The Highlander's War Prize (The Highland Warlord Series Book 2)

by Tessa Murran

  ‘But Robert the Bruce is already named King, in the eyes of the Scots, is that not so?’

  ‘Aye, but, until the Pope in Rome acknowledges him as such, he will not have the peace he strives for, and Scotland is in jeopardy. King Edward will forever feel it is his right to march back into my country and unleash his violence on it.’

  ‘Then you should not have given Edward the throne years ago. That is what my father told me.’

  ‘That is a lie. Edward’s father was trusted to intervene and settle a dispute between the clans as to who had the best claim to be King of Scotland. That was like trusting a wolf to be a shepherd. Edward saw an opportunity, and he took Scotland. We have been trying to get it back ever since. Now he is dead, his son will not yield the cause, no matter how many lives it costs, English and Scottish.’

  ‘But, surely, if Scotland had no King back then, lawlessness and chaos would have resulted. Someone had to rule, and if the Scots could not decide amongst themselves who was fitting then…’

  ‘Do you think Edward was ever interested in actually ruling Scotland? Do you think he cared that the clans turned on each other like wild dogs? Do you think he tried to bring order or stop the butchery? No, he was only interested in plundering our land and taking its sons for his armies for slaughter in France, and beyond. He wanted to squeeze higher and higher taxes out of its people.’ Lyall’s arm tightened around her waist with his anger. ‘Scots died in their thousands, fighting his pointless wars, all to feed his pride, his arrogance. He took our country from us, we did not give it. And I would give my last drop of blood to take it back.’

  ‘Why did you attack Wulversmeade? Was it revenge?’

  ‘Aye, for years of violence. The men from that castle would come into Scotland and raid and burn, rape and kill, and carry off hostages. Then they would melt back over the border with their spoils before any could stop them.’

  ‘Did they steal women, like you stole me?’

  ‘Aye, that too, but I won you lass, remember. Castles such as Wulversmeade have acted as Edward’s fist smashing down on the people of Scotland time and time again so that he could make us all slaves. With a weak and indifferent King in power, Scotland was mired in poverty and hopelessness.’

  ‘So now all you Scots hate England and everything about it.’

  ‘Aye, we do, and we always will.’

  Giselle could feel the raw anger in him when he spoke of the English.

  ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ she said.

  ‘Well understand this. Robert is my King and my master, and while you are on Scottish soil, make no mistake, I am yours.’

  It was clear that Lyall Buchanan hated her countrymen and he hated her. Giselle spoke no more after that. His bitterness made her miserable, and she longed for the day to end but, instead, they rode on for many more hours.

  The soft, rolling hills slowly gave way to deep glens, cutting through high craggy peaks, around which swirled pillars of cloud. In the distance, the sea, a frigid grey-blue, stretched endlessly away, as if it poured off the edge of the world. Eventually, they left it behind and rode inland. There was no softness there either, only an untameable, brutal wilderness, under a vast sky.

  Giselle felt as though she was being swallowed whole by this bleak land. She shivered, as, with each plodding step of the horse, she drew further into her Highland captor’s domain, and further away from safety.

  ‘Find a piece of flotsam and cling on to it.’ Agnes’ words came back to her time and time again. There must be a way to make this man like her, even care for her a little, or there was no safety. She had to try harder before it was too late.

  ***

  By mid-afternoon, the sun was fierce, and the air had grown heavy with an impending summer storm. Giselle’s hair was stuck to the back of her neck and forehead, and sweat soaked the once fine dress where it clung, tight, to her back.

  Their track, which had twisted through shaded, ancient forest, broke open onto a shoreline and, before them, stretching out, seemingly forever, was a glistening waterway. It was narrow where they stood on its shore, but widened, like a sea, into the distance.

  ‘Are we back at the ocean?’ Giselle risked asking, as Lyall had been silent for many miles and she had been afraid to talk to him.

  ‘It’s a loch, or a lake, as you English would have it, freshwater, but much bigger than anything you have in your soft country. It goes on for miles, and we will have to ride along its edge to reach Beharra, my home.’

  He looked a little sad when he said the word ‘home’. Giselle wondered if he dreaded going back there, or if he was ashamed to have an enemy ride in with him.

  ‘Come,’ he said briskly, dismounting, ‘let the horse drink.’ He led it to the water’s edge, and it dropped its head eagerly, sucking up the water in great gulps.

  Giselle climbed stiffly off its back and looked longingly out at the cool depths of the loch. The water was dark and gloomy, even in the sunshine, but it looked refreshing.

  The Scot’s eyes were on her, and she was suddenly shy and could not look at him. She wiped the sweat off her brow. ‘It’s fearsome hot today,’ she sighed.

  ‘Aye, a storm is coming. You are tired, so we will stay here a while and take some rest. If you want, you can go and bathe, lass. Get the sea out of your hair.’

  She looked at him in alarm. ‘I cannot bathe with you looking on.’

  ‘I can turn my back to save your blushes and your honour.’

  ‘I don’t trust you to do it.’

  ‘I promise I shall not look, so make up your mind and be quick about it, before the storm breaks. I have a little bit of soap in here amongst the Abbot’s other treasures. He said that you might need it, as women fash about such things.’ He rummaged about in his pack, trying to find it.

  Giselle looked at Lyall and back out at the cool water. He stood shoulder to shoulder with her, handing her a piece of soap. There was kindness in his eyes and some warm regard, too, which made her knees soften and tied her tongue. He made her so nervous, this savage Scot, and she knew he would probably look at her, in spite of his promise. Some traitorous part of her didn’t care if he did.

  ‘Go over there and turn your back, then,’ she said, indicating a big pile of rocks to one side of the shore.

  Lyall did as he was told, tearing off his tunic and shirt as he went. He went to the water’s edge and began flicking water into his armpits and over his back. ‘Don’t go in too deep, the bottom can fall away steeply and the rocks are slippery underfoot.’ His voice echoed out over the water in the still air. He began to pull off his braies, and Giselle hurriedly turned away.

  ‘Alright,’ she shouted back, wriggling out of her clothes and dipping a toe in the water. She was suddenly a little fearful. The loch did look deep and it was dark and murky.

  ‘Can you swim?’ he shouted back at her.

  ‘Not very well, I did so as a child, but not for a long time now.’

  Giselle tottered, bit by bit, into the water. It was colder than she expected making her gasp when it got up to her thighs. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in fully. ‘Aww,’ she gasped, rubbing her hands all over her to warm up.

  ‘Are you alright,’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, it is so cold. Don’t look and…please…keep talking to me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Tell me where we will stop for the night. Another abbey?’

  ‘There are none around here and not much shelter to be had. I think this storm will be a wild one, but I know a place about a mile up ahead.’

  It was comforting to hear his voice. Giselle didn’t have much time, so she dipped under the water, scrubbing at her hair, feeling the grit move under her fingers. When she came up, Lyall had his back to her and was waist-deep in the loch, so she rubbed the soap into her hair quickly. It was heaven to feel clean again.

  Clumps of some kind of weed, waved back and forth in the currents around her feet, tickling her legs.

  ‘Tak
e care the waterhorses don’t come and take you,’ Lyall shouted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Legend has it that kelpies lurk in the dark depths of the loch- strange creatures, half-horse and half-fish.’

  Giselle scoured the water all around her, feeling twice as cold all of a sudden.

  ‘If you get on a kelpie’s back, it is said you will be held fast by its powers, and then it will drag you under the water to drown, and afterwards, it will devour you.’

  There was laughter in his voice, surely he could not mean it?’

  ‘If you are going to say things like that you can stop talking now,’ Giselle shouted. How bold she was with this man. She should not speak to him so.

  The wind picked up, roughening the glassy surface of the loch into little waves, like frothy horses’ manes flying out. Giselle looked nervously at the water around her.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Lyall continued, ‘they disguise themselves as beautiful maidens to seduce men to their doom in the watery depths.’ He fell silent for a moment and, then spoke again, in a hoarse voice. ‘Perhaps you are such a one.’

  It was then that she realised he was watching her.

  ‘You swore you would not look,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  ‘Forgive me, I have been stuck with hundreds of unwashed, hairy men for years, so the temptation to look on beauty was just too much for me.’

  ‘Look away.’

  ‘Very well, if you wish. But you can’t blame a man for trying.’

  Giselle dipped under the water again and boldly opened her eyes. She smiled at the flash of silvery, little fish, darting around her toes, pale against the mud and silt at her feet.

  Something flicked against the back of her leg, the lightest of caresses. Unease pricked at her spine. Giselle circled around but could see nothing. A fish perhaps, there must be many in this loch. The sun went behind a cloud.

  Oh, there it was again, something sliding across her bottom. She looked down and saw a sinuous, grey shape slip past in the murk.

  Giselle’s shriek was fit to raise the dead. It had Lyall turning around, and brought him running to the water’s edge. She stood as if frozen, wide-eyed, with her arms clenched tight in front of her, fists under her chin.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he shouted.

  ‘There is something in the water.’

  ‘I was just teasing about the waterhorses, Giselle, I…’

  ‘Oh it’s big and grey, like a snake, and it’s, aargh, slimy,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Damn, I forgot to warn you about the eels.’

  ‘Eels!’

  ‘Aye, there’s big ones in there but they won’t…’

  ‘Oh, oh, it’s between my legs!’ Giselle screamed and flailed wildly, trying to get to shore, but she lost her footing and fell backwards and went under the water. When she came up, she was out of her depth.

  Lyall swam as fast as he could to reach her. He took hold of Giselle around the waist with one forearm, trying not to touch her more than necessary. Still, he got an eyeful of her breasts, where he held her wriggling body up out of the water. In a panic, she squealed and twisted in his arms and flung herself around him, clutching on, her face against his chest.

  ‘Don’t fash, Giselle, eels are curious creatures, that’s all. They can’t eat you. They may give you a little nibble, but that is all. You are safe with me.’

  ‘They’re horrible things, foul, I hate them.’ Giselle seemed to realise the intimacy of his embrace. Breathlessly, she said, ‘You broke your vow not to look.’

  His hands still held fast to her waist. ‘Aye, I did, because you were drowning and I also vowed to protect you, remember.’

  Lyall wanted to do the exact opposite of protecting her at that moment. He wanted to show her all the delicious things he could do with his hands and his mouth and his manhood. Giselle’s creamy breasts were bobbing against him, wet and rounded and pale. Her hair was darkened by the water and spread out, like a swirling, rust-coloured cloud, around her shoulders, bringing out the sea blue of her eyes. Now that her face was clean, with her long eyelashes sticking together like little starfish, this lass seemed like a mermaid out of one of the legends he’d been told as a child.

  ‘Lyall, we can’t be like this. We must get out.’

  The intimacy of her saying his name brought with it a hard pulse of arousal. The Abbot had warned him to resist temptation, but he could not.

  ‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘I’m in now, and that eel might come back. Besides, it’s nice in here with you.’ He pulled her just a little closer. Giselle’s eyes fixed on his, round, lustrous and soft. There was no fear in them that he could see, just confusion. She glanced from his eyes to his mouth, for the merest of moments, and then looked down and gave a shy smile and a little frown. It was his undoing. He pulled her closer still.

  The sky around them darkened, and the wind picked up.

  ‘Have you any idea how lovely you are, woman?’ he growled. She looked down at the water and shook her head.

  ‘Don’t. Please, Lyall. Let me go.’

  Now she would not look at him. She bit her lip, and Lyall felt her fingers dig into this shoulders.

  ‘Giselle, my God, the way you look now, it takes my breath away.’

  A blush crept up her neck and cheeks as she looked up at him. She had no idea how seductive that look was, or how it brought a sudden heat to his loins.

  The urge to touch her overwhelmed Lyall and so he put a hand up to her cheek and brought his head in, until their foreheads touched. Lyall held Giselle’s eyes with his, and she did not pull away. His mouth moved ever so slowly to hers, and he kissed her gently.

  Giselle was wet and sweet, her lips cool as he moved his mouth against hers. Her nails dug in harder to his shoulders at first, and then she softened in his arms. It seemed she enjoyed his attentions because she began to move her mouth against his, hesitantly, clumsily. Lyall pushed his hand into her hair and took hold of it tight, as he claimed her mouth greedily. The smooth slide of flesh on flesh as their bodies moved against one another, the tang of the soap in Giselle’s hair, the swell of those pert breasts pressed to his chest, was too much to bear.

  Giselle’s breath was coming in little gasps into his mouth, between kisses, making him fearfully aroused. He knew he shouldn’t, but his hands started to roam all over her wet body. Her breasts were a delight to him, slippery and smooth under his hands. The cold water had tightened her nipples to hard little buds and, more so, when his fingers found them. It excited him, and Lyall hoped she would not be alarmed by his erection, which was pulsing, hard as rock, up against her soft belly.

  ‘Lyall, stop, we should not,’ she gasped, as his mouth went to her neck. But she was not pushing him away, she was digging her fingers into his hair.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he breathed, taking her mouth with his again and hoping to God she did.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do, but it is wrong.’

  ‘Aye, that’s why it feels so good,’ said Lyall. He slid his hand over her bottom, round and slick as a ripe apple, and lifted her leg around his back. It would be so easy to push inside her and rip away her virtue away. Lyall longed to take his pleasure of Giselle’s slippery, warm body and bring himself to a release.

  Should he take advantage of her innocence and her sudden trust in him? What if she did want him, this gentle, sweet girl? Didn’t he deserve some reward after all the horror and brutality of these last years? Any other man would have indulged his pleasure, why shouldn’t he, for he was no bloody monk, with a shaved head and a shrivelled cock? Out here, there was no one to stop him.

  His manhood was poised at the cleft between her legs, his tongue in her mouth, their bodies almost one, entwined in what Lyall hoped was mutual pleasure. The fervour of her kiss suggested she would be slick and ripe for him. There need not be much pain if he was gentle with her.

  A terrifying clap of thunder sounded, right overhead, stopping him in his tracks. Lyall looked up to see dark cl
ouds churning around a black sky. The storm had blown in and, with it, the soft pitter-patter of rain on the loch. The sky flashed bright with lightning over the tops of the trees. The horse started to snort and whinny and pull at its tether.

  It was as if God was reaching down from the heavens, and admonishing him for his lust, forcing him to find his conscience.

  Gently, he pushed Giselle away. ‘We cannot stay here, it is dangerous with the lightening. We must seek shelter. I will make safe the horse, and you can follow and put your clothes on.

  ‘Lyall?’ She looked despairing, as she crossed her arms across her breasts, shivering in the, now, black water.

  ‘Make haste, Giselle,’ he shouted, already ploughing through the water to the shore, putting as much distance between them as possible. It was either that or push her up against a rock and take her like an animal, storm or no storm. And if he did, would he be seducing Giselle de Villers, or merely punishing the English, pouring out his hate for them into her belly? If it came to that, he would be no better than Banan MacGregor.

  As he struggled to pull his wet legs into his braies, the jingle of a bridle made him freeze in alarm. Lyall grabbed his sword.

  Men on horseback, about ten of them, emerged from the trees, too many to vanquish on his own.

  They were in trouble.

  Chapter Twelve

  One man pulled forward from the group and dismounted, with his hand on his sword hilt. He was a big brute, tall, his arms heavy with muscle, but light on his feet as he cleared the distance between them. Two fingers on his left hand were stumps. The man boasted a scar near one eye but still, it was a handsome face, though it wore a scowl that could curdle milk. If it came to a fight, this man was a formidable opponent.

  The man came closer and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I seem to have you at a disadvantage, my friend.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Lyall replied, unsheathing his sword.

  The man looked downwards and smirked insolently.

  ‘Is the water very cold?’ His companions sniggered behind him, and the brute took a step closer. ‘I’ve no wish to kill a man while his cock swings in the breeze. Put on your braies.’