by Paula Quinn
The third day of travel, he forced himself to maintain distance from her. He didn’t miss the disappointed look she sent him the first time he refused to acknowledge her gentle advances, and told himself it was for the best.
Her honor was more important than her feelings. There were three other men watching them, watching her, waiting to report that she’d behaved properly on her way to the nunnery. Besides, she was to take holy vows. No matter how alluring, how refreshing she was, she wasn’t to belong to a man.
Not a husband her father chose, and certainly not to someone like the Sinclair Hound.
The knowledge that her skin, which caused such a strange reaction in him, would never be caressed, and those lips, which he practically ached to taste, would never be kissed, near drove him to madness.
So, aye, the third day of travel southward was difficult. The fourth even more so. They spent the night at an Inverness inn at William’s suggestion so she could sleep on a real cot. Gregor spent the night stretched in front of her door, as a hound should.
As they moved southward into MacDonell territory, Lady Pearl became more and more withdrawn. Not even William’s jokes could pull a smile out of her. She sat hunched in her saddle, staring down at her hands. Gregor did his best to ignore the hurt glances she sent his way.
’Tis for the best.
The mood hadn’t improved any by midafternoon. When he gestured to halt, she slumped over, and Fergus was quick to help her down. As the oldest among them, he carried the Sinclair’s missive to the abbey, and had positioned himself at Pearl’s side once Gregor had made it clear he was avoiding her.
When she walked in circles around the horses, she did her best to muffle any complaints about her soreness, but he saw the way she bit her lower lip to keep the pained moans from escaping.
He’d pushed her too hard, but it was necessary. Soon, they’d be at the abbey, and she could get on with making peace with her future. And he’d go back to Sinclair land, and make peace with his memories.
And in the coming years of service, Gregor knew his silent, shameful dreams would be of Pearl smiling at him. And when he’d take himself in hand, it’d be her lips he imagined, her skin he pictured.
It would be enough.
And he’d never let anyone know he dreamed of her.
While the other men stretched their legs or relieved themselves, Gregor sat atop his horse, trying to force his mind to the present. The Sinclair had given him a great honor in entrusting this mission to him, and he needed his mind on the task, not a woman’s alluring curves…
Besides, there was something…else tickling his awareness. The feeling which just brushed against his skin. The feeling of eyes on him. A hint of a scent in the air…
Another man might’ve brushed off the unease, attributing it to his distraction by Pearl. But another man wasn’t as honor-bound as Gregor. And didn’t have his past.
Years spent living among lawless men, of stealing to survive, and worse, made Gregor more attuned to the danger bandits posed. They were four strong warriors, and although Pearl was a woman, she wore none of the trappings of a lady. There was naught to mark their group as easy pickings, or worth the risk, yet Gregor didn’t ignore his instincts.
It might be naught, or it might be a real danger.
He whistled to the men, and when he had their attention, pointed to his eyes, then tightened his hand into a fist at shoulder level.
The men recognized the gesture and immediately moved to their horses, alert and prepared. William swung into his saddle, his bow ready. Fergus and Mungo fingered the hilts of their swords.
And Pearl seemed oblivious, thank God.
When they moved out again, each man scanned the trees and rocks, alert for danger. It was an exhausting way to travel, but it’s how they should’ve been the whole time. Gregor’s gut shouldn’t be the only thing keeping them safe, and he reminded himself to point that out to them…after Pearl was safely delivered.
Only a few more days now.
The afternoon wore on, and it was easy to see the men’s vigilance fading. William made a few more jokes, and Mungo’s eyes glazed over with boredom. Gregor didn’t get the strange feeling in his gut again. Mayhap, whoever it was, had left them alone. Or, their small group had outpaced the danger. Or mayhap it was all in his head in the first place.
He frowned at the thought, wondering if his instincts had really been that muddled by a pair of silver-gray eyes.
Still, even if this danger was past, they couldn’t afford to let down their guard. He needed to keep his attention on their surroundings, where it belonged, so he could justify Duncan Sinclair’s trust in him. He owed it to the man to protect his daughter, so Gregor scanned the path ahead and to their sides.
Which is why, when the attack came, they weren’t all killed immediately.
Chapter Five
Pearl’s first indication something was wrong was the piercing whistle from the Hound. Whatever had caused the scar around his neck—and presumably was the reason he didn’t speak—hadn’t harmed his ability to make a startling, loud noise. When it rang out, sharp and clear, Pearl flinched so suddenly she almost fell off her horse.
Of course, she’d been distracted.
The last two days had been…well, miserable. When she’d originally left home, she’d been able to distract herself from thoughts of her decision by focusing on the strange feelings the Hound evoked in her. She couldn’t help but remember her sisters’ words that day on the hillside, about the way a man could make a woman feel.
Pearl didn’t feel that way about her father’s mysterious guard, oh no. But…
But he certainly was intriguing, wasn’t he? And handsome, in that roguish way. His hair was shorter than some of the other warriors, but ragged, as if he cared naught for his appearance, and hacked at it with a knife. But the length mattered not, because it was the color which was so enticing. When dirty or damp from rain, it was dark, but when the sun hit it, the Hound’s hair was the most beautiful shade of auburn. As red as the leaves in autumn. His eyes were a beautiful blue, and his arms…
Well, Pearl had lied to her sisters that afternoon on the hill. She had imagined a man’s arms around her, imagined touching them, caressing his shoulders. He was so much larger than most men, and she’d been fascinated for some time.
Aye, he was fascinating enough that it was easy to allow her mind to linger on him—to think about how his hands had felt against her wrist when he’d disarmed her before dinner, or the way his slight smile had made her feel, or how satisfying it had been to work beside him.
Aye, that was the only reason she’d been thinking so much of him, surely. A distraction.
But when he’d closed himself off from her, hadn’t even allowed her to talk to—at?—him, everything changed. He’d indicated he didn’t mind her chattering, and she’d believed him. But his actions of the last two days contradicted that, and without the thoughts of him to occupy her mind, Pearl was left to wallow in her own imagination about what the future might hold.
And it hadn’t been nice.
The closer they got to the Lowlands, the more worried she became that she’d made the wrong choice. Mayhap she should return home and tell Da she’d marry the devil, Laird Sutherland. At least in the Highlands, she’d have the chance to occasionally see her father and her sisters again, if her husband was kind. Aye, she’d have to leave home, but mayhap it wouldn’t be so bad. As a nun, she’d likely never see her loved ones again.
She found herself staring at the reins in her hands, thinking, I miss Da!
He hadn’t even come out to tell her goodbye!
The tears had just begun to prick at the back of her eyes when the Hound’s whistle made her jump in confusion. She jerked her head up, wondering at the noise…and that’s when all hell broke loose.
As her father’s men closed around her, the brush on either side of the road exploded with terrifying-looking men, all with wild hair and filthy clothes, waving blades and
screaming battle cries.
The Sinclair warriors had time to draw their swords, and probably could’ve fought off the group of untrained, disorganized bandits. But just when Pearl managed to take another breath, assuring herself all would be well, a rumble caused her to twist in her saddle.
A half dozen horses galloped down the steep hill on their right, and the warriors atop them carried weapons as if they knew what to do with them.
Pearl’s scream tore through the horrifying sounds of the battle around her, and she heard Fergus’s curse when he saw the new threat.
Time seemed to slow as William turned in his saddle to aim his arrows at the horsemen, but the bandits had their own bowmen. Arrows arced out of the rocks ahead, targeting her guards. Instinctively, Pearl ducked, but one of the white-feathered harbingers of death slammed into Mungo’s neck.
He made a gurgling noise and slid sideways into the fray.
Eyes wide, Pearl found the Hound in the melee. He was on the opposite side of the road from the approaching horsemen, and was fully occupied with the attackers around him. He slashed and chopped as his panicked mare pranced, intent on knocking away the blades and causing blood to bloom. It was difficult to parry from that position, but he’d pulled the knife from his boot and moved in a strangely sensual dance. A rare sunbeam caught his skin and made him seem to glow, vicious and lovely all at once.
Until, that is, he’d apparently cleared enough of a space around him to look up and meet her eyes.
He didn’t speak, but the anger and fear in them were enough for Pearl to understand. The command slammed into her as sure as if he’d shouted it.
Run!
Her momentary shock wore off only to be replaced by terror. Just as the horsemen reached the road to her right, she kicked her mare into motion with a screamed, “Hah!”
The animal surged into a gallop, but hadn’t taken more than two strides when it faltered. An arrow seemed to sprout from its shoulder, then another as it stumbled. She kicked it again, fear nearly consuming her mind, desperate to escape, but the animal’s forward motion became a sort of fall.
From behind her, she heard Fergus yell, “Go! Take her, Hound!”
Less than a heartbeat later, she was sailing through the air. Sure, the horse had thrown her, Pearl braced for the impact with the ground and prepared herself to climb to her feet and begin to run.
But the expected fall never happened. Instead, Pearl’s breath whooshed out of her has she slammed facedown across a horse’s withers…and a man’s powerful thighs.
Thinking only of those bandits on horseback, Pearl began to thrash. She didn’t know who these men were, but they’d worn no colors, and weren’t trained as clan warriors would be. They’d likely been after ransom, or whatever wealth her party had carried. Or…worse.
At that thought, Pearl shook off her stunned reaction and began to struggle. She kicked and screamed, determined to throw herself off the already-galloping horse. Aught would be better than what awaited her at the hands of these bandits!
Movement to one side drew her attention. A large hand slid down a larger leg and slipped a knife into a boot?
I recognize that knife.
As the moment of clarity hit, a hand rested across her back, the way it might if a man was trying to balance a sword and a struggling piece of baggage.
The Hound.
Pearl sucked in a breath and twisted her body to look straight up. Yes! That was the Hound’s chin, the Hound’s broad shoulders. And when something slammed into his back, forcing him forward, he made no sound.
She forced herself to go limp, to allow him to focus on their flight. Fergus’s cry made sense now. The Hound, in his loyalty, had abandoned the fight and his men, to get her to safety.
Pearl closed her eyes and began to say prayers for their flight and the safety of Fergus and William. Mungo was gone, so she prayed for his soul as well, and prayed the other two guards could somehow fight off their attackers.
As the miles pounded beneath the horse’s hooves, Pearl admitted the inevitable, and began to pray for Fergus and William’s souls as well. They’d died so she could be safe. It was their mission, and they’d completed it honorably, but she still cried for them.
It seemed like forever before she heard the sound of a sword being sheathed, and her rescuer pulled her upright with surprising gentleness. He didn’t slow the horse, but took a long look at her tear-streaked cheeks and shook his head slightly.
For once, she didn’t know what he’d meant. He didn’t think she should cry for William, Fergus, and Mungo?
When he pressed her face against his shoulder, she went willingly, wrapping her arms around his middle and allowing her legs to drape over one of his thighs. It was an indecent position, but the comfort was undeniable.
They rode on.
Gregor only halted when he sensed the horse was nearing exhaustion. The animal had traveled all day, the last two hours at a gallop with two riders. Besides, there’d been no pursuit. He’d backtracked a few times, to make sure they were alone. They passed through one village, and he slowed long enough to shout for help for the wounded men they’d left behind, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t help but wonder if the night they’d spent in that village had led to gossip about their party, which had made the bandits greedy.
Naught traveled faster than gossip in the Highlands, and one of the Sinclair Jewels would be a valuable prize.
Swallowing down his guilt at the others’ deaths, Gregor reminded himself he’d only abandoned them because of their orders. They would each give their lives to keep Duncan Sinclair’s daughter alive, and William, Fergus, and Mungo probably had. It was just luck Gregor hadn’t been wounded and had been close enough to grab her and run when he saw her horse falter.
And dear God in heaven, he didn’t think he’d ever forget the suffocating terror which clawed its way up his throat at the realization she was in such danger.
It was worse than being hanged.
He’d come so close to failing the Sinclair. Worse than that, he’d come so close to losing Pearl.
His arm tightened briefly around her, the movement causing him to wince. If he wasn’t mistaken, an arrow had taken a chunk out of his upper left shoulder. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but he’d need to tend to it after he got her settled.
He’d chosen a secluded glen beside a small stream. There was some evidence of previous camps but they should be safe.
He slid down from the saddle, then reached up for her, hiding his reaction to the stab of pain in his shoulder when he moved it. She didn’t notice, for which he was grateful, and allowed herself to be gently lowered to the ground.
As she slid down his body, the press of her curves against his hardness caused his stomach to tighten with desire. It was nigh impossible to resist pushing her against the shoulder of the horse, lowering his lips to hers, and showing her just how damn happy he was they were both still alive.
But he focused on his breathing and reminded himself who she was. Swallowing, he was able to step away.
That was when he saw her expression. She looked drained. As if the day had stolen something from her. He cursed himself for thinking about his baser instincts when she was in such a condition.
Leaving her beside the exhausted mare, he hurried to start a fire, and soon had a large blaze going. The chance they might be seen was worth it, if it made her feel better. He had to lead her by the hand to come sit beside the fire, and that was worrying. Keeping an eye on her, he saw to the horse and made sure the animal was unharmed after their hard ride. Then he sunk down beside Pearl.
Using only his right hand, he pulled provisions from the bag he’d strapped beside his saddle. But as he chewed the dry bannock, he watched her. Her hands began to shake, and she stared into the flames. Was she reliving the danger?
Oh God, she’d begun to cry. He felt helpless. She should be sitting on a fine chair within a keep, but instead, she dirtied herself by sitting on the ground beside him.
And the more she cried, the more useless he felt. Finally, he reached out and touched her arm. It was all the encouragement she’d needed, for she threw herself into his arms.
He shifted position so he could wrap his right arm around her, to keep her hands away from his wound.
“Poor Mungo!” she sobbed. “He was so loyal and true and—and—and he made delicious stews and—God’s breath, he’s dead! They’re all dead!” She sobbed against his chest. “I didnae want this! I didnae want to leave and…and…”
As she hiccupped against his chest, his heart ached for her. She was so pure and innocent, to see this kind of violence…their deaths, if they were all truly dead, were not her fault. But she’d been through so much in the last sennight, it was no wonder she hadn’t broken down before.
His arm tightened around her, and she burrowed closer to him, her fingers digging into his side in desperation. He liked that she felt safe enough with him to seek comfort. In fact, despite her desperate tears, he felt himself hardening under his plaid.
Shaming himself for his lustful thoughts wasn’t helping.
“I should have stayed at home! Da was right! I donae want to be a nun.”
He exhaled sharply, and she understood. Leaning away from him, her tearful eyes peered up at him.
“I donae, truthfully! I only wanted to be allowed to continue working for my people, an’ I thought taking vows would allow me to do that forever. But I miss my father and my sisters. I miss my home!” Her breath caught on a sob, but she made herself explain, her hands dragging at his shirt now. “I want to stay a Sinclair, I want to stay in the Highlands where I belong. I donae belong here—”
He did the only thing he could think to do to calm her; he lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was over quickly, and he pulled back as soon as he realized what he was doing.
But he didn’t go far.
No. His lips hovered just over hers, close enough to feel her breath against his skin, close enough to lose himself in the way the firelight flickered in her wide eyes. He saw shock there, and confusion, and he cursed himself for presuming to touch her.