Highlander Unchained

by Monica McCarty

  Her cheeks flushed an angry red. “How dare you! You have no right—”

  “I have every right,” he growled. He heard the fury in his voice, but damn it, she pushed him, prodding parts of him that had never before been exposed. “The moment you gave yourself to me, I earned that right. What does it matter other than I care for you and you care for me? Does it matter how it came to be? Or why I want you, other than the fact that I do?” He knew he was trying to convince himself, almost as much as he was trying to convince her, skating precariously close to the truth.

  “It matters to me,” she said softly, her eyes bright.

  She looked so proud and vulnerable at that moment, he wished he could take her in his arms and wipe away her fears with his mouth. “It shouldn’t. I would never hurt you, lass. Not intentionally. I want to protect you. Cherish you. Take care of you. Surely you know that?” It was the truth. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her—completely. Body and heart.

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  He buried his face in the warmth of her silky hair, nuzzling the baby soft skin of her neck, aroused to the breaking point by the erotic sensation of her responsive body pressed against his. “Maybe you are thinking too much.”

  He felt her softening, melting against him…wanting him.

  Blood surged through his veins. “I should go,” he said, pulling back forcibly. “Unless there is a reason for me to stay?”

  Eyes wide, she shook her head. “Y-you never said where you are going.”

  He stiffened at the reminder. He thought about telling her exactly where he was going and the reports of abuse against his people by her brother Hector on Coll, but without proof he wasn’t sure she would believe him. He didn’t need any more barriers between them. “To attend to some of my lands. I will return later tonight. I should be going.” He started to pull away, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Lachlan.”

  He looked down at her, surprised—and pleased—to hear the intimacy of his given name on her tongue. For a moment, he actually thought she might have changed her mind.

  “You never answered my question.”

  No, he hadn’t. Nor would he. He cupped her chin in his fingers and lowered his face, keeping his gaze locked on hers, wanting nothing more than to cover her mouth and taste her. To feel her tongue slide in his mouth, entwining with his. “I said all that was important. Now it’s for you to decide. Take a chance or live in the past, it’s up to you.” Unable to resist, he dropped a soft kiss on her lips, lingering as his mouth moved over hers in a possessive caress. The urge to deepen the kiss was primal, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He lifted his head, seeing desire mirrored on her face. “Let me know what you decide.”

  And without another word, he left her to ponder their future.

  Hector stormed through the gates of Breacachadh on his destrier, more furious than he’d been in some time—since the last time the Laird of Coll had gotten the best of him.

  He dismounted and tossed his reins to the waiting stable lad. Sweat poured off his forehead from behind the metal helmet, and his body shook with rage.

  Lachlan Maclean had been right under his nose and had escaped. And not alone. He’d absconded with half a dozen men and a few market-ready head of cattle as well.

  Men and cattle that belonged to Hector.

  When word had come of Coll’s presence on the isle, Hector couldn’t believe his luck. He’d raced to reach him, but by the time he’d arrived, the skirmish was over.

  A score of his warriors had been bested by a mere handful of Coll’s. His fists clenched with the urge to thrash someone.

  Damn Coll! He would pay. Not only for the loss of men and source of silver—both of which he needed in his war with MacDonald—but for daring to abduct his valuable sister.

  He pushed through the entrance into the great hall, paying no mind to the mud and muck he tracked across the rugs strewn over the wooden floors.

  Where was that bloody woman? “Mairi!” he bellowed, in no mood for recalcitrant servants. The dour old maidservant finally appeared in the doorway, moving with the speed of an aged tortoise.

  “Get me my claret and be quick about it.”

  “Yes, my laird.”

  There was nothing outwardly mocking about the response, but Hector heard it nonetheless. Blood pounded in his ears. He was fed up with morose and belligerent servants. These people would learn respect. They would learn who was laird.

  He tossed his claymore to the squire who’d followed him in. “Clean this. And if it’s not sharp this time, I’ll cut off your incompetent hand.”

  The fear he saw on the lad’s face was a soothing balm to his anger. That was better. If they didn’t listen to reason, they would listen to his iron fist. But they would listen.

  Mairi returned with his drink. God, he was thirsty. His mouth was as dry and parched as a desert. He took a long drink and nearly choked, spewing the dark liquid across the floor. His eyes narrowed at the stubborn old biddy. “How dare you serve me this swill. Bring me another flagon.” He met the woman’s defiant glare. His fingers tightened around the goblet. “And while you’re at it, find your daughter.” The woman’s eyes widened with horror. He smiled. “What was her name? Janet? I’d like to…talk to her.”

  He’d finally gotten her attention. The woman’s hands fluttered anxiously like the wings of a bird. “I’m afraid my daughter is gone, my laird.”

  “You’ll find her and bring her to me,” he said with deadly calm. “Or if you’d rather, you can bring me your other daughter.”

  The defiance sagged right out of her, but the broken expression on her face failed to move him one inch.

  “But my laird, she’s just three and ten.”

  He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.” He gave her a hard look. “You choose. But I’ll have one of them. If you defy me, I’ll have them both.”

  The old woman’s eyes took on an unnatural brightness. “It was the devil that brought you here. A curse you are. But our laird will return—”

  “Hold your tongue, woman, or I’ll cut it out.” She shot him an evil glance before she moved to do his bidding. Fools. He didn’t want to hear any more about damn curses. He was tired of the crazed superstitions of these people. He knew they blamed him for the failure of the crops this year, which was ridiculous considering the wind and rain that had pummeled the small isle.

  The wrath of the lady, they claimed. Hector had forgotten about the curse until the old witch Beathag, Coll’s healer, had mentioned it. And with his mother dead, he realized who now wore the amulet—Flora.

  Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Rumors of Coll’s courtship of his sister worried him more than he wanted to admit. His sister wouldn’t betray him by marrying his enemy. But how well did he know her?

  If Coll married Flora, Hector knew that the “end” of the curse would be a powerful symbol against him, silly superstition or not. But it was the alliance with Argyll that worried him. Under no circumstances could a marriage between them be allowed to happen.

  Just one more reason to want Coll dead. He sat in a chair set before the fire and began to plan. His enemy’s daring foray had given him an idea.

  Chapter 15

  The party that traveled to the Faerie Pool was larger than Lachlan had intended and included himself, Flora, his sisters, and a handful of his guardsmen. They arrived before noontide and spent the better part of the day eating, drinking, and frolicking in the water. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of frolicking he’d originally planned, but he admitted it had been an enjoyable day—particularly coming on the heels of his victory yesterday against Hector.

  Though he was happy to have some of his men back, he could not forget the suffering he’d seen and those he’d left behind. Rain had destroyed the crops, and the fields were bare; the people were forced to give Duart what little they had left. And the stories of Duart’s abuse—especially the womenfolk—filled him
with rage. But he needed men to retake his castle against Duart’s much larger force, men he didn’t have. Not yet, at least. But he would. Waiting for the king to decide in his favor was no longer an option; he needed Rory MacLeod—and his fighting force. And that would come with a marriage alliance.

  His gaze fell to Flora, who stood knee deep in the water, laughing with Mary and Gilly—both of whom had followed Flora’s lead in borrowing clothing from his men. Gilly had just splashed Murdoch in the face, and the lad was doing his best to ignore her.

  After the skirmish yesterday, Lachlan had thought it prudent to bring along half a dozen guardsmen—including Allan, though now he wished he hadn’t. Observing the heartbreak on his sister’s face when her gaze fell upon his captain was enough to convince him that he’d severely underestimated his sister’s sentiments. Allan’s refusal to meet Mary’s gaze—following his laird’s instructions—only made it worse. He could see the flicker of pain in his sister’s eyes each time Allan’s gaze swept over her.

  Damn.

  “What’s wrong?” Flora had emerged from the water to stand before him on the rocky shore. Deeply conscious of the wet shirt that clung to her body and his own naked chest, he forced his gaze not to drop below her shoulders.

  “Nothing.” He leaned over and plucked his shirt from the rock, not wanting to talk about Mary. It was a subject they could not agree upon. Her mother had raised Flora with no sense of obligation or familial duty. To her it was a simple matter, but to him it was complicated by his responsibility to his clan. “It is getting late, we should be leaving.” He started to pull the shirt over his head, but Flora stopped him with a touch. He flinched, the press of her cool fingers a shocking brand against his skin.

  “What happened?” she asked, tracing the outline of the mottled bruise on his ribs. “I noticed it earlier.”

  He sucked in his breath as her fingers dipped to his waist. Just a simple touch was enough to fill him with heat. “Studying me closely, Flora?”

  She blushed. “Of course not. It’s hard to miss, that’s all.” Her gaze locked on his. “You were in a fight.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you took a heavy blow with a sword. Won’t you tell me what happened?”

  He’d been dispensing with one of Duart’s men when another had surprised him from behind. The man had managed one blow, but it had been his last. He took her wrist to stop the dip of her hand; she was driving him mad. She gasped at the contact, and he made the mistake of looking down. The shirt was plastered to her skin, revealing the lush shape of her breasts to his hungry gaze. God, he ached to touch her. The memory of what had taken place on this very shore was too fresh. Too vivid. The hard evidence of his arousal grew between them. It was nearly impossible to stand beside this woman he’d bedded, inhaling her perfume, knowing how she felt in his arms, and not being able to claim her. A woman he wanted for so many reasons. She’d invaded his senses, his thoughts, his dreams.

  “You’ll stop touching me, my sweet, unless you’d care to finish what you started with an audience.”

  Her eyes dropped, widening as she took in his condition. She looked at him a second too long, the weight of her eyes more erotic than a harlot’s trick.

  “Well?” he repeated.

  She shook her head.

  “Then take my sisters with you while you change.”

  She started to walk away but turned back to him. “Lachlan, I…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  She looked so flustered, he had to smile. “I know. Now hurry. It grows late.”

  He watched her hurry to do his bidding and felt warmth spread over him that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. It felt odd to have someone concerned about him. He could get used to it.

  Mary and Gilly had finished changing out of their wet clothing and rejoined the men, but Flora lingered behind the welcome shelter of the rock, needing the time to collect her thoughts. Thoughts that had been in a jumble after her exchange with Lachlan a few minutes ago.

  For a moment—standing so close to him, seeing the strength of his arousal, remembering the feel of him inside her, craving the intimacy of those moments—she’d nearly succumbed. She forgot everything except her need for him.

  The magnitude of her response had hit her hard. She’d stared at him, wanting him…needing him. And if it hadn’t been for his reminder of where they were, she feared she might have reached out and touched him.

  It was like fire between them, igniting with the barest spark. A touch. A look. A word.

  What was holding her back? Was Lachlan right? Was she so scared of ending up like her mother that she would toss away a chance at happiness? She didn’t want to think so, yet his words had stung far more than she cared to admit. She told herself she was only being cautious, but what if he was right? Was she imagining deception where there was none?

  She sighed and finished lacing the front of her gown. After pulling back her long damp hair, she secured it at her nape with a scrap of ribbon. Her swimming lessons were helping. Today, she’d managed to go completely under without panicking—though she never would have done it without Lachlan right beside her.

  With her wet clothes secured in a bundle, she took a last look around to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Noticing one of Gilly’s hose on the ground, she bent to pick it up and heard the crack of a twig behind her. Before she could react, someone grabbed her from behind. A dirty hand covered her mouth, muffling the scream that tore from her throat.

  Fear gripped her; she knew right away it wasn’t Lachlan—and that this was no game. The man, though large and strong, was not nearly as tall and solid as Lachlan. Also, he smelled—not of myrtle and soap, but of sweat and horse.

  He was suffocating her, his fetid fingers digging into the tender skin of her mouth and cheeks.

  His mouth fell to her ear. “Make no sound or we’ll kill them all,” he whispered, and the stench of his breath filled her nose, making her stomach turn. “It’s you we want.”

  Flora could hardly believe it—she was being abducted again. She would laugh if she weren’t so terrified—and if she could move her lips.

  The man started to drag her into the trees. She wanted to twist and stomp on his foot the way she had with Lachlan, but she dared not risk it. Not with Mary and Gilly so close. She prayed they were far enough away.

  “Flora, I…”

  God, no! It was Gilly. She’d come around the rock, no doubt to check on what was taking her so long. Frantically, Flora tried to warn her with her eyes, but it was too late.

  She heard the man holding her let out a vile explicative just as Gilly screamed. “Help! Oh, my God, Lachlan, help! A man has Flora!”

  Her captor gave up trying to drag her and lifted her off the ground, eliminating her ability to attempt her favored method of escape. Knowing Gilly’s screams had alerted the group and that it was too late to avoid danger to the others, she twisted and thrashed against him.

  He only gripped her harder. His fingers tore into her cheeks as his hand tightened like a vise around her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath. The other arm was coiled around her ribs. She stopped struggling, pulling his hand instead as she fought for air.

  They’d reached a clearing beyond the circle of trees, perhaps a hundred feet from the Faerie Pool, when he released her, pushing her toward another man. She bent over, gasping for breath, hearing the sounds of fighting coming from where they’d just left. Her heart dropped as she realized what must be happening.

  The other man rushed toward them, leading a horse. “What happened?” he asked.

  “A girl saw me taking her.”

  “Who are you?” she gasped. “What do you want with me?”

  “We’ve come to help you,” said the man with the horse. He was about forty years of age and had a pleasant weathered face. “My name is Aonghus. Your brother sent us to resc
ue you from your abductor.”

  Her brother? “Which one?” she demanded.

  The man looked confused for a minute before he said, “The Maclean of Duart.”

  Hector. The sounds of the fighting were growing louder. A sharp scream tore through the air, and she spun around. Oh, dear God, that was Gilly. She started to make a move back toward the fighting, but the restraining grip of her initial captor held her. For the first time, she got a good look at him. Her first thought was of hair. It blanketed most of his face with his heavy dark brows, a beard, and thick sideburns. His eyes were dark as well and none too friendly.

  “Get your hands off me.”

  Her tone startled him, and he let her go.

  “I apologize for Cormac, my lady,” the other man, Aonghus, interjected. “But we did not want to take a chance that you would alert them to our presence.”

  “I think it’s too late for that.” Her eyes kept darting to the trees. She could hear the thrash of men coming toward them. Flora didn’t know what to do. She just didn’t want anyone to be hurt on her account. A few weeks ago, she would have leapt at the opportunity to escape, but now…now everything had changed. “You must call off your men. There has been a misunderstanding. I am no longer a prisoner.” She took a step toward the sounds when her captor moved to block her.

  “You have been deceived. Coll is not what he seems—”

  But he never finished because at that moment all hell broke loose.

  Lachlan had sensed something was wrong. He’d motioned for his men to form a perimeter, getting into position only moments before the attack started from the west. The sound of Gilly’s scream sent ice shooting through his veins. And then he realized that someone had Flora—and that they’d just been outflanked. He’d recognized a few of the men and knew retaliation for yesterday’s foray had been swift, but he quickly realized it was more than that. This wasn’t just a raiding party, they were after Flora. Hector wanted his sister back. Or more likely, he didn’t want Lachlan to have her.