The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  He squirmed uncomfortably. “I am a warrior, lass, a man of the sword, not a man of words. Do not ask me to speak of such things.”

  But she couldn’t control herself. It was as though an imp had entered her body and had taken over. Sitting up, she shoved the heavy hair from her eyes and leaned over him. “Tell me, Dillon. How long have you known that you love me?”

  She was flirting shamelessly. And he loved her for it. With the warmth of laughter coloring his words he said, as gruffly as he could manage, “It certainly was not the first time I met you, all stiff and proper on your father’s arm.”

  “Stiff and proper was I? And what about you? You stood there like some wild-eyed giant, looking as though you were going to devour the lot of us.” She tossed her head in that haughty manner he loved and he reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair.

  Watching it sift through his fingers, he said, “I could not take my eyes off you. And the thought of…devouring you was not far from my mind, if the truth be told.”

  At his admission, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be as honest and open with him. “And I had to try very hard not to stare at you.” She ran a hand along his thigh, and saw the way his eyes glazed at her touch. Growing bolder, she moved her hand slowly upward. “Especially since I had never seen such muscles before.”

  “Witch.” He caught her hand, but not before she had discovered that he was thoroughly aroused once more.

  How could it be that he wanted her again so soon? Would he never have his fill of this woman?

  As though reading his mind, she pressed her lips to the flat planes of his stomach and felt his muscles contract. “Perhaps you would not mind if I explored those…muscles more carefully, my lord.”

  He threw back his head and roared. It was as he had always suspected. Inside this very proper Englishwoman was a wild, wanton vixen. It was another reason that he loved her.

  The sky opened up. Rain pelted them, thoroughly soaking them. But neither of them seemed to take the slightest notice. They were too caught up in the wonders of their newly discovered love.

  “Ah, lass, how did I manage to spend all those nights beside you on my pallet and avoid touching you?”

  Rolled snugly in the cloak, they had taken shelter from the rain beneath a tangle of thick vines. The night was swiftly passing, but neither of them gave a thought to sleep. Flame had passed through a crisis. And they had passed through one of their own. The sound of the rain falling around them was a soothing symphony.

  “I did not think you even noticed. You spent most of your time walking alone in the gardens.”

  “Aye. And now you know why.”

  She touched a finger to his lips, tracing the smoothness, feeling her heartbeat beginning to accelerate once again. How could the mere touch of this man arouse her so? “Do you mean you were avoiding temptation?”

  “Aye, lass. Heeding the lessons of the good monks. ’Twas the worst torture I have ever been forced to endure.”

  She laughed, and he drew her close, running his hands slowly up her thigh, across the slope of her rounded hip, then along her side until he encountered the fullness of her breast. This was a body he was beginning to know as intimately as his own. All night he had explored, discovered, touched to his heart’s content. His thumb began a lazy circle.

  The laughter died in her throat and became a little moan of pleasure.

  She traced a fingertip across the faded scar that ran from his temple to his jaw and felt her heart contract at the thought of what he had endured as a lad. “I wish…”

  “What, love?”

  “I wish I could erase every pain you have ever suffered, Dillon.”

  “You already have,” he murmured. “I am so filled with your love, I have forgotten all else. I am so moved by your love, in fact, that I think perhaps I should take another walk,” he whispered against her temple.

  She clutched at him and dragged his mouth to hers for a lingering, intimate kiss. Between kisses, she murmured, “Nay, my lord. I have a much better idea.”

  “More satisfying than a walk in the garden?”

  “Aye.” She allowed her fingertips to move lightly down his back while she pressed feather-light kisses across his face. “Far more satisfying.”

  Without further invitation, they tumbled into a world of dark, sensual delight.

  By morning, the storm had passed, leaving the Highland forest awash in color. Along with the purple of the heather, and the shiny deep green of the holly, there were colorful blueberry, ling and forget-me-nots. Snow bunting and ptarmigan darted from tree to tree, sunlight reflecting on their downy wings. High overhead a golden eagle soared, hunting a breakfast of field mouse or hare.

  To these familiar sounds Dillon awoke to find the space beside him empty. The sudden swift pain he felt was a sharp reminder of what lay ahead. All night, though he had tried not to think about it, one painful fact had marred his pleasure. He knew that he could no longer hold Leonora his prisoner at Kinloch House. As soon as possible, he would have to return her to her father.

  In the light of the morning, the knowledge was even more painful.

  The warmth of Leonora’s body still clung to the folds of the cloak, alerting him to the fact that she had only been gone a few moments. He watched as she knelt beside Flame, then hurriedly returned to his side. Shivering, she crawled in beside him, snuggling close.

  “I checked on Flame. She sleeps as peacefully as a bairn.”

  He felt oddly pleased by her use of the Scots term for child. “I think,” he said as he welcomed her with a kiss, “you have spent too much time in my land. You have begun to speak like one of us.”

  “Your manner of speech is most pleasant to the ear.”

  His pleasure grew. Perhaps, for the moment, he could forget the painful truth that lay before them, and pretend for a while longer that they would always be together.

  “Are you hungry, lass?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose. And you, my laird?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “I will fetch you some venison.”

  She started to scramble up, but he pulled her back down for a long, lazy kiss. The moment their lips met, a familiar warmth began spreading through them, heating their blood, fueling their passion.

  “It is not venison I crave, love. It is something far more satisfying.”

  “You are a glutton,” she said with a laugh.

  “Aye. I will never have enough of you.”

  “Nor I you.”

  With soft sighs and murmured words of love, they satisfied the craving of their hearts and souls.

  “Something smells wonderful.”

  “Flame! At last you are awake.” Dillon, returning to the clearing with a brace of partridges, hurried to kneel beside his sister. On his face was a wide smile of relief and pleasure.

  Leonora looked up from the broth she was stirring and joined him at Flame’s side. “I had hoped you would awaken soon. I thought perhaps some broth would renew your strength.”

  “So,” Flame said, glancing from Leonora to her brother, then back again. “I did not dream it. You did stay, Englishwoman.”

  “Aye. I told you I would not leave you.”

  “So you did.” The lass glanced at her brother, who was watching Leonora with a strange, unfathomable look on his face.

  “How did you find us, Dillon?”

  “I followed the scent of wood smoke.” He paused. “Do you remember anything, Flame?”

  “It is like the haze that hangs o’er the meadow on a summer morn. I recall coming upon Graeme and the Englishwoman. And realized that he was the monster…” She paused to shiver, then added, “I seem to remember your voice, Dillon, threatening to kill the Englishwoman because you thought she had caused me harm.” She grew silent a moment. “There is little else I recall. Bits and pieces of memory are here, then gone.”

  “It will come back to you,” Leonora said softly. “For now, you must eat something.”


  As she walked away to fill a small, hollowed-out gourd with broth, Dillon watched her, then turned to find his sister watching him carefully.

  “She could have escaped,” she whispered.

  “Aye, I know. But she stayed to tend you.”

  “But even before that, she could have run, Dillon. Graeme and I were engaged in battle. Neither of us could have stopped her if she had chosen to run away. But she fought him off with a club and saved my life.”

  Hearing the last of that, Leonora returned and knelt at Flame’s side. “You did the same for me, Flame. Had it not been for your intervention, I would have been another of Graeme’s victims.” She lifted the gourd of steaming broth to Flame’s lips. “Here. Take this.”

  The girl looked up at her and said softly, “You fought well…for an Englishwoman.”

  Leonora bit back the smile that tugged at her lips. “Hush now and eat. You must restore your strength.”

  As Flame sipped the broth, she watched her brother prepare the fowl for cooking. When he handed them to Leonora, the two exchanged whispered words, following by a long, lingering look.

  With a sudden flash of knowledge, Flame thought back to the murmured love words that had drifted into her consciousness during the night. She had thought she’d dreamed them. Now she knew better.

  Could it be? Aye. Even as she watched, she saw the proprietary look on Dillon’s face. And the way all of the woman’s features softened when she smiled at him.

  God in heaven. Her strong, fierce brother, the loyal Scots warrior, and laird of the Campbells, had done the unthinkable. He had lost his heart to his English prisoner.

  “Let me see your arm, Flame.” Leonora knelt beside the lass and began to unwrap the dressings. “How does it feel?”

  “It pains me something fierce.”

  “Then you are very brave, for I’ve heard not a word from you all day.”

  “The sisters taught me to offer up pain as a payment for sin.”

  Leonora smiled. “I would think a lass as young as you would have few sins.”

  The girl shrugged. “If not mine, then perhaps I can offer the pain for the sins of…others.”

  At her slight hesitation, Leonora’s curiosity was piqued. “What others?”

  Flame let out a slow hiss of pain as Leonora poured spirits over the wound. When she could find her voice, she said, “My brother Dillon seems to be in need of a sin offering.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  The lass lifted her chin defiantly and met Leonora’s steady gaze. “I think you know, Englishwoman.”

  Leonora busied herself with a clean dressing. All the while, she could feel Flame’s eyes watching her. When the wound was dressed, she started to get to her feet.

  Flame caught her hand. “By your silence, you admit your guilt.”

  Leonora took a deep breath. Despite the lass’s obvious dislike for her, she was Dillon’s sister. And she deserved the truth.

  “If loving a man who risked everything to make peace between our people is a sin, then I am guilty.”

  The lass looked thunderstruck.

  Leonora got to her feet. “Rest a while,” she said softly. “I will bring your food soon.”

  When she walked away, Flame passed a hand over her eyes. She had feared the Englishwoman was merely using her obvious charms to obtain her freedom from her obstinate brother. But she had been wrong. So very wrong.

  Love, she had said. The Englishwoman loved Dillon. It could not be more simple than that. Nor more complicated.

  What strange twists and turns life’s paths sometimes took. Flame decided it might be best if she never grew up. For she never wished to deal with such things.

  Dillon piled logs on the fire until it was a blazing inferno. Then, as the sun rose high in the sky, he added green branches. A blanket of thick, black smoke sent its pall over the Highland forest.

  “It is a clear signal,” he explained to Leonora, “to all who are searching. Before the Angelus bells ring out this day, my men will find us.”

  He saw the look that came into her eyes and drew her into the circle of his embrace. During the long night of loving, Dillon had told Leonora what he planned. It was time. Flame was well enough to endure a return to Kinloch House in a wagon. The men who had been searching the Highlands for two long days deserved to be notified that the laird and his party were safe.

  Dillon understood Leonora’s dismay and shared it. Here in the privacy of the forest, their newfound love was as precious, as satisfying as the greatest treasure. But once they returned to Kinloch House, the fragile peace between them might be forever shattered.

  Across the clearing, Flame awoke from a deep sleep and caught sight of the couple locked in an embrace. She had been dreaming of her mother and father, and hearing once again her mother’s soft voice, filled with so much love and promise.

  “Ah, Mother,” she whispered, “if only there was some way I could repay Dillon for all he has done for me. Alas, I am at a loss. I fear his heart shall surely be broken by his love of the Englishwoman.”

  She looked up at the sound of a horse. When the horseman reached the clearing, she could see it was young Rupert. His face was etched with weariness, but he gave a loud sigh of relief when he caught sight of Dillon and Leonora.

  “Ah, my laird.” Rupert hung his head in shame. “Though I am relieved to see the lady did not escape, I know you can never forgive me for my lapse, for I have caused untold pain.”

  “No apology is needed, Rupert. This was not your fault. The lady has explained how she duped you. Now.” Briskly Dillon explained what had transpired, then said, “I am in need of a wagon to carry Flame back to Kinloch House.”

  Rupert’s glance took in Flame, lying in a bed of furs. With a worried frown, he said, “At once, my laird.” He wheeled his horse and took off in a flurry of hoofbeats.

  No matter how weary the lad was, he would push himself until he dropped before he would disobey another order from his laird.

  By the time dusk began to settle over the land, a tiny procession made its way from the forest toward Kinloch House. Rupert drove the wagon. In the back lay Flame, firmly ensconced in furs to absorb the shock of bumps and ruts. Kneeling beside her was Leonora, draped in Dillon’s coarse cloak, clutching Flame’s hands firmly in both of hers. Dillon followed behind on his horse.

  When they arrived in the courtyard, Mistress MacCallum and the servants spilled out the doors and stood at solemn attention.

  “Welcome home, m’laird,” Mistress MacCallum said in a strangled voice. It was plain that the plump housekeeper was close to tears.

  “Thank you, Mistress MacCallum.”

  Dillon assisted Leonora from the wagon. His hands lingered for a moment at her shoulders before he lifted Flame in his arms and carried her through the open doorway. Leonora walked behind, carrying the furs folded over her arm.

  “Oh, my lady,” young Gwynnith cried out, breaking the silence. “We had feared that you and Flame had fallen victim to—”

  The housekeeper shot her a look and the words died on her lips.

  “Welcome home, my lady,” Father Anselm said as he stepped through the crowd. Lifting his hand, he added, “A blessing on all those who have returned safely.”

  “Thank you, Father.” While she followed Dillon up the stairs, Leonora couldn’t help thinking how different this was from her first arrival at Kinloch House. And yet, her heart whispered, for all the friendly greetings, little had changed. She was still a prisoner. Only now it was much worse. Now she was a prisoner of love.

  Chapter Twenty

  S hort, stout Camus Ferguson kept pace with Dillon’s steps as they climbed the stairs of Kinloch House together. The anger and betrayal Camus felt was evident in his eyes and in the harsh tone of his voice.

  “Word of Graeme’s treachery has preceded you, Dillon. ’Tis like a raging fire, the way the word has spread throughout the Highlands. Families are breathing easier, knowing their forests are once again
safe havens.”

  “I still find it hard to believe that such a monster hid inside the man who called himself our friend.” Dillon’s voice was tinged with sadness.

  “Aye, Dillon. I blame myself for not recognizing him for what he was. But some good has come of all this. All the clans have sent riders to Kinloch House, offering to ride with you against the English, in return for having rid them of the one who had threatened their women and children. At last, an army awaits your command, my friend.”

  Dillon let his statement pass without comment. Odd. Scant days ago, he would have rejoiced at such knowledge. Now it was like an arrow to the heart. He had already come to a decision. He would not fight the English.

  “Take some men, Camus. Go back to the forest and bury Graeme’s body in an unmarked grave, as punishment for his unholy acts. No one shall mourn Graeme Lamont’s passing. In time, none will even recall his name.”

  “Aye, my friend. Consider it done.”

  Camus summoned several men and moved out at a swift pace.

  In Kinloch House, there was much rejoicing. Their greatest worry had not come to pass. The prisoner had not escaped. Their beloved Flame had been returned safely to them. And the laird had never been happier. Of course, all of this caused a flurry of gossip. It was obvious from the moment of their arrival that Flame and the Englishwoman had forged a strong bond during their ordeal.

  And what of the laird and his prisoner? At first glance, it was just as plain for all to see. The two had become intimate. It was there in the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. In the proprietary way they touched. In the way they spoke. In a million tiny ways that lovers communicate. Everyone was aware of the change in the laird and his prisoner.

  “What is this?” Leonora returned to Dillon’s chambers after seeing that Flame had been made comfortable.

  On a rug of sheepskin set before the fire was a round wooden tub, filled with steaming water.

  “I ordered Mistress MacCallum to have a bath ready for you.” Dillon tossed another log on the fire and stood, wiping his hands on his breeches.