Wicked Highland Heroes

by Tarah Scott

  Iain shoved her behind his large bulk and bent, pulling something from his boot. Victoria took a step back at the sight of a tiny glint bouncing off what Iain gripped. A dagger. She recalled the knife when he’d cut her bonds on the trip to Fauldun Castle. More heated words flew between the men, all in Gaelic, but Victoria didn’t miss the name. Iain MacPherson. At last, the man mumbled a response, then turned back the way he’d come.

  Iain faced her and Victoria found he stood so close she was forced to angle her head almost directly up in a wasted effort to discern his expression in the darkness.

  “What are you thinking, out alone on a night like this?” he demanded.

  The accusatory tone in his voice brought an instant rebuttal to her lips, but she faltered with the memory that Maude had warned of just such an incident. “I was going home.” She waved a hand in the direction of her cottage.

  “I can see risk taking is a habit of yours,” he said.

  Victoria leaned away from him, aware he must have consumed more than just the ale she’d witnessed him drinking. From the smell of things, whiskey had followed after she’d left.

  “What sort of mischief are ye thinkin’ to find tonight, lass?”

  She was startled by the sudden loss of proper speech she’d been accustomed to hearing him speak, but it was the soft tone of his voice that made her throat go dry.

  He stepped closer. “Are ye finding yourself in need of company?”

  He gripped her shoulders and drew her against him. Her heart jumped. Her keeper was in no better a mood than the stranger who had followed her.

  “Or perhaps you were thinkin’ to find your friend along the way?” he asked in a voice that was suddenly thick.

  “Friend?” Victoria repeated, her confusion growing worse with each heavy breath she felt him make.

  “Any fool can see the way he was talking to you,”

  Iain went on. “And you did not seem to mind.”

  “What in the name of—” Victoria stopped, realizing he meant Johannas. “You cannot mean—”

  “I am no more a fool then you are,” he broke in. “You were damned friendly with him in the hall,”

  Iain said, his grip on her tightening with each word,

  “but dinna’ deign to speak a civil word to me.”

  “Why should I? You are but my captor.” The instant the words were out of her mouth she remembered her desire to throw herself into his arms the day he faced Kevin Robertson. The disconcerting recollection ended with the awareness of his body so close to hers.

  He leaned into her, his breath fanning the tips of her eyebrows. “Making ye naught but a prisoner?” His voice had grown husky, and his next words were a low whisper, “’Tis war, then?”

  “War?”

  “Aye, you think to make war with me?” His quiet laughter filled the space between them. “Beware, lassie, it is a fine line between love and hate.”

  Victoria shuddered when his arms went around her back and he folded her close.

  “Perhaps you do not know one from the other,” he said.

  She thought she had forgotten the feel of him, but his lips touched hers and memories rose in greedy haste to the surface. The day at the abbey, his rough handling of her, the night the Fraser men arrived in their camp, and the gentle way he held her after their assault, all mingled now in his embrace.

  An unexpected groan from him parted her lips in surprise. Iain wasted no time in exploring her mouth with his tongue. He searched with a slow and thoughtful familiarity that almost buckled her knees. Her fingers curled into the hard muscle of his shoulders as his hands slid down, grasped her buttocks, and pressed her in a circular motion against him. When Victoria sucked in a breath at feel of his arousal, he repeated the motion again and again…and again. His mouth at last broke free of her lips and found her ear.

  “Can Johannas do that for you?”

  The whispered question broke the spell. Victoria jerked as far away as his grasp would allow. His expression was masked by the shadows, but his heavy breathing gave evidence that he was no less affected than she. Flattening her palms against his chest, she shoved hard. To her surprise, he released her. She whirled in the direction of her cottage.

  Iain caught her by the arm. “Nay.” He pulled her through the darkness. “I will no’ leave you to learn this lesson at the hands of another man.”

  Victoria’s efforts to free herself became a wobbly walk along the path, and she realized he wasn’t as composed as usual. Upon their arrival at the cottage, he pushed open the door and spun her around to face him.

  “Lock this door and do not come out until morning.” He kissed her hard, then shoved her inside. Iain stepped forward and halted in the doorway. Light from sconces on neighboring cottages glinted in his eyes. He reached in and grabbed the door. “And for Christ’s sake, do not open the damn thing for anyone—least of all me.”

  Iain yanked it shut. She stared for a heartbeat, then rushed forward to slide the bolt into place.

  Chapter Twelve

  The voices edged closer.

  With a violent flick of the reins, Victoria dug her heels deeper into the belly of her horse. Strong and sure, the incessant beating of his hooves against moist ground came as a welcome accompaniment to the wild rhythm of her heart. She pushed harder and leaned forward against her companion. Despite the gray distance they left behind, the whispers gained in slow measure.

  Two trees appeared in their path. Victoria yanked back on the reins, and the horse gave a cry that pierced the constant pulse of the murmurings.

  “Cherry trees.” The girl who rode astride in front of Victoria breathed. They neared the tree. “Trouble goes before us.” Her attention shifted toward thunder that rumbled in the distance.

  Victoria followed her gaze toward the darkening clouds.

  “Look.” Her companion pointed heavenward. “A raven. Morrigan has been sent from the heavens to do battle with us.”

  The voices intruded upon them. They grew louder, and Victoria turned their horse in a circle, seeking any form of sanctuary. But the barren land offered none, save that of the two trees. Panic rose. Even the delicate flowers rustling in the wind held a terror well beyond that of the phantom voices.

  “Why do you still search?” the girl asked. “You have already found refuge.”

  Victoria urged her steed forward. “Not I, but you.”

  “Me?” the girl repeated as if the thought were as foreign as the countryside around them. “Mayhap,” she sighed, “for a time. But ’tis you who need look no more.”

  Victoria started to deny the possibility, but instead, headed for the hill now visible in the distance. As they drew nearer, men crested the rise. She started to turn away, but slowed when she observed the figure at the head of the band. A man, dark of hair and skin, with eyes that were a reflection of the dark countenance.

  Still, his was not a darkness that instilled fear, but one that held mysteries that called to her as surely as the sirens lured passing ships. To their deaths. Victoria shivered, yet knew destruction wasn’t what she recognized in him, but grief. The din of voices lowered, and a single voice spoke above the rest.

  “Oh, as I begin the lament of my great distress, what mourning shall I strive to utter? Or what Muse shall I approach with tears or songs of death or woe? Sirens, may you come to my mourning with Libyan flute and pipe or lyre, tears to match my plaintive woes.”

  “Ride on,” her companion whispered against the wind of voices. “Do not delay.”

  All is lost, all is lost. Victoria shook her head as her own voice sang the familiar song in her head.

  The struggle seemed greater than it had when they first made this journey—and they had made this journey before. She and the girl had fled those who would have done them both harm—and escaped. Yet, somehow, she had not escaped.

  The men started down the hill.

  Victoria bolted upright, grasping at thin air where reins should have been in her hands. She looked abo
ut in a frenzy, blinking against sunlight that streamed through the window and across her bed. Her erratic heartbeat began to slow at the realization that she was safe and far from the vision of hill and men—or, more accurately, safe from the man.

  The trembling subsided as the former sense of mystery and darkness gave way to the more corporeal reality of light and understanding. Still, her legs remained unsteady even as she rose to dress.

  At last, Victoria opened the cottage door and stepped out into the brilliant light of the morning sun. Yet even those golden rays didn’t drive away the chill that had worked its way through her in a slow but steady pulse as the voices had in her dream.

  * * * *

  Jillian already sat upright in bed when Victoria entered the room. Victoria crossed to her, careful not to spill the broth she carried. “Perhaps you can eat just a little?” She smiled with an encouraging lift of the bowl and seated herself next to Jillian.

  The girl gave a halfhearted nod and accepted the bowl. Victoria watched the slow progress of the spoon to her swollen lips. Though two spoonfuls were all she took before she lowered the bowl to her lap, Victoria knew fatigue was not the enemy this time. She covered Jillian’s hand with her own.

  “You are still worried?” The affirming nod came as no surprise. Victoria was well aware the dark horse that claimed Jillian’s thoughts was the belief that her benefactor’s good graces would be sorely tried by the appearance of her accusers.

  May their souls rot in hell, Victoria seethed, not for the first time that morning. Far worse than the bruises were the unseen wounds that would long outlast any physical trauma. Victoria sighed, and Jillian began to cry.

  “I am sorry, mistress,” she choked between sobs.

  “I did not mean to make you angry.”

  “I am not angry,” Victoria soothed, but the girl’s tears showed no signs of abating.

  “What is this all about?”

  Both women looked up at sound of Iain’s deep voice emanating from the doorway.

  “I am very glad to see you, my lord,” Victoria said.

  His brow rose. “Are you now?”

  “Aye. Now that you are here, you may explain to Jillian how you intend to protect her.”

  He gave a low, “Hmm,” and studied Victoria before centering his attention to Jillian. “You may begin by explaining yourself.” His command elicited more incoherent sobs.

  He winced, but Victoria wasn’t the least sympathetic to his obvious aversion to tears. “Really, sir.” She stood. “You are to reassure her, not send her into more hysterics. There now, Jillian.” Victoria looked back down at her. “You worry about finishing your meal. We will return in a moment.”

  Victoria walked to where Iain still stood in the doorway. Waving him out of the room, she followed him, closing the door behind her. “What is amiss this morning?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Victoria realized she wished no honest answer and rushed on. “It is unkind of you to add to her distress. You may consider it an inconvenience to show some tact, but you could at least try. She must wonder—”

  “Enough.” Iain held up his hands. “I just want to know what happened.”

  “Well, you cannot expect her to place trust in you when you are so gruff.”

  “Gruff?” His brow furrowed. “I was merely being direct. Why can she not trust me? She is here, safe in my home.”

  “Aye, but ’tis not so easy for a woman to believe.” She frowned at the incredulous expression on his face. An exasperated shake of her head freed several locks of hair from the yellow ribbon that had been their prison. Shoving them aside, she said, “How is she to know you are any better than her persecutors?

  Do you forget what they did to her?”

  “Nay, love,” he answered in a quiet voice. “I can never forget.”

  “Good. Keep that in mind when you speak with her. You cannot begin to imagine how it feels to be at the mercy of a man.”

  Victoria started to turn, but Iain caught her arm.

  “Have you ever been beaten in such a manner?” “Oh no. Never so badly.”

  A look straight from the depths of hell claimed his already hardened features. “How badly?” he demanded.

  Her cheeks warmed and she looked from where his grip had tightened on her arm down to her feet.

  “You know you need never fear such treatment from me?” he said after a moment’s silence.

  Victoria looked up at him. Memories of the previous night, rushed forward. “Yes, my lord.”

  “No matter what,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard, “I could never handle a woman in that

  manner. You know that?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Iain placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face upward, saying, “You need not fear me at all.”

  But she knew that was a lie.

  * * *

  Iain remained in the doorway of the modest room and watched as the lass again settled herself next to Jillian. She took the bowl Jillian handed her, placed it on the small table beside the bed, then took Jillian’s hand in hers and smiled. “Are you ready to tell us what happened?”

  Jillian glanced at him, and he gave a small nod of encouragement. With a deep breath she began, her voice surprisingly clear. “I had been gone for near a fortnight. I went north to Auchtergaven. ’Tis the largest village for miles, you know.” A blush colored her cheeks. “I went there to find a dress for the wedding.”

  “A wedding?” the lass asked.

  Jillian nodded. “Jonathan and I were to be married.”

  “Who is Jonathan?”

  “The man they say I murdered.”

  “Christ,” Iain said in unison with the lass’s

  “Sweet Jesu.”

  “I did not kill him,” Jillian put in. “I loved Jonathan.” Her words came in a rush now, and her fingers curled around the lass’s hand. “I cannot remember a time when I did not love him. We grew up together. We always knew we would be together.” There was a long pause and tears filled her dark eyes.

  “I did not kill him. I tried to save him.” “What do you mean?” his captive asked.

  “When I arrived home, I learned Jonathan had also arrived that day. He had been away hunting. It is a fine time for pheasant, and deer are plentiful this year.” She looked to Iain, and he confirmed the statement with a nod.

  “I was looking forward to seeing him. With me gone nearly a fortnight and him leaving before I did, it was nigh to three weeks we were apart.” Another pause and she swiped at a few tears that spilled down her cheeks. “Kevin said Jonathan had been asking for me, but that he did not know where Jonathan had gone.”

  “Kevin?” Iain straightened from the doorway.

  “Aye,” Jillian said.

  “What does he know of this?”

  Jillian shrugged. “I do not know.”

  “Who is he to you?”

  “I know little of him. Jonathan met him, oh…little more than a year ago when he was away to Auchtergaven. Many of us journey there throughout the year for the festivals.”

  “He is not from your village?” Iain asked.

  “Nay.” Jillian shook her head. “His village is west. I think. I do not remember the place.”

  “Never mind,” Iain said. “Go on.”

  “I wanted to search for Jonathan, but had found a dress in Auchtergaven and needed to put it away.” She smiled shyly at the lass. “I did not want him to see it. You understand?”

  The lass smiled, and Iain thought she did understand.

  “Jonathan has a small cottage on the outskirts of the village,” Jillian went on. “It was going to be our place after…” She halted again, but this time there were no tears, just silence.

  Iain thought perhaps she had said all she could for the moment, but she went on.

  “I opened the door, and had the dress in my arms. I was holding it out so as not to get wrinkled. I did not see him at first. Too busy fussing with that silly dress. I spread it out on the
bed all nice so I could admire it when I noticed something sticking out from behind the scullery curtain. When I opened it—” She broke into full tears.

  The lass gathered her close and rocked Jillian. Just as Iain decided neither woman was fit to conclude the interview, his captive stroked Jillian’s hair and said, “Can you manage the rest of the story? I know it is the hardest thing you will ever have to do—”

  “Nay,” Jillian pulled from her embrace, the vehemence in her voice clearly the strength she drew on. “The hardest thing was finding him lying there with his own sword through his belly.”

  “His own sword?” Iain hadn’t realized he’d said the words out loud until the lass glanced at him, but Jillian seemed oblivious as she said, her voice growing softer, “…and then seeing the tiny rise and fall of his chest, knowing he was still alive, yet not long for this world.

  “I tried to pull the sword out.” She said the words so abruptly, Iain could picture the small woman tugging on the sword he knew must have taken both hands to grasp.

  “But as I yanked the foul thing from him, his breath gave way for the last time,” her head wagged from side to side as if doing so would shake the memory from her mind, “and all I could do was stand there and watch.” She stilled, seeming to have forgotten their presence. “His eyes were still open. His soul was gone, but his body just lay there, staring at me.” Her voice trailed off, then she whispered,

  “That’s when I heard them.” “Heard who?” Victoria prodded. “The voices.” The lass gasped. Iain took a step toward them. “What is it?” “What do you mean, the voices?” she demanded.

  “Jonathan’s friends.” Jillian replied. “They had come to see him. When they saw me standing there with his sword in hand they began to all talk at once.”

  The lass visibly relaxed. “So the voices were their outcry when they saw Jonathan lying there?”

  “Aye,” Jillian said, “and they began to shout that I had killed him.”