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.
It was her worst nightmare. Banished to the Highlands and forced to marry an uncouth savage. Now would be the best time to escape, while he was weakened. Slowly, she started moving back.
His head snapped around, and she froze.
“Flora.” His voice was hard and steady. “Take one more step and you’ll regret it.”
Not weakened at all. The man was inhuman.
Another night had passed by the time they climbed up the sea-gate stairs to Drimnin Castle. Lachlan’s side ached, and his head felt as if it had been split in two with Allan’s battle-ax. The bleeding had stopped, but if he didn’t get some rest soon, he knew fever would set in. If it hadn’t already.
He led them across the yard and up the timber forestairs to the entry of the keep. As was common with most tower house castles, the only entry was from the first floor. If any attackers made it through the gate, the stairs could easily be removed or burned.
It was more of a relief than he would admit when they entered the warmth of the keep.
Flora looked around the entry, obviously unimpressed, and spun on him immediately, eyes flashing. “Where is he? I demand that you take me to your laird, now.”
“Demand?” His temper flared. He was in no mood for her sharp tongue. “Have care, little one. Remember your status here.”
“How could I forget? I’m a prisoner. Abducted by a band of Highland barbarians.”
His hand whipped out to grip her arm, and he peered down into that beautiful mutinous face. “I do not like that word.” His voice cut like steel. “Do not use it again.”
He saw the spark in her eyes, delighting in the knowledge that she’d gotten to him. “The truth too painful?”
His gaze slid down the length of her body. A barbarian would know exactly how to shut her up. “Would you like it to be?”
“How dare you—”
“There’s not much I wouldn’t dare, and you’d do best to remember it.” He nodded, and his men and the servants retreated, leaving them alone.
She didn’t miss the silent command. “Just who do you think you are?”
He smiled, but it was without humor. “Who do you think? Your host.”
Her eyes widened. “You couldn’t be.”
Her disbelief shouldn’t bother him, but it did. He was the Laird of Coll, and she’d damn well better believe it.
“But…” Her voice dropped off.
He could tell by her expression what she was thinking. That he wasn’t refined enough and had none of the courtly graces of a laird. Damn right. He was too damn busy fighting her brother. Too damn busy protecting his clan from years of floods and famine. And war. What learning he’d had was forged on the battlefield.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“I’ll never marry you.”
The certainty in her voice infuriated him. “I don’t recall asking,” he said coldly.
“A man like you wouldn’t ask. He’d take.”
He took a step closer to her. She didn’t know when to stop. By God, she would learn. “And what kind of man am I?” he asked in a dangerous tone.
She lifted her chin and met him square in the eye, refusing to cower before his intimidation. “The kind who abducts a lady with no care for the plans he’s upset and forcibly brings her to his keep.”
“You would have been miserable with him.”
“He was my choice.”
He didn’t understand her. She didn’t deny that her marriage would have been a mistake, but she was still angry that he’d interrupted her elopement. There wasn’t enough time in the day to decipher the mind of a lass.
She gave him a sidelong look from under her long lashes. “So you do not intend to force me to marry you?”
“No,” he answered truthfully.
Her nose wrinkled, as if she weren’t sure whether to believe him. “Then it’s my brother Hector. You intend to use me to get to him.”
It hadn’t taken her long to figure it out. Part of it, anyway. The lass did not have just a sharp tongue and beauty, she had wits as well. He gave her a long appraising glance. He would have to be careful. If she learned what he was about, it could make his task difficult.
She had a smug expression on her face. “Well, you are in for a disappointment if you think to use me to bargain with Hector. I barely know him.”
“But I do.”
Too well. Lachlan and Hector had been at each other’s throats for years, since the day of L
achlan’s father’s funeral, when Lachlan was not yet ten and Hector had used the burial as an opportunity to take over Coll. Lachlan’s uncle Neil Mor had thwarted the brash invasion, cutting off the heads of the Duart Macleans and tossing them into the stream now known as Struthan nan Ceann, the Stream of Heads.
Hector had never forgotten—or forgiven—his defeat, and Lachlan had been fighting for what was his ever since.
Tensions had run high between the two branches of the clan for years, but the feuding resumed not long ago when Lachlan refused to bow to Hector as the superior branch of the clan. It was a bit of posturing by Hector to answer for his invasion of Lachlan’s lands in Morvern. Hector claimed that his actions were justified by Lachlan’s refusal to take his part in his blood feud with the MacDonalds—a duty that was owed to a chief. The kinship between the two branches of Macleans, descended long ago from brothers, was all but forgotten. As a feudal baron, Lachlan didn’t owe fealty to anyone, except perhaps the king. And with King James’s recent maneuverings, even that was debatable.
“Hector has something of mine. Now I have something of his.”
“What does he have? Your favorite dog?”
“No,” he said flatly. “My favorite castle.”
Her eyes widened appreciably. “Breacachadh, on the Isle of Coll?”
“Yes.” His fists clenched. With Hector’s ancestral seat, Duart Castle, sequestered and seized by the king’s commissioners for his treasonous dealings with Queen Elizabeth, he’d turned his sights to Lachlan’s.
“But how?”
“I was away.” While Lachlan was gone, Hector had led a force to Coll and, using trickery, captured the castle. But Hector would pay for his treachery.
“Why did you not appeal to the king?”
His jaw clenched. “I did.” He’d tried to follow the rules, but it had only made things worse. Much worse. He would never make that mistake again.
“You’ve kidnapped me for nothing. My brother has been after Coll for some time, he will not exchange it for me. A sister he barely knows.”
“You underestimate your worth, Flora.”
Highlander Unchained Page 4