Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  It was two against one. Lucy set her teeth and set to work.

  * * *

  ROBERT HEARD LUCY’S shout, a sound that for a brief second froze his blood. He abandoned the nag on the edge of the woodland and burst through the trees, the claymore in his hand. He thought he would never forget the sight that met his eyes.

  Lucy was standing facing him, holding his sword in both hands. One of her assailants was already down, bleeding copiously, his sword arm hanging useless at his side. The other thug was circling Lucy warily while Wilfred Cardross was advancing on her from the left.

  Wilfred was speaking.

  “Lucy, my dear,” he was saying, “this is foolish. Put up the sword and let us talk. We are kin—”

  Lucy did not spare him a single glance. “Do be quiet, Wilfred,” she said, never taking her eyes off the man in front of her. “You are putting me off my stroke.”

  With a yell Robert hurled himself on the first man, who spun around to face him, his face a mask of shock and terror. The claymore might have been old, but it was sound. The fight was short, sharp and bloody. Robert fought dirty. He had no time to do otherwise. He crowded in on his opponent, giving him no space to use his weapon properly, throwing him off balance. The man stumbled and Robert followed up ruthlessly, knocking the sword from his hand, his blade slicing through the man’s thigh. With a scream of pain the man fell, scrabbling back, abject terror in his eyes, as Robert raised his sword to his throat.

  “Robert! Watch out!”

  At Lucy’s shout Robert spun around. Wilfred’s other clansman had grabbed the second pistol from the saddlebag and was aiming it at him from his prone position on the ground. Robert kicked the gun from the man’s hand and the shot went wide, hissing past his shoulder with an inch to spare. The man staggered to his feet and made after his colleague toward the horses, limping and swearing. Robert let him go. They were cowards all, Wilfred Cardross’s men.

  As for Wilfred himself, Lucy was running rings around him and looking as though she was enjoying it. Her blade came up so fast at one point she almost skewered Cardross’s Adam’s apple. Wilfred brought his sword up just in time to parry the attack. Robert checked himself on the point of intervening. He had thought Cardross’s superior height and reach would give him the immediate advantage, but Lucy was like quicksilver, faster and more agile. Cardross was fighting in earnest now, but his cousin was too good for him, cool, ruthless, classical in her style. Robert, who had once had the fastest reactions of any man and a skill honed through living dangerously, acknowledged that he was not sure he would be able to beat her in a fair fight.

  She was smiling. Robert had never seen her like this. It seemed impossible that Lady Lucy MacMorlan could turn into this wild creature with the demonic light of battle in her eyes. He was surprised to find it intensely arousing.

  He stood back to enjoy the show. Lucy’s blade swept in a low arc, dangerously close to Wilfred’s groin. Robert laughed. That would be the end of Wilfred’s plans for future generations.

  Wilfred had had enough. He ducked under Lucy’s sword and ran for his horse.

  “Go, then, you craven coward!” Lucy yelled after him as Wilfred and his men hurled themselves onto the horses and galloped off, the stones scattering from their hooves.

  Robert went up to her. She was panting, her breasts rising and falling rapidly with a combination of anger and exertion. Her red-gold hair fell about her face. Her eyes still shot sparks. They met his, bright blue with passion. The need to kiss her, the desire for her, punched him like a blow to the solar plexus.

  He was a second away from pulling her into his arms when he saw the marks on her face, and fury and shock sliced through him in equal measure.

  He fell back a step, raising a hand, and touched her cheek. “They did this to you?”

  The fierce expression in her eyes changed, as though she had only just remembered what had happened. She touched the tips of her fingers gently to her cheekbone and winced.

  The anger in Robert was like a live thing. He had never felt such protective fury in his life before. He turned to pursue Cardross and his men into the woods, but Lucy caught his arm and clung on.

  “Let them go,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters,” Robert said.

  “No, it does not. Not now. Please, my lord.”

  He heard the vulnerability beneath the words. She was looking cold and pale now as reaction set in. He covered her hand with his and felt her tremble.

  “You called me Robert before,” he reminded her.

  She smiled faintly. “It was not a moment for formality.”

  “And I thank you for the warning,” Robert said. Cardross and his men were almost out of sight now. All that was left was the dust from the horses’ hooves hanging in the air.

  “You could have let him shoot me and saved yourself the trouble of refusing my offer for a third time,” he said.

  Lucy frowned. “Don’t jest,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Robert said. “Why did you help me?”

  She turned to look up at him. Her gaze, clear and full of candor, searched his face. “We were on the same side,” she said.

  “Were we?” He felt encouraged that she thought so. Last night, in the room at the inn, they had been locked in opposition. She had run away into danger rather than wed him. Yet it seemed she did not think of him as her enemy.

  He felt her shiver again. The breeze was cold down here by the water.

  “Come along,” he said. “We must get you to shelter and get off Cardross’s land. Next time he’ll be back with more than a couple of men.”

  Lucy unbuckled his sword belt from about her waist and handed it to him carefully. Now that the heat of battle had gone from his blood, he noticed her attire for the first time. Gone was the elegant duke’s daughter in her debutante pastel colors and modestly cut gowns. She was wearing a motley collection of clothes, chiefly a striped red, white and blue cotton scarf, a pair of boy’s breeches that fit her very snugly and a white blouse cut low enough across her breasts to affect both his concentration and his anatomy. It was fortunate he had not noticed earlier.

  She started to fiddle with the scarf at her neck, straightening it and tucking it into the neck of the blouse. Robert, torn between admiring the blouse and the breeches, realized that he was staring. Lucy had noticed the direction of his gaze, as well.

  “What?” She held the scarf tightly together, obliterating his view.

  Her blue eyes fizzed with annoyance.

  Robert cleared his throat. “Very patriotic,” he said. Then, as she raised a haughty eyebrow: “The red, white and blue scarf.”

  She frowned. “This was all there was in that godforsaken inn.” She turned a shoulder. “There was a mirror. I did see what I look like.”

  “And what do you think you look like?”

  He had no complaints at all.

  “Blowsy.” She tucked the ends of the scarf more closely into the top of the blouse. “Like a tavern wench.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Robert said. “It only draws attention to your breasts.”

  “They got in the way when I was fighting.” She looked down in disgust at her cleavage. “I was afraid they would fall out of the blouse.”

  “That would most certainly have stopped your cousin’s clansmen in their tracks,” Robert said.

  “I’m not accustomed to showing so much.” Suddenly she looked vulnerable. “Debutantes don’t.”

  “I’ve seen more of you than that.”

  She flashed him another sharp look. “It doesn’t help to know that, thank you.”

  The scarf fluttered in the breeze like a ragged flag. It’s gaudy silk reminded Robert of the bindings he had used to tie her.

  “How did you escape?” he asked. “I thought I had tied you firmly.”

  “I wriggled,” Lucy said succinctly.

  That did nothing to calm Robert’s inflamed imagination. He could visualize her, her body re
strained by the silk scarves, writhing on the bed. He picked up one of her wrists. Faint red marks showed on her white skin. He felt a complete cad.

  He dropped her wrist and she rubbed the place he had held.

  “You jumped from the window,” he said, remembering.

  “I climbed down from the roof,” Lucy corrected.

  “Why did you not simply take the key?”

  She gave him a look as though he were mad. “And risk waking you by searching your pockets?”

  “Generally I sleep like the dead, even on a wooden chair.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said. “I’ll remember that for future reference.” She looked about them. “I thought you wished to go. Are we instead to stand here waiting for Wilfred to return with an army?”

  Shaking off the wayward visions of Lucy in bondage that still plagued him, Robert scooped up his sword belt, stowed the pistols, mounted Falcon and gave Lucy a hand to pull her up to sit in front of him. For once she did not argue.

  “What were you doing here?” Robert looked around at the waters of the loch reflecting the cool blue of the sky.

  “I wanted a bath,” Lucy said shortly.

  “It will be freezing in there,” Robert said.

  “I swam in the sea every summer when I was a child,” Lucy said.

  So swimming was another of her accomplishments. Robert was not surprised. Nothing Lucy could do, he thought, was likely to surprise him ever again.

  As Falcon started to pick up the pace toward the road he felt her soften in his arms, as though she had at last started to relax. Some of the prickly tension seeped from her. She sighed, leaning her head back against his chest. He found it very pleasant. Her body fit into the curve of his. Her hair smelled of fresh air and apple sweetness. Some strange sensation that was not lust, but equally was not something he recognized, shifted and settled inside him and he drew her a little closer into the shield of his arms.

  “What happened to the second pistol?” he asked. His lips were close to her ear. Her hair tickled them. “Did you fire it?”

  “I missed.” She sounded disgruntled. “Shooting has never been a skill of mine.”

  Robert tried not to laugh at her tone. “Well,” he said, “you might not be able to shoot, but you fight extraordinarily well.”

  “So do you,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder, “though you don’t fight by the rules.”

  “Where I have been, there was no such thing as a fair fight.” He drew her back against him, closer still, so that their bodies touched. “I fight to win.”

  “I might have guessed.” She smiled. For a second her cheek brushed his. “Was it very lawless, out there is the wilds of Canada?”

  “Entirely,” Robert said. Then, surprising himself: “I’ll tell you all about it one day.”

  “I’d like that.” She settled against him. “It must have been very hard for you to be sent away from everything you knew.”

  It had been intolerable. In the beginning he had not known how he would survive, mourning his brother’s death, cut adrift from everything he knew, everything he loved. The chill wreathed his heart again. He had been a hotheaded young fool to challenge his grandfather’s plans for him. The irony was that the old laird had been grieving too, mourning the loss of his grandson and heir. Robert could see that now. His grandfather had taken out on him all his grief and disappointment, but Robert had been too young and his feelings too raw to be able to deal with it. He had told his grandfather that he would prove his mettle elsewhere, away from Methven, and then he had boarded the first ship he had found.

  He wanted to change the subject back to Lucy. He was not comfortable talking about himself. It was not something he ever did.

  “I suppose your father had his daughters trained in swordplay as well as his sons?” he said. He had heard of many Highland lairds doing so, especially if their sons were as stodgy as Angus or as lazy as Lachlan.

  He felt her laugh, a soft tremor against his chest. “Of course my father did not teach us how to fight,” she said. “He is a scholar, not a warrior. I learned from books.” She favored him with another smile. “That is why I fight by the book instead of like you, like a...a brigand.”

  “No one could learn to fight as well as that from books,” Robert said.

  Her eyelashes flickered down. “Well, we did have some practical lessons at the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society. We hired the best swordsman in Edinburgh to teach us.”

  “Of course,” Robert said. “Of course you did. I suppose you had lessons in between the Eastern dancing and the massage.”

  “A lady should always be able to defend herself,” Lucy said serenely.

  “What else did you learn under the Society’s auspices?” Robert asked. “Just so I am prepared.”

  “Archery and falconry,” Lucy said. “Fencing, pistol shooting. But as I said, I am not a good shot.”

  “Bad luck,” Robert said. “Actually it is good to know there is something you do not excel at. You enjoyed the sword fight, didn’t you?” he added.

  He felt her surprise in the sudden jerk of her body.

  “No.” She sounded startled. “Fighting is not something to be enjoyed.” She frowned. “It’s uncivilized.”

  “That’s what you would like to believe,” Robert said, “but sword fighting can be primitive and wild and exciting. It calls to something in the blood.”

  He could tell that his words had disturbed her from the way that she stiffened. She sat up a little straighter, moving out of the shelter of his arms.

  It was curious to Robert that she was so utterly devoid of understanding of herself. She had all the wildness of a Highlander. She simply hid it well. Her passion escaped in so many ways, though: in the sensual writings of the love letters, in the undeniable pleasure she took in the physical. Robert was willing to bet any money that she would be equally passionate making love. If her kisses were anything to go by, she would burn him down.

  He shifted in the saddle. He had to stop thinking like this or the journey, already long and arduous, was going to be very uncomfortable indeed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BY FOUR IN the afternoon they had reached Findon, a small town on the coast. Lucy was swaying with exhaustion, aching in every limb and starving hungry, but she had tried her best to hide it from Robert. She felt nervous and on edge and very aware of him. She told herself it was simply their physical proximity, manifest in the brush of his body against hers as he rode Falcon with strength and easy grace, the hard muscle of his thighs, the protective clasp of his arms about her. Yet what she felt was more than simple awareness. She felt vulnerable, as though she had been unable to defend herself against him. Robert had seen all these things about her that she had not even suspected herself. She did not know how it was possible for him to understand her so well when no one else did.

  She had never previously thought herself in the least bit wild. Alice had been the wild one, forever tumbling into trouble. Lucy had been the sensible twin, and after Alice’s death that propriety had become suffocating. She had failed Alice the one time it had really mattered and to atone she had tried to turn herself into even more of a model of perfection. But the wildness that must always have been buried deep in her had still escaped. It had escaped in the writing of those shocking letters. It had escaped in the primitive fury she had felt when Wilfred had attacked her. It had escaped when she was in Robert Methven’s arms.

  He held her now, reins in one hand, the other clasped possessively about her waist. It felt strange and disturbing but also treacherously good.

  She distracted herself by looking about at the neat, respectable houses, the streets swept clean and the smartly painted shop fronts. The place looked a great deal better cared for than the Cardross estates. There was a stone jetty where boats bobbed at anchor and the fishing nets were drying in the sun. The air was sharp and keen and scented with the tang of fish and salt.

  “This is very pretty,” Lucy said. “Who o
wns the land hereabouts?”

  “I do,” Robert said. “I own this sweep of the coast and out there—” He gestured to the hazy blue of the sea. “I own Golden Isle.”

  He reined in and for a moment sat staring at the scatter of dark islands on the horizon. There was something in his eyes: pride, yes, but something else Lucy could not read or understand, something darker. She thought for a moment that he might say something else, but instead he turned the horse abruptly down a cobbled side street, where the afternoon shadows cooled the air, and clattered through an arched gateway and into an inn yard.

  Their arrival caused a degree of flurry. The landlord, a fair florid man in his mid-fifties, immediately came running, wiping his hands on the large striped apron about his waist.

  “My lord!”

  “McLain.” Robert swung down from the saddle and held out his hand. “How is business?”

  “Business is good, my lord,” the man stuttered, “but I had no idea you were to visit... You sent no word—”

  “Rest easy.” Robert reassured him with a quick clap on the shoulder. “It was a sudden change of plan.”

  He lifted Lucy down from the saddle and set her on her feet. “May I introduce my betrothed, Lady Lucy MacMorlan?” he said. His voice was suddenly cool and formal, the warmth of greeting drained from it. “We have had a difficult journey and require a couple of rooms and some hot water to wash and food, of course...”

  The landlord’s mouth fell open. He stared at Lucy, realized he was staring, shut his mouth with a snap and bowed deeply. “Welcome, my lady!” He shot Robert another glance. “Betrothed, you say, my lord?”

  Lucy tried not to laugh. She could imagine how she must look, travel sore and dusty, dressed in boy’s trews and a harlot’s blouse. Small blame to the landlord if he thought the laird had brought his mistress to visit rather than his future wife.

  “A sudden engagement,” Robert said smoothly with a quick look at Lucy that warned her not to contradict him. “You are the first to know.”