Cursing her to perdition, within seconds he had swung himself on to his horse and was in hot pursuit, correctly assuming she would go in an easterly direction. His men followed, some dispersing in other directions.
Lorne had deliberately avoided looking over her shoulder as she picked her way amongst the hollies, the birch and the alder, but, coming to the end of the wood, she glanced back. She was unable to see the rider who pursued her, but heard the thunder of following hoofbeats becoming ever louder and nearer.
Emerging out of the trees into the full glare of sunlight, she rode like the wind. There was nothing ahead of her but a wide expanse of forest and sunwashed heather-emblazoned hills, and no sign of life. Her face set, her eyes blazing, she urged the horse to greater speed.
Behind her Iain saw a girl whose golden, unbound hair streamed out like a silken flag. She was a good horsewoman, riding in a way that would have done credit to her father and brothers, and in that unlikely moment he was overwhelmed with admiration.
Suddenly, from somewhere not far away, came the long, ululating blast of the hunting horn and the baying of hounds. Panicked, Lorne’s already excited, panting and sweating horse instantly reared and bolted. Struggling to bring it under control and at the same time outrun her pursuer, Lorne clung on in desperation. Ahead of her there loomed a narrow plateau with a steep incline on either side, the ground littered with outcrops of loose stones. Unable to turn and take a safer route, she found herself riding along it, trying not to look down the steep slopes to her right and left. All she could hear was the horse’s laboured breathing and the hollow thud of hooves.
Suddenly another blast of the hunting horn caused the horse to balk, pitching her over its head. The fall knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, dazed and disoriented and fighting for air, while her horse galloped away. Through a haze she saw a rider appear along the plateau. Her heart almost stopped when she recognised Iain on his huge white hunter, riding low over its neck and looking like an ominous spectre of doom. Terror and rage and an acute sense of fear overriding everything, recovering her senses and getting her breath back, she scrambled to her feet, and, as quick as a harried fox, took flight.
Iain flung himself off his horse and gave chase. Lorne turned and looked back, trying to remain upright on the loose stones. Iain almost stopped in his tracks when he beheld her face and saw her eyes sparking with green fire. She was like a tempestuous goddess, wild and beautiful in all her fury, and alive with hatred as she courageously tried to outrun her enemy, refusing to be broken. She was truly amazing, and in that moment Iain thought she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
When he was close he snatched at her, jerking her back, his fingers digging cruelly into her arm. She whirled round, stubborn and unyielding as she tried to get free of his iron hold.
‘Damn you,’ he bit out savagely, trying to prevent her nails from raking his face. ‘Stop fighting me, you little hellcat. It’s plain to see you share the blood of the McBrydes.’
Lorne continued to struggle against him as if her life depended on it. She saw his face, terrifying in its rage, his jaw clenched tight and his silver eyes as hard as granite. A cry broke from her lips when suddenly she lost her footing and began to fall, taking him with her. They hit the ground, tumbling and rolling over and over down the steep incline, a shower of dislodged stones accompanying them to the bottom.
Lorne found herself pinned beneath Iain’s powerful frame, unable to move, her chest straining in her need for air. His head was buried in the hollow of her neck and he was breathing hard. In breathless tension she waited for him to move, wondering if he was hurt.
With blood welling through his beard from a cut on his cheek, slowly he raised his head and looked down at her, his face just an inch from her own, his breath hot on her face. Their eyes became locked in a mesmerising web, and the fire that swept through Iain at having her womanly body pinned beneath his almost deafened him to any resistance. Immediately he recollected himself. Angry frustration ran rampant through every fibre of his being, as his argument was about to burst forth in a torrent.
Taking note of the taut set of his jaw and the undiluted fury blazing in his eyes, tendrils of fear coiled in the pit of Lorne’s stomach and her pulse accelerated wildly. Never had she encountered such cold, purposeful rage in her life—not even from her father and brothers.
Levering his body off hers, Iain got to his feet. ‘Get up,’ he snapped. Without waiting for her to obey he reached down and grasped her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet. Lorne winced when a pain shot up her forearm into her elbow, realising she must have hurt it in the fall, but Iain was so furious he was blind to her discomfort. Again he grabbed her injured arm in a powerful grip. She gasped in protest at feeling another shooting pain, but he was dragging her in his wake towards his horse, which had made a more dignified descent than its master. Placing his free hand on the saddle, Iain loomed over his captive, his gaze a cold blast, his expression intense.
‘How far did you think you’d get alone and defenceless, you little idiot? Is it that you are hell bent on self-destruction, or merely out to thwart me?’
Without waiting for her to reply, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her effortlessly on to his horse, before hoisting himself up behind her and wrapping his iron-thewed arms tightly round her waist in a grip that was meant to hurt and retaliate.
‘I will give you a warning, Lorne McBryde—just one,’ he said in a low, savage voice close to her ear. ‘If you ever try anything like that again or do one more thing to exasperate or anger me, I will personally see to it that you await your father’s arrival at Norwood in my deepest, darkest dungeon. Do you understand?’
Lorne swallowed convulsively and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, glad when his arms relaxed their iron hold.
‘I have your word?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘You have my word.’
Chapter Three
Silence lay heavily between them on the ride back to the castle, but each was conscious of the closeness of the other. With her back moulded to the hardened contours of Iain’s body, Lorne was more shaken by what had happened than she had let him see. Her throat ached and her eyes burned, but she would not cry.
They rode into the courtyard where a knot of men stood around waiting for them to return. Iain swung himself on to the ground and roughly pulled Lorne down after him. When she took a step back, his hand clamped down painfully on her forearm. Her face contorted with a new wave of pain, but Iain had his head turned away and didn’t see.
Archie rushed forward, relieved that Lorne appeared to be unhurt, but the same could not be said of his master. ‘My lord, your face is bleeding. It must be tended.’
Iain wiped his beard with the back of his hand, scowling when he saw the blood. He directed a single look at the woman by his side, his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers. ‘It will be tended, Archie, but not by you. Take someone with you to look for your horse. It bolted on hearing the sound of the horn.’
Still gripping Lorne’s wrist and forcibly pulling her behind him, Iain strode with long purposeful strides across the courtyard, through the trees and down to the burn. Once there he let go of her wrist and looked at her coldly. Lorne set her jaw and tried to fight the sudden fear that threatened to engulf her. She knew the folly of her escape effort, and retribution in the form of Iain Monroe had come swiftly for her foolishness.
‘Stay there,’ he snapped, knowing he would have to guard her carefully in the days ahead. She was impulsive and headstrong, and so unpredictable that he never knew what she would do next. Kneeling on one knee, he bent over the water and washed the blood from his beard. Standing and then resting his hips on a large boulder, which brought his face on a level with hers, he produced a small dirk from his belt, testing its sharpness with his thumb. His eyes were merciless when they settled on Lorne.
‘Come here.’
Mutely she ob
eyed and moved to stand in front of him, her eyes riveted on the knife. When he handed it to her, she took it with trembling hands. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Shave me.’
Her eyes widened until they were two great green orbs, and her soft lips parted in disbelief. ‘Shave you? But—I—I can’t,’ she whispered shakily. ‘Oh, no. Certainly not. I won’t do it.’
‘You can and you will.’
‘But—I’ve never—’
‘Now is the time to learn,’ he bit back, refusing to let her off the hook lightly. He noticed her shaking hands and his eyes narrowed. ‘And if you draw a single drop of my blood you must be prepared to suffer the consequences.’
Lorne’s eyes snapped to his, stormy once more. His tone threatened terrible consequences should she commit such a crime a second time. She did not know him well enough to discern what thoughts and intentions his face was reflecting, and she was unable to imagine what form his reprisals would take. However, hurt that he might believe she truly intended to harm him had the effect of subduing her nerves and reverting her to her former state of proud rebellion.
‘Are you not afraid that I might use this knife to slit your throat?’
Despite the stubborn tilt to her chin and her rebellious tone, there was a tiny quiver of fear in her voice, and when Iain heard it his heart softened. She had shown so much daring and amazing courage, so much indefatigable spirit in running away and fighting him so relentlessly, that he’d actually thought she was fearless. Now, however, as he looked at her, he saw the strain of the last twenty-four hours on her face, the mauve smudges beneath her eyes and her pallor.
‘No. I trust you,’ he said gently, deciding that helping her to relax while she held the knife was in both their best interests. ‘Just stay calm and you’ll do just fine.’
The soft words coming on the heels of his sudden change in persona from captor to carer took Lorne by surprise. It sounded nice, but she continued to glare at him in furious silence.
‘Now—come closer.’
Amazed by his unflappable calm, Lorne moved to stand to one side of him, intending to perform the dreaded task with as little contact as possible between them, but Iain had other ideas. Gently but firmly he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer so that she stood directly in front of him between his thighs. Placing his hands on her hips to prevent her moving away, his eyes laid siege to hers. In the circle of his arms he could feel the alert tension of all her muscles. Her stillness was like that of an animal poised for flight.
‘I want you where I can see you. Now—stop glaring at me and start shaving.’
Conscious of his hands holding her firm, with a militant look in her eyes she tipped his head back with her finger and began to ply the blade carefully to the lean contours of his jaw. Shaving the uninjured side of his face first, she passed the blade over his cheek, wiping it after each stroke on a kerchief which Iain provided.
‘If you cooperate, life will be much easier for you when we reach Norwood,’ he told her, his eyes tracing the classically beautiful lines of her face, thinking that she really was extraordinarily lovely, her skin fine and soft.
Lorne sighed, feeling inclined to do just that. For one thing she was in no fit state to continue sparring with him—not that she wanted to. She was also physically exhausted and her arm was hurting.
‘Have you never shaved your brothers?’ Iain asked conversationally, liking the feel of having her close. His gaze was able to dwell on her hairline, on the fine bloom of pale blonde hair, which was like a newborn babe’s.
Preoccupied with her task and gnawing on her bottom lip in deep concentration as she carefully applied the blade to that vulnerable area beneath his nose, she shook her head slowly. ‘I told you, I was sent to England to live with my grandmother. I haven’t seen either of my brothers for seven years.’
She paused in her task and frowned irately when she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practised ease of a born seducer. The movement shocked her to the depths of her virginal innocence and made her heart pound in her chest.
‘I think you’re beginning to enjoy this. Do you have to hold me in quite that way? Please remove your hands,’ she said, meeting the enigmatic gaze of the man who was nine years older than her in years but centuries older than her in experience, who had done and seen everything there was to do and see, and who knew exactly the effect his intimate hold was having on her.
Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to Iain’s lips and urged him to draw her a bit closer, settling her thighs intimately against his loins, the action flicking a fiery brand across his senses. ‘Not a chance. Not until you’ve performed your task to my satisfaction. I don’t want you taking off before you’ve finished removing my beard,’ he murmured teasingly, his warm breath touching her face.
Lorne began again, oddly relaxed by the low timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Do you always wear a beard?’ she asked softly.
‘No. Only when my military duties keep me away from home for any length of time—or when I’m hunting, as now. I find it tedious always having to shave.’
‘You have a manservant. Couldn’t he do that?’
He chuckled at that. ‘I wouldn’t trust Archie anywhere near my face with a sharp blade. I prefer to do it myself—unless there happens to be a pretty maid with a steady hand willing to perform the task for me.’
The softening of his voice caused Lorne’s heart to skip a beat. ‘I seem to recall you gave me little choice,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes by wiping the blade once more. ‘You—you are a soldier?’ she asked, not really surprised, for there was an aura about him of a man who had often confronted danger—and derived pleasure from it.
‘Was. When peace was restored between England and France, I returned to Norwood and vowed to live an untroubled life running my estate and pursuing life’s simple pleasures—which I was doing nicely until you came crashing into my life with all the force of a tribe of Highlanders. Unfortunately, peace at Norwood will not be restored until this business with your father is settled.’
‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she retorted sharply. After a moment’s silence in which she was uneasily conscious of his eyes perusing every detail of her face, she said, ‘During the war with France, did you serve in Flanders?’
‘I did.’
‘Robert, my brother, was there, too.’
Iain scowled with derision. ‘I know—fighting for King Louis.’
Lorne was quick to defend her brother. ‘To be fair to Robert, he fights for what he believes to be right—just as you do—and his prime concern is for the Highlands and the Highlanders’ way of life. But I remember what you said when you came to Kinlochalen that day. You spoke the truth when you said the Highlanders were enmeshed in the ways of the past, settling scores by the old methods. You also said that the world is changing, that Scotland is changing, but Robert’s obstinate and independent spirit will never accept change.’
Iain regarded her in amazement. ‘Considering the short time you spent with your brother before you were sent to live with your grandmother, you appear to know him well. You also remember a great deal about that day I rode into Kinlochalen, Lorne McBryde.’
‘I remember everything about that day,’ she said quietly, meaningfully, a faraway look entering her eyes as she paused in her task. Her eyes settled on his. ‘I may have lived in England for the past seven years, but I was born a Highlander and my memory is long. Both Robert and James wrote to me on a regular basis at Astley Priory.’
Iain caught her gaze, and regarded her intently. ‘But when your father was sentenced to hang, to prevent the forfeiture of Drumgow and his estate, your brother signed an oath of allegiance before the start of ’92, submitting himself and his dependents to King William and his indemnity.’
‘Robert swore that oath in shame and bitterness in the presence of the Sheriffs at Inveraray, where my father will hang if he i
s caught. It is no secret that Robert is prepared to work towards a second Stewart restoration. For the most part he keeps his thoughts to himself, but his hatred of being ruled by an alien Protestant southern government is shared by many West Highland clans who, as you will be aware, form a hard core of implacable, obstinate dissent and remain loyal to the Stewart cause.’
Having removed most of his beard, Lorne paused to gaze at the face that was beginning to emerge. She saw arrogance in the jut of her captor’s jaw, and an indomitable pride and strength etched in every finely moulded feature. She was also beginning to sense a powerful charisma that had nothing to do with his handsome looks and powerful physique, or that mocking smile of his and brilliant flashing eyes.
Unbidden, another face floated before her eyes, a face so like this one, but without the arrogance and hard-bitten edge of experience and age. It was the face of his brother David, with features so fair and so perfect. She realised that David would have looked like the boy Iain had once been. Tears misted her eyes and a hard lump appeared in her throat.
‘What is it?’ Iain asked warily, seeing her distress and suspecting the reason for it.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat and whispered, ‘You—you look like—’
Iain’s features tightened and he stiffened, embracing her in a glance that was ice cold. ‘Don’t say it,’ he warned quietly.
Heeding the warning note in his voice, Lorne lowered her gaze and, resigning herself with a little sigh, continued with her task in thoughtful silence. Unwilling to let her stop talking and in an attempt to relieve the awkward moment, with his eyes fixed compellingly on her sweet, downcast face, Iain asked, ‘Did you enjoy living with your grandmother?’
She nodded, glad that he was no longer angry with her for reminding him of his brother. The mood of conviviality between them was a relief and she welcomed it. ‘I love her dearly. It may surprise you to know that my grandmother is Scottish by birth. Her family lived in Leith—but they’re all dead now. When my grandfather came to Edinburgh during the Civil War, he met and married her and took her to live at Astley Priory—his home near York.’
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