The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  She felt the sting of his hot breath against her temple as he dragged her closer. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her upper arms until she cried out, but anger and frustration had driven him beyond caring.

  “I offer you a pallet, while your father condemns my brothers to a cold dungeon floor. And this is how you return the kindness.”

  “Kindness?” She drew back to stare up into his eyes. “I know what you plan to do to me. You are no better than the depraved men I confronted in the forest. But you hide your lust behind noble words, Dillon Campbell. You boast of your own goodness, but I am not fooled by the mask you wear. When we are alone, you will be no better than those others who would force me into unspeakable acts for their own gratification.”

  “Silence, woman.” His big hands closed around her shoulders. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “May you and all your people burn in the fires of hell for the pain and suffering caused my poor people.”

  “And may you—”

  He had not meant to kiss her. In fact, it was the furthest thing from his mind. But the fury that boiled inside him drove him to do the very thing she had accused him of plotting.

  His mouth covered hers in a hard, punishing kiss. He felt her stiffen and begin to fight the hands that imprisoned her. That only inflamed him all the more.

  Defy him, would she? He would show her what such defiance wrought.

  His arms came around her, pressing her against the solid wall of his chest. His lips plundered hers, bruising in their intensity.

  A wave of heat pulsed between them, flowing from her into him and back again. Heat so intense, both seemed consumed by it.

  So, he had not imagined the heat of their first encounter in her garden. At their simplest touch, it was there again, blazing like flame to tinder between them. Nor had he merely imagined her innocence. He had thought, from the way she had responded to their first kiss, that she had never before been kissed by a man. Now he was convinced of it.

  She kept her hands between them, using them as a wedge to hold him at bay. Her lips were tightly closed, as were her eyes.

  Fear. He could taste her fear. Like a predator, it excited him. He wanted to feel her tremble, to cower before him. Though it would not make up for what had been done to him and his brothers, it would satisfy some primal urge in him to seek satisfaction from his enemy.

  “Open your eyes, woman.”

  At his brusque command, her lids flickered, then lifted. For a moment, they went wide with fear. Then she blinked, and he could see them narrow fractionally, and darken with anger.

  “Release me at once. I am not some serving wench who yearns to satisfy the lord of the manor.”

  “Nay, my lady.” A dangerous smile touched the corners of his lips, and she felt the tension humming through him. “You are not even worthy to be called a servant. You are my prisoner. Never forget that.”

  “You…” At his arrogance, she swung her hand out, intent on slapping his face.

  He caught it without effort. “That is better, my lady. I prefer your anger to your fear.”

  “I do not fear you, savage.”

  “Most unwise, my lady.” She struggled as he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her lips once more.

  This time the kiss, though still punishing, became more possessive, fueling her resistance. The more she fought him, the stronger became his need to dominate.

  Trapped in his arms, she felt her body begin to betray her. Her struggles ceased. Her skin warmed and heated beneath his touch. Her lips trembled beneath his.

  The change in her triggered an equal response from him. Even while he held her captive in his arms and plundered her mouth, his touch gentled, his lips softened.

  At the change in him, strange feelings curled along her spine. Feelings that she knew were neither fear nor anger. A warning sounded in her mind. Such feelings were dangerous. This man was her enemy. She must guard against any display of weakness. Yet she was incapable of holding back the sensations that rippled through her as, with lips and teeth and tongue, he awakened her to desire.

  He’d meant only to teach her a lesson. But the moment his touch gentled, he was lost.

  He was mesmerized by her lips. Soft as the underside of a rose petal. Cool as a Highland stream. She tasted sweet, clean, untouched. Without realizing it, his hands lifted, framing her face while he lingered over her lips.

  Leonora would have never believed that a simple kiss could be so arousing. As the kiss softened, she closed her eyes, absorbing all the strange new feelings that washed over her. She was helpless against such skill. His lips were warm and firm and experienced in the art of seduction. He rubbed them slowly, gently over hers until her body began to hum with need. Each time he changed the angle of the kiss, the feelings grew until she was breathless.

  He smelled of wood smoke and horses and evergreen. He tasted of ale, and some darker male taste that lingered on her tongue, taunting her, tempting her.

  Her fears were forgotten. Of their own volition, her hands curled into the front of his tunic, drawing him closer.

  His hands left her face to follow the slope of her shoulders and trail along her back. With each touch, she felt shivers of pleasure along her spine. As his hand pressed to her back, she was aware of the imprint of each of his fingers, burning a trail of fire along her spine.

  When he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and moved into him, molding herself to the length of him.

  His arms came around her, drawing her even more firmly against him, until he could feel her heartbeat inside his own chest. With his tongue he traced the fullness of her lips, then probed the intimate recesses of her mouth. She gasped and tried to pull back, but his arms imprisoned her and he kissed her with a thoroughness that left them both gasping.

  Dillon felt the need building, threatening to explode with a violence that would shock the sensibilities of this gently bred young woman. He realized his mistake. The moment he’d permitted any feelings of tenderness, he was hopelessly lost. Now he was standing at the very edge of an abyss. One step, one wrong move, and he would find himself falling through endless space.

  He had to end this. And yet…

  He lingered over her lips, unwilling to step back from the heat that tempted even while it burned.

  One last kiss. One last taste.

  At last, calling on all of his willpower, he lifted his head and took a step back.

  “Now that we have established who is laird and who is servant, we will give in to the need for sleep.”

  “I pray I live to see you burn in the fires of everlasting hell,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “If you do, my lady, it will be because you are there with me.”

  His hands, he noted, were shaking. The realization filled him with renewed anger that this female could have such an effect on him.

  Keeping his tone deliberately bland, he muttered, “A pity to have wasted such fine ale.” He stepped over the shards of glass and puddles of ale and strode toward his sleeping chamber.

  She matched his dispassionate tone. “I thought it the perfect use for such swill. What better purpose than to dump on a swine?”

  Rewarded with a deepening of his scowl, she knew that her barb had found its mark.

  She stood perfectly still, struggling to calm her racing heart. How could it be that just moments ago she’d experienced such strong desire? How could she not only have allowed this man to take such liberties, but to have willingly cooperated?

  With a deep welling of shame, she lifted her skirts and stepped across the debris. She would have to be on her guard every moment of the long night. Her captor was dangerous. In more ways than she had first anticipated.

  Chapter Nine

  L eonora stood just inside the doorway of the sleeping chamber, her arms crossed angrily over her chest.

  Ignoring her presence, Dillon sat on a chaise and pried off his boots. He stood and yanked his tunic over his head and unselfconsciously stripped off everything
but his breeches, which fit like a second skin.

  After what they had just shared, she was far too aware of him as a man. She struggled to keep from staring at the wide expanse of shoulders, the muscles that rippled across his back as he bent to a pile of logs.

  He crossed the room and tossed a heavy log on the fire, then sat back on his heels until the bark caught fire and began to sizzle and snap.

  Across the room, Leonora watched, aware of each sleek, lithe movement. She was in awe of his strength. He’d lifted the log with such ease. A log that would have strained the efforts of most men.

  He stood and dusted his hands on his breeches, then made a turn around the room, snuffing the candles, until the only illumination came from the fireplace.

  He turned to her. In the dim light of the room, she could see his eyes, reminding her of the predator they’d glimpsed in the forest.

  “You will lie down,” he commanded, indicating the pallet.

  She didn’t move.

  With a sigh of resignation, he crossed the room and clamped a hand around her wrist. Leading her to the pallet, he snapped, “Woman, try my patience no more this night for I am far too weary. Lie down.”

  Drawing the remnants of her tattered gown around her like a mantle of dignity, she settled herself on the pallet.

  He felt her flinch when he lay down beside her. Reaching across her, he lifted the edge of the fur and drew it over them both. As he did, his arm brushed her breast and he felt her recoil as though she’d been struck a blow.

  Tension. It was so thick it threatened to suffocate them. They were both hanging on to the ragged edge of nerves stretched far too thin. But there was nothing to be done for it. He swore and rolled to one side, making a determined effort to keep from touching her with any part of his body.

  Leonora closed her eyes and concentrated on listening to the sound of Dillon’s slow, even breathing. At any minute, she expected him to tear off her clothes and ravish her. The fear and expectation were almost worse than the deed itself. At least, if he would show his true, villainous self, she could have the release of fighting back. But this waiting was the worst torture she had ever been forced to endure. Saliva pooled in her mouth and she finally swallowed it, though it sounded overloud in her ears. Her fists were clenched so tightly the nails bit into her flesh, drawing blood.

  Sweet heaven, how would she manage to make it through the night with this Highlander beside her, knowing that at any minute he would attack? She dared not let down her guard and fall asleep, or he would take advantage of her vulnerability.

  The image of her father’s dear face swam before her and she felt a lump form in her throat. How he must be suffering, knowing what his beloved daughter would be forced to endure. And Moira. That sweet old servant would be grief-stricken, wondering if and when her young charge would be returned to her. And in what condition.

  Tears sprang to Leonora’s eyes. Without warning, she found herself sobbing uncontrollably. To muffle the sound, she pressed her hands over her face.

  Beside her, Dillon heard the sound of crying and felt her body shaking. He could sense the tremendous effort she was making to control herself.

  His first inclination was to wrap his arms around her and assure her that she would not be harmed. But, he cautioned himself, this was war. She was his captive. And he had given his word that she would only be as safe as were his brothers. To say otherwise now would be to court disaster. The Englishwoman must be made to understand that her safety depended upon the safe return of Sutton and Shaw.

  Though the woman’s tears grated on his already frayed nerves, he refused to offer her the comfort of his arms. Hardening his heart, he lay beside her in stoic silence. Gradually, the tears ceased. Her breathing slowed. Against her will, sleep overtook her.

  Morning sunshine slanted through the balcony window and warmed the figures bundled beneath fur pelts. Dillon awoke, marveling at how soundly he’d slept. Like a man drugged. Sitting up, he threw back the covers, then froze at the sight of the woman beside him.

  She lay curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her head. Her breathing was slow and easy. The torn bodice of her gown had fallen open, revealing the shadowed cleft between creamy breasts.

  He took a moment to study her in the soft morning light. Dark, sooty lashes were a sharp contrast to pale, translucent skin. Her nose was small and upturned, her lips full and lush. A mouth made for kissing. The very thought conjured images of the kiss they had shared, and he experienced a rush of heat that left him shaken.

  Slipping silently from the pallet, he crossed the room and stoked the fire, then walked to the sitting chamber and summoned a servant.

  The sound of muted voices woke Leonora. She lay a moment, completely disoriented. These were not the smells of her father’s castle. This was not the softness of her bed. Then the realization came rushing back. She was in Dillon Campbell’s impenetrable fortress in the rugged Highlands. A prisoner.

  She sat up, shoving tangled hair from her eyes. Just then, the door was opened and she caught sight of the hated Highlander, followed by several serving wenches.

  Clutching together the remnants of her torn bodice, Leonora caught the look in the servants’ eyes as their gazes slid over the rumpled bed linens. She knew what they were thinking, and felt a flush begin at the base of her throat and continue upward along her cheeks.

  “Place the lady’s things over here,” Dillon commanded. “And leave us.”

  The servants added wood to the fire, and filled two basins with water from several pitchers. As the others left, one young serving girl, who walked with a pronounced limp, remained behind, laying out an array of feminine garments.

  “Shall I help the lady?” she asked shyly.

  “Nay, Gwynnith.” Dillon’s tone was sharp. “You have enough chores to see to. The lady is capable of dressing herself.”

  “But I have been a lady’s maid. A woman of noble birth can hardly be expected to dress herself.”

  “You are far too tenderhearted, Gwynnith. The lady will see to her own needs.”

  “Aye, my laird.” She began to bow from the room, her gait ragged and uneven.

  “Remember that while the lady is in Kinloch House,” Dillon added, “she is to be treated like a prisoner.”

  The girl’s glance slid to Leonora, then back to Dillon. She nodded before pulling the door closed.

  “Wash yourself,” he said curtly to Leonora. “And we will go below stairs to break our fast.”

  Without waiting to see if she complied with his orders, he bent to a basin of water and began his morning ablutions.

  Leonora stood across the room, glowering at his back. How she hated him. It would give her the greatest satisfaction to hold Dillon Campbell’s head under water in that basin until he sputtered and begged for mercy.

  The thought brought a smile to her lips. Vengeance, when it finally came, would be so sweet. Aye. And she would have her moment of vengeance.

  She continued staring at him as he washed himself. Her gaze was riveted to the muscles of his back and shoulders, bunching and tightening with each movement. How different was a man’s body. How strangely beautiful. The thought shocked her. And puzzled her. How could she think such thoughts about a callous brute who would spirit her away from all that she held dear? A savage who would hold her captive against her will.

  Firming her resolve, she strode to the basin and began to wash. While she did, her mind worked feverishly over plans to escape. Sometime during this long day, her captor would be distracted. When that happened, she was determined to slip away.

  Dillon pulled a simple wool tunic over his head, then stepped into his boots. When he glanced across the room, he felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Leonora had draped a length of linen around herself for modesty while she washed. Leaning a hip against a side table, Dillon crossed his arm over his chest and enjoyed the view.

  With a tug of ribbons, her chemise drifted to the floor at her feet. He watched as
she lathered her body, then rinsed, all the while keeping hold of the linen covering. When her petticoats dropped to the floor, he caught sight of shapely ankles and calves.

  “I would wager,” he said, his voice warm with laughter, “not too many of your Englishmen have been privy to such a sight as this.”

  She half turned, clutching the linen about herself. He saw the flash of fire in her eyes when she realized that he’d been watching. “An English gentleman would turn away and allow a lady her privacy.”

  “Aye.” His smile grew. “The English never did have any sense.”

  “You go too far, Dillon Campbell. I expect you to leave me and allow me to dress without your intrusion.”

  “Then you expect too much, my lady.” He uncrossed his arms and took a menacing step closer. “I suggest you quicken your pace. When I am ready to descend the stairs, you will accompany me, whether you are properly dressed or not.”

  She was clearly shocked. “You would force me to appear in front of your countrymen without modest attire?”

  “The choice is yours, my lady. You have already wasted precious time.”

  With a sigh of disgust, she crossed the room and began to dress. Though the coarse articles of peasant clothing were rough against her skin, it was a relief to be rid of the torn, muddy clothes she’d been forced to wear for the past two days. She tied the ribbons of a pale chemise, then fastened the laces of the petticoat, before dropping the linen covering.

  Dillon caught a quick glimpse of pale shoulders and tiny waist, as she slipped the simple pale woolen gown over her head. Smoothing the skirts down over the petticoats, she sat down and pulled on her soft kid boots. She shook her head, spilling her hair forward over one breast. After working a comb through the tangles, she tied her hair back with a simple white ribbon.

  Peering into the framed oval mirror, she sighed. Oh, how she missed her old nurse, Moira. This was, in fact, the first time she had ever been forced to dress herself without Moira’s assistance. The old woman’s fingers, though gnarled and swollen, could still work miracles with needle and thread and jeweled combs.