged behind, tottering in her saddle.
Liam, with his usual doltish grin in place, leaped from his horse and strode toward the lass. A twinge of feeling Calum could not quite name prodded at his tough hide of indifference. What game was his cousin playing at now?
Plenty of women tossed their skirts up for the fool. If Liam thought to add Arabella to his flock of fawning admirers, then Calum had a mind to rearrange the man’s all-too-perfect face. The lass was under his protection for the time being. He would not see her harassed by his skirt-chasing cousin.
Thoroughly vexed, Calum tossed his stallion’s reins to his man, Gregor, and stalked toward the pair. With his hands curled into fists, he shoved Liam aside, ignoring his cousin’s wide-eyed astonishment, and stepped alongside Arabella’s gelding. For a fleeting moment, her startled gaze met his before flitting away. In spite of her clear distress, he plucked her from the saddle and placed her on the ground with care. Grasping her upper arms, he waited until she gained her legs. She ducked her head to stare at the ground beneath their feet.
He studied the mass of copper curls surrounding her bowed head and
resisted lifting his hand to test its softness. Scant traces of rose drifted up his nose, teasing his senses. Standing in front of him, wrapped in his mantle, she was easily the comeliest lass he’d ever set eyes on.
“There’s a stream just ahead through the trees if you care to refresh yourself,” he offered. “I can have one of my men escort you, if you wish.”
When she remained silent with her gaze fixed on the ground, a knot of unease perched in his gut and blood gathered in his cheeks. The old wound marring his visage licked a path of fire down his body as it had done years before when he met with the sharp end of his enemy’s axe. A spate of self-doubt collided with his reason, heightening his discomfort. Surely, the sight repelled her.
’Twas not the first time a female found the sight too distasteful to look upon. The knowledge shouldn’t astound him, but the simple gesture stung his pride. Desperate for a bit of distance, he dropped his arms and spun away from her. He managed a step when the lass spoke.
“Thank you, sir.” He strained to hear her soft-spoken voice. “I desire a bit of privacy, if you please.”
Slowly, he faced her and met her direct, emerald stare.
“My name is Calum MacGregor, not sir.” The words poured from his mouth harsher than intended.
Why it should matter, he knew not, but he craved hearing the sound of his name pass her lips.
“If I’m to call you Calum, then you must call me Arabella.” She tilted her head a degree and narrowed her gaze. “I remember your name from the tales my brother used to tell me. You knew him well?”
“Aye,” he agreed. “We trained together under Fraser for many years.”
Her delicate brow creased. “I seem to remember a tale of a goat. What was it again?”
He almost laughed out loud. Of course, she would recall that one. “I’m sure you do not wish to hear such foolish tales now.”
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