The Highland Outlaw

by Heather McCollum

  A low moan floated out of her on an exhale. “I want to be completely bare against you.”

  “Och,” he breathed against her mouth as her skirt bunched up at her stomach so that she could press firmly against his hard length, cradling him with her bare body. His hand left her stomach to stroke up her naked leg, lifting and turning them so that she lay sprawled out across him.

  “Your stitches,” she said.

  “I am off of them.”

  Both of his large hands spanned her naked arse as she rose up over his chest, her hands gripping his shoulders, letting her breasts hang down. Pressed so intimately, she began to rock, and Shaw helped her find a brisk, delicious rhythm, rubbing against him. She leaned her face down to kiss him, ravishing his mouth. Gasping as she felt him touch her entrance, she opened her knees farther.

  “I ache there,” she whispered.

  He groaned but didn’t enter. “Och, Alana. There is no going back afterward.”

  No going back? Did he mean that she wouldn’t be a virgin anymore? She knew that, knew that giving herself to a man meant that she wouldn’t be pure for her wedding night, but at that moment, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was Shaw, his scent, his touch, and the deep ache that yearned for him.

  Before she could answer, he shifted again, sliding her back to her side while pulling her leg to lie high over his hip above the stitches. She was spread and naked as his fingers moved to her abdomen and then dipped lower.

  She inhaled as he grazed her sensitive spot, as if knowing exactly where to touch her to bring such pleasure. Their kisses were wild, slanting against one another while he delved within, strumming inside and out. Stroke after wild stroke, building the pressure within her.

  “Take your pleasure, Alana,” he said, his northern brogue thick with passion. “Let go,” he whispered at her ear, the velvet roughness of his voice teasing her even higher.

  “Yes, Shaw, oh God.” The fire inside her erupted, shattering through her like lightning hitting the surface of a frozen lake, shards of pleasure slicing her composure, her muscles clenching as she clung to him, rocking into him. She rode the waves of sensation, a low moan whispering from her lips.

  Reaching down his muscular, hot body to his still rock-hard jack, her hands wrapped around him. “I would make you feel as good,” she whispered, her breath still fast and shallow.

  He kissed her as she moved her hands, groaning softly. “Ye are so beautiful, lass.” The passion, thick in his voice, plucked at the satisfied ache within her.

  Shaw froze, his hand dropping to her wrists, holding them with gentle pressure to stop their movement. His lips dropped to her ear to whisper, “Listen.”

  Heart pounding hard, Alana held completely still, though with the rush of blood in her ears she couldn’t hear much. She concentrated on slowing her breathing and making it silent. Slowly she drew her hands up between them but made no further movement.

  Crack. Snort.

  Off toward the stream, a bridle jangled. Rìgh was tethered in the other direction, and from what Shaw had said, the horse was trained not to make a sound. No, there was at least one other horse nearby. Maybe it had wandered away from a farm.

  “Should we stop here for the night, Major?” The man’s English accent sliced through her passion, cooling her so fast that she shivered. There was no doubt that the major was Dixon.

  Her body went rigid. Mo chreach! Shaw was naked and injured, and she was nearly naked herself. She hadn’t replaced her sgian dubh, which she last saw sticking out of the English soldier’s hand, and she had no idea where her hair spike had fallen out while rolling around with Shaw. Naked and without weapons, their only chance was to remain hidden.

  “Water the horses.” Major Dixon’s voice confirmed that it was the jackal that had attacked them back at Kinross, demanding to inspect the baby. Thank God they had sent Rose with Rabbie and the Sinclairs. Robert as well. Any noise from either of them would have given them all away.

  Shaw held Alana, his hand pressed flat against the small of her back, supporting her, holding her close. Could he feel the panic in her limbs, the wild thump of her heart that made sparks glitter on the edge of her periphery? Was he willing her to remain still? Her heart felt too high in her chest at the thought of what the men would do to Shaw if they found them, and what they might do to her. How would they explain the absence of their babe?

  “There has been no fire here,” the major said. “And they would need to heat the milk for the baby. No, we will move on. They are likely following this stream east.”

  “But the woman in the village said they headed west,” another man said.

  Alana listened to the low thump of boots hitting the ground as the soldiers dismounted.

  “The woman lied,” Major Dixon said. “The tracks led west at first but circled around to the east. They are heading to St. Andrews as we were told.”

  The water splashed as the horses stepped along the edge to drink.

  Shaw’s hand came away from her back. With utter silence, he slowly slid her tangled smock down her legs, followed by the light wool fabric of her skirt. He didn’t want her naked, either, with eight English soldiers finding places to piss in the dark. She slowly lifted the front of her smock and stays, tucking her breasts back underneath.

  A light breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and footfalls walked toward them. She held her breath. If the man saw the leaf-covered structure, hopefully he would just think it was a small berm or covered boulder. Thank God that Shaw’s horse was dark in color. Leaves crunching with each step closer, her heart pounded blood through her, readying her to defend herself if found. Lord, it was so loud, it was a wonder the soldiers couldn’t hear it.

  The steps stopped. She drew an inhale to dispel the sparks in her periphery. Nothing good would come from her swooning. A shifting of cloth was followed by the sound of the man pissing. He cleared his throat and spit. He was no more than four feet from them.

  Other footsteps sounded farther back toward the stream. Alana stared at Shaw in the muted silver light. His face was hard, determined, but he kept his gaze centered on her. Slowly, he raised a six-inch sgian dubh so that it came up out of shadow before her face, then he lowered it, pressing the handle into the palm of her hand. She grasped the blade, the weight helping her relax enough to draw a slow, full breath.

  “Shite,” the soldier said. “Fitzwilliam.”

  “Eh?”

  “I swear I saw something move over there, down low to the ground.”

  Boot steps crunched closer. Alana kept her gaze centered on Shaw’s eyes. He would get her through this if they found them. She would do whatever he told her to do.

  “An animal?”

  Had he seen Rìgh? The large horse was lying on the ground but may have moved its head.

  “It was large and dark,” the first man said. He lowered his voice. “Maybe a wolf.”

  “As long as it isn’t a babe or foking Scot, leave it. Come on. The major wants to keep riding.”

  “I hope there is ale and a willing woman at the end of this ride,” the first soldier said, and the two of them tramped back through the leaves, stepping a path around the leaf-covered lean-to.

  “We will ride on, see if we smell a campfire along this stream,” Dixon said, his voice still too close. She strained her ears to hear the soldiers mounting again. It was impossible to count how many were out there by sound alone.

  The two of them lay, half perched upright in the dark, listening to the horses walk off through the woods, following the stream. As the last steps faded enough that the breeze covered the sound, she let herself down off her elbow and leaned her head into Shaw’s bare chest. She closed her eyes and breathed.

  He leaned down, his fingers brushing the hair from her cheek. “They are gone,” he whispered right at her ear.

  A trembling had taken hold of her, but she nodded, her head brushing his skin. No, there was no fire that the soldiers could throw her into, but they c
ould have done worse to her and could have pocked Shaw full of holes. He gathered her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. Without a word, she breathed in his smell, his essence, and took strength from his embrace. He stroked her hair. “They will not return. Sleep, lass. Ye are safe.”

  “They will realize that there are no more tracks along the stream when daylight comes,” she whispered.

  “Aye. We will ford the stream, head farther north before turning east. It will delay us a bit, but my men will wait for me in St. Andrews with Rose.”

  “They will not…give her to whomever is waiting for her?”

  “Nay. ’Tis my duty as chief to see it finished. They will give me time to arrive unless…the waiting goes on too long.” He meant, unless the English had found them and shot them where they lay entwined together. A shudder ran down through her, turning the heat of the passion they had shared into ice. He pulled her against him as if realizing that she needed the feel of his protection and strength. And at that moment, she certainly did.

  …

  His blasted leg was stiff from the wound, but at least it looked free of taint. So far. Shaw tied his kilt over his hips and tunic. The spot on his kilt that Alana had washed free of blood was still damp, but it wasn’t a bother. He looked to the stream where she cupped the clear water into her hands to splash over her bonny face. Dawn had just broken, and they moved rapidly to break camp, just in case Dixon decided to track backward when he couldn’t find farther tracks. It left no time for talk.

  She stood, drying her face with the edge of her wrinkled petticoat. He could see the black trousers that she had used as a pillow encasing her legs before she dropped the skirt back down. Looking up, she caught his stare. There was pink in her cheeks, but that could be from the brisk water.

  Och, how he’d wanted to take her last night. Soft, wet, and willing, her body had beckoned him to the point that he’d almost lost his mind. She is a Campbell. You abducted her. She might hate you if she finds out the truth.

  The arrival of the soldiers had actually saved him from making a mistake. No matter that the lass had wanted him. He couldn’t rut with a virgin under leaves on a forest floor. His mother may have been too weak to protect her young son and herself from abuse, but she had taught him about being honorable.

  “Do you think they saw Rìgh last night?” she asked as she walked close, still unwilling to raise her voice much above a whisper.

  He patted the noble animal’s neck, and Rìgh shook his mane. “Aye. He is likely the only animal out here with a bunch of men clomping around, scaring them off.”

  “Thank God they did not go closer and find him.”

  He gently squeezed her upper arm until she met his gaze. “Alana, about what happened last night…before Dixon showed up.”

  The pink in her cheeks was not from the water now. “Yes?”

  “I did not…I should not have taken liberties,” he said. “I would not dishonor ye by taking ye in the dirt and leaves. Ye do not have to worry about—”

  “Me seducing you again?” She blinked, and her hands fisted at her sides. “I believe we are both responsible for our actions last night.” She didn’t look angry, just a bit embarrassed. He opened his mouth but then closed it, not sure how to respond. The lass thought she’d seduced him? Well, everything about her drew him in, but that wasn’t her fault. His lapse in discipline was to blame.

  Before he could figure out a response that wouldn’t negate what she said but reassured her that it wouldn’t happen again, she stepped past him to Rìgh. “We should move on. Do you need help climbing on top?”

  The vision of him sliding up and over her naked, writhing body filled his disobedient mind, and he coughed into his fist. “What is that, lass?”

  “On top,” she pointed to Rìgh. “I can help get you up.”

  Blast, he was already up, and she’d be sure to feel it through his kilt when she nestled against him in the saddle. Och, they should talk, when it was stark daylight, and they weren’t wrapped together in a tiny, dark lean-to. But there wasn’t time right now. “Nay,” he said. “I will…mount first, from the wrong side.”

  He met her next to the large brown and black horse. “Does the wound pain you?” she asked, a slight frown between her gently arched brows.

  He itched to rub a finger over the lines there, soothing them away. “Nothing of consequence.”

  “I will need to strip you down and wash you when we stop today.”

  Mo chreach. Was she purposely saying things in a way to bring delicious images of them rutting to mind?

  He rubbed a hand down his jawline. “Lass…”

  She paused, looking at him expectantly.

  What did he want to say? That given time, privacy, and a bed out of the dirt and leaves, he’d gladly let her seduce him again? That he hadn’t contemplated using her as a Campbell hostage if the bairn didn’t win him back Girnigoe? Nay, for although he may not have told her the truth outright, he would never lie. Isn’t that the same as lying? Damn his conscience.

  “Shaw?”

  He braced his legs apart, not caring that the stance made his hip ache. The battle stance prepared him for any outcome; he’d learned that as a boy fighting his way amongst all the other boys trying to grow into men. “Ye do not hate me, then? For…taking ye from the festival?”

  Her soft look pinched into annoyance. “I am not in the habit of kissing and…touching men whom I hate. I am not plotting to soften your defenses by falsely acting the willing lass.”

  “I never thought that,” he said to her back as she turned and strode to the front of Rìgh, scratching under his bristly chin. He followed. “I am just… We work better with ye accepting my apology.”

  “As long as you do not intend to stuff anything further into my mouth, yes, I forgive you. We’ve been over this. You were trying to keep a babe alive. Rose would likely be dead now if you had not forced my hand in helping. You could not even feed her…”

  She was talking, but Shaw had lost track of her words after she’d mentioned stuffing something into her mouth. His jack had gone from hard to twitching granite. Had his blasted jack taken control of his mind, twisting her innocent words into erotic scenarios?

  She stared at him as if waiting for a response. He gave her a tight nod before striding the rest of the way around to the other side of Rìgh so he could mount using his good leg. Up in the saddle he gathered his kilt before him, but she would need to be a complete innocent not to notice the hardness nudging the back of her shapely arse. Catching her foot in the opposite stirrup, Alana lifted herself, rucking her skirt up to straddle her legs, settling down before him. Shaw stared straight ahead at the trees as he breathed through the torture of her wiggling and adjusting in the seat.

  He grunted, tugging the reins to turn Rìgh toward the stream to cross onto a flat granite rock where it would be nearly impossible to see his tracks once they dried. Alana pressed back into him, and he tried to concentrate on the horse’s footing, although Rìgh was certainly capable of crossing the stream that was only two feet deep at most. Blast, this would be easier if she despised him.

  Tell her. The words were from his conscience, not his jack. For telling her what he had been willing to do to regain Girnigoe from the Campbells would surely bring about cold hatred from the warm woman who glanced over her shoulder with raised brows. Her gaze dropped to his jack before turning forward.

  He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come, and he shut it. They were still on a mission, and if she refused to speak to him again and stormed off, he’d follow her instead of going directly to St. Andrews. It wasn’t safe alone in the forest. At least he was honest enough with himself to admit that. Damn it all.

  Checking the location of the lightening sky, he turned them north toward Perth. They would travel on to Dundee where they could hire a boat to take them across the Firth of Tay to St. Andrews. It would add another day of travel, but he’d been certain when he told Alana that his men wo
uld keep Rose until he arrived. Saving Girnigoe and reclaiming their lands was the mission of the Sinclair Chief. Even as angry as Alistair was with him, the man wouldn’t steal this victory from Shaw, not when he knew how long he’d been working toward this end.

  They rode for an hour, the sway of the horse making them rub together until Shaw had the feeling that they were two brittle fire sticks that would ignite at any moment. An occasional ray of sun would break through the cloud cover to shoot down, catching the highlights of red and gold in Alana’s brown hair. He knew it was soft, perfect for burying his face. His jack grew harder as he imagined burying his face elsewhere. Och. If he didn’t distract himself with something, he was likely to stop Rìgh and ask her if she’d be willing to rut around in the leaves with him. He rubbed a hand down his short beard.

  “So…the Sinclairs are hated by the Campbells,” Shaw said, trying to latch onto a topic that had nothing to do with loving Alana Campbell so well that she’d cry his name out in complete release.

  “Not all the Campbells,” she answered. There was a smile in her voice. “I have learned that not all Sinclairs are the devil.”

  Damn, that didn’t help.

  “Some of them risk their lives to save an innocent babe,” she continued.

  Now that he knew Rose, he would have ferried the bairn across Scotland to the safety that awaited her in St. Andrews, but that wasn’t the reason he’d taken on the mission at the start.

  “I hope she is well,” she said, her voice dropping.

  “She has four burly warriors and a wolf to guard her. Rose will be fine when we reach St. Andrews. Rabbie will make certain the wee lass is clean, fed, and warm.”

  “But then what? Will she be loved at the end of her journey? Where is that exactly?” She twisted in her seat to look at him, concern in her large, almond-shaped eyes that had taken on the hues of the evergreens around them.

  “France,” he answered. “Where she will be protected and raised until her royal parents can claim her. I understand that is often the way of princesses and princes. They are raised apart from the monarchy to keep them safe, especially with assassins and plotters threatening King James and his queen.”