A masked stranger had pulled her from a carriage and might have killed her, or worse, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel the requisite terror. How pitiful. She tilted her head to search her emotions, but they were a blank slate. She didn’t feel a bit of fear—or much of anything else, for that matter.
She was no fool. If another soul stood nearby, she’d make a show of fright, just so they wouldn’t grow concerned for her sanity. But since she was alone, there was no need to school her actions. She could be herself.
She could thank Uncle Walter for her strange, improper reaction, she supposed. Had this been his goal? To eradicate her ability to respond in an appropriate way? To eliminate the instinctual response to fear for her life?
And then she did feel a little something. A tiny flicker of terror. Not of the highwaymen, though, nor for her life. Of Uncle Walter himself.
Elizabeth stared down the path in the direction Cam and those awful men had gone. What if they had injured him? She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Cam with a hole torn open in his chest. Taking gasping, wheezing breaths as his lifeblood drained from him . . .
Uncle Walter would take her back to England.
No. She shook off the thought. Cam was capable of defending himself. Those men were rough and dirty and unskilled compared to her betrothed. She had faith in his ability to overcome them, even outnumbered as he was.
But why hadn’t he come back?
A bird cackled nearby, and she cast an acerbic glance in the creature’s direction, then scoured the edge of the path until she found a sharp stick to use as a weapon. Who knew what kinds of ferocious beasts could be roaming this wild place?
Perhaps this was where she belonged, after all. It was wild, just like her. She smiled a little and gripped the stick tighter.
She’d go after Cam. If something had happened, if he was hurt, she’d help him.
Suddenly, the clomp of a horse’s hooves sounded from around a bend in the path. Wielding her stick like a sword, she braced her feet in the center of the narrow strip of dirt, not knowing whether she’d face the earl or one of the criminals come back to ravish her. Or hold her for ransom. Or both.
It was neither. A dark-haired man approached on horseback. He wore one of those Highland plaids that gave the men in this region such an untamed, scandalous appearance. Young Scotsmen in their plaids always made her chest tighten in pleasant appreciation. Even this one, who wore a tartan of a most appealing shade of blue but was particularly wild-looking, made her stomach flutter, when instead she ought to be scared to death—or at the very least on her guard.
He couldn’t have been involved with the attack. The difference between him and the highwaymen was obvious in his bearing, his dress, and in the horse he rode—a much finer animal than the short, skinny Scottish creatures the highwaymen had ridden.
As he drew near, she straightened her spine, lowered the stick, and adopted her “Lady Elizabeth” facade. Her uncle approved of this particular air she affected—said it made her look as haughty as a queen. Over the years, she’d refined and polished it until it shone like one of the golden Roman statues adorning the Duke of Irvington’s foyer. Until it solidified into stone, as hard as one of the Greek alabaster busts in the library.
The horse’s back legs sprayed mud as it halted before her. For a long moment, the man’s dark amber eyes perused her. Assessed her. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Who might you be?”
His rumbling accent sent a chill of awareness down her spine, but she hid it, knowing full well her visceral reaction to him was utterly ridiculous.
How had he known to speak English to her? Was her foreignness so very obvious?
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, doing her best to look down her nose at him, though his position on the horse put him several feet above her. Anyone who knew anything about manners would have dismounted before speaking to a lady of her status.
“I am Lady Elizabeth Grant, a guest of the Earl of Camdonn. Our carriages were attacked by bandits. Surely you heard the gunshots.”
“Aye.” He scanned the area. “So where are they now?”
“The earl chased them away,” she said primly.
The man seemed to do a rapid mental calculation; then he dismounted smoothly. A master horseman, she deduced. Not a peasant, certainly. She imagined a majority of the population of this poor country had no idea whatsoever how to handle a horse.
He bowed his head. His hair was dark—the color of coffee with just the barest touch of cream—but not as dark as Cam’s. “I am Robert MacLean.”
She nodded coolly. Keeping her stiff composure, inwardly she indulged in a brazen smile. Here she stood in the wilds of Scotland with a scandalously torn dress, alone on an abandoned path and at the whim of a young and handsome stranger, and they were exchanging introductions. Days ago, she could never have imagined such an absurd scenario.
Robert angled his head at the horse. “Come.”
She was surely mad. Any of the girls back home would be terrified, but Elizabeth . . . No. Again she wasn’t frightened in the least.
“Indeed I will not ‘come,’ ” she huffed. “I shall walk. I do not know you, sir. However, you must—” Before she had the opportunity to command that he go back and search for Cam, his hands encircled her waist, lifted her, and deposited her upon the horse. Then he mounted and settled behind her in the saddle. Shockingly close. Deliciously close. The rough wool of his plaid scraped the delicate silk of her dress, and when she inhaled she smelled him. Clean hay and leather.
He adjusted the reins and wrapped one hard arm around her waist, presumably to keep her from toppling off the animal.
She looked over her shoulder, directly into Robert MacLean’s eyes. Not quite brown, not quite gold, they reminded her of autumn. No, of sweet burnt sugar. She found them as absorbing as a whirlpool. He didn’t meet her gaze; instead he stared steadily ahead. Nevertheless, she read something in the dark gold depths. Dislike, perhaps.
She turned and stared ahead at the rutted path as Robert coaxed the horse into a walk. It didn’t matter. As delicious as he appeared—coffee hair and burnt-sugar eyes, indeed!—it was certainly for the best if he didn’t like her. In any event, she wasn’t a very likable person. Nobody liked her. Which was perfectly fine, really.
Cam, however, was infinitely polite, infinitely solicitous in her presence. Did he like her? As a person, as a human being, as a woman, a lifelong companion?
Probably not. Maybe someday he would. That would be ideal, of course, but ultimately she didn’t care. As long as Cam didn’t hate her, nothing else mattered.
All she desired was freedom from Uncle Walter. And if Cam was hurt . . .
She turned to Robert MacLean. “Stop immediately. You must go back to search for Lord Camdonn. I’ll continue on foot to the castle and inform them that the earl is missing. But if he’s in dire need, you might find him first and save him. If we delay any longer, we could be too late.”
Robert MacLean didn’t respond. He didn’t even deign to look at her—instead his eyes focused unerringly on the uneven surface of the path.
“Stop at once. I insist.” She pushed at the arm clasped round her waist, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Nay.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To Camdonn Castle.”
She sat in rising frustration as the horse plodded forward. When they arrived at Camdonn Castle, Uncle Walter would take control, and she would be impotent. Desperation surged through her. She didn’t trust her uncle to help Cam. If Cam was hurt, the Highlander sitting behind her was her only hope.
When she spoke, it was in her quietest, most lethal voice. The voice that made her servants at home blanch in fear. “You must obey me.”
“Why?” He seemed mildly amused.
“Because I am the niece of the Duke of Irvington, of course.”
“Aye, and the betrothed of the Earl of Camdonn. You’ll find high-and-mighty English tit
les mean a wee bit less to Highlanders.”
Highlanders. The word rolled off his tongue carnally, and her stomach fluttered even as she clenched her fists in her skirts. How dare he dismiss her order so lightly? She ground her teeth, hating him, hating even more how her body responded to him. Still, her desperation to help Cam overwhelmed it all.
“I could have you horsewhipped.”
Her threat sounded as though it came from the mouth of a petulant child—no, worse. She sounded as horrible as her uncle, and a flash flood of shame thundered through her.
If Robert MacLean hadn’t hated her before, her words certainly sealed the impression. He didn’t make any move to obey her; instead, his arm stiffened about her waist, and steam seemed to billow from his body. He was so warm, she struggled not to sink into him like the softest of down quilts. Even though he was hard as stone.
It suddenly seemed far more likely he’d have her horsewhipped.
The fight drained out of her, dripped right out of her toes. She’d lost, and it was her own fault.
She closed her eyes in self-loathing. She was such a horrid brat. Lord knew she would never inflict a terrible punishment like a horse-whipping on such a delicious man. Whether he deserved it or not. She’d never consciously inflict such a punishment on anyone, no matter what they looked like, no matter how evil their disposition. He believed he was doing the honorable thing by taking her to Cam’s home. He couldn’t be faulted for that.
She should apologize for making such a vile threat. Certainly she should. She must.
But she couldn’t. The harder she tried to push I’m sorry from her throat, the tighter it closed, simply refusing to release the words.
Uncle Walter surely had Cam’s best interests in mind. She had to trust in that, if nothing else. Her uncle had no reason to wish for Cam’s demise. If her uncle had a desire to see Cam dead, he’d already be long gone.
The horse shifted abruptly, and Elizabeth opened her eyes. Here the road began a steep descent down the back of the mountain. At the bottom, probably a bit less than a mile away, water stretched in a placid blue line, calm and pristine. A lake—no, a loch was what they called it here. Green cliffs speckled with great white boulders rose from the opposite bank, ascending steeply toward the puffy clouds. A handful of boats floated on the loch’s surface, mere dots from this distance, and she couldn’t tell if they were moving.
Her gaze followed the far shoreline until the loch came to a rounded tip. Smoke curled lazily from a cluster of structures tucked into the valley leading off from the bank. She couldn’t remember the name of the village—Glen . . . Glen-something-or-other. She studied how the bank curved back around, her gaze skimming over the few brown cottage roofs among the prevailing green on this side of the loch. A bucolic scene, like something from an Italian painting, but even more vivid, more lovely.
Her gaze careened to a stop when it landed on the castle.
“Camdonn Castle,” she murmured.
Robert MacLean, still angry with her, still sitting like a statue behind her, didn’t respond.
Sighing, she gazed down at the structures directly below them. Situated on a spit of land jutting into the loch, Camdonn Castle wasn’t just one building but many, all built from gray stone. With the loch serving as its moat and a solid rock wall barring entrance to the spit, it appeared more an ancient fortress than the glittering silver fairy-tale palaces she’d seen on the trip north from Hampshire. Camdonn Castle looked stony and cold, and altogether harsh.
This cold, gray, awful place, this place that looked more like a medieval prison than a house . . . this was to be her home forevermore.
A tremble resonated through her body. Was it her imagination, or did Robert MacLean’s arm tighten around her?
They continued down the mountain in rigid silence. All along, the raw strength of Robert MacLean simmered behind her, and regret for her rash, childish outburst continued to bite through her like scampering mice.
It was too late to take back what she’d said. She’d missed her opportunity to apologize, and she’d probably never see him again.
As they descended to the entryway to the castle, Robert urged the horse into a trot. The animal obliged readily enough, probably anticipating the promise of oats and the release of the heavy weight from its back.
A big, black, heavy iron gate rose from the sheer rock walls. A group of guards stood before it, eyeing them warily as they approached. When they recognized the man riding behind her, they called to Robert in Gaelic, regarding Elizabeth with an unfriendly glimmer in their eyes that curdled her stomach.
Robert dismounted. Leading the horse by the reins, he walked the rest of the way. Elizabeth sat stiffly in the saddle, clutching the horse’s mane so hard her knuckles turned white, but remaining outwardly calm as she eyed the men with disdain.
Robert cocked his head in her direction. He spoke in English, likely for her benefit. “This is Lady Elizabeth Grant, his lordship’s intended. I found her on the road.”
The men glanced at her, then looked away, none of them offering a reasonable semblance of an obeisance. Elizabeth kept her expression even. A huge man with a pockmarked face and a red nose rattled off something in Gaelic.
Elizabeth arched a regal brow at Robert. “Translate, please, Mr. MacLean.”
“He says His Grace, your uncle, is here, but there’s been no sign of his lordship. They’re sending a party to search for him.”
Elizabeth released a silent breath, and a shudder of alarm rippled through her body. She clenched every muscle to combat it, to remain outwardly serene. It was what she did best, after all.
The gate swung open with a loud squeal.
Without sparing another glance at her, Robert strode forward, leading the horse across the narrow length of the spit and then up a winding path to the castle grounds.
People crowded the graveled courtyard in a disorganized mass. Men shouted orders, but nobody seemed to be listening, and Robert made a disapproving noise in his throat.
As they approached, a group separated from the rest and rushed at them. Elizabeth immediately recognized her uncle’s fashionable white wig among the darker heads of the Scots.
“Elizabeth,” he blustered, breaking from the crowd. The gold of the round buttons down the front of his coat came into view, and Elizabeth noted that he’d placed his wig carefully askew to give himself an anxious demeanor. As always, he played the concerned, doting uncle to a T. Now all the residents of Camdonn Castle would spread the rumor of what a fine, caring man he was, and if she ever disputed it, well, they viewed evidence to the contrary right this very instant.
“Oh, my dear.” He reached up to pull her from the horse. Her feet hit the ground with a jolt, and he loomed over her, his face a mask of concern. “Oh, Lizzy. How I have worried. Thank God you are unhurt.”
She managed to smile up at him. “I am fine, truly.” She risked a glance at Robert, who watched the scene dispassionately.
“Come, child, let us go inside. It is warm there, and your maid awaits with fresh garments and a warm posset for you.”
“But what about Lord Camdonn, Uncle? He’s lost. I fear he’s been shot or fallen from his horse—”
“Never fear, dear girl. Lord Camdonn’s men will find him. They will scour every inch of the countryside, and I have no doubt he’ll be home by dusk.” He gave her arm a fatherly pat.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Robert take up the reins and lead the horse away. She knew better than to stare, and she tore her gaze away from the Scot as Uncle Walter ushered her toward a long rectangular building with a tall square tower rising from one end. Long ago, this building must have served as the keep.
She’d felt utterly safe with Robert’s strong arm locked around her body. With his powerful legs encasing her behind. As he moved farther away from her, so did that warm, sweet sensation of security.
She looked up at her uncle, saw the silvery glint in his eyes as he slanted his gaze at her disheveled gow
n, and steeled herself against the panic threatening to consume her whole.
Ceana pushed through the brush and dropped to her knees beside the man. Eyes half lidded, he didn’t seem to register her presence as she assessed his condition. Blue tinged his pale skin, a stark contrast to his red lips and dark lashes and brows. High, slashing cheekbones, a sloped straight nose, and black brows arching over long-lashed, wide-set eyes all worked together to create an artistic masterpiece.
She tore her gaze from his face, which required no further analysis, certainly, for it was uninjured. Only the paleness of his skin offered information; he’d lost too much blood.
Once she escaped the snare of his far-too-handsome face, it was simple enough to diagnose his malaise. Sticky blood covered his shoulder and most of his arm, darkening the black wool coat covering his torso. He’d been dealt a crushing blow to his arm—or maybe he’d been shot. She shuddered, remembering the poachers. Perhaps they weren’t poachers after all.
His rich clothing left no doubt that he was a fine gentleman. Not that it mattered to her—she wasn’t the obsequious, sniveling sort, fawning over the higher orders like they shat gold. People were equal to her, no matter their station in life, and while the difference between her class and his might be clear as day, she’d care for him as she’d care for anyone else. He deserved no more and no less than the lowliest whore or the poorest beggar.
People could either accept her as she was or leave her be. She didn’t care one way or the other, and ultimately, when it came to a choice between living and dying, neither did anyone else. Of any class. No one cared about her appearance or her social standing if she was saving their life.
“Can you hear me?” she asked in Scots. She tried again in English. When he didn’t answer, she spoke more sharply, smacking his smoothly shaven cheek lightly with her palm. His skin was clammy, cold to the touch, his breathing rapid.
His eyelids fluttered, revealing the dark orbs beneath. “Mary MacNab,” he murmured, his lips twitching into a skeletal grimace. “Will you save me this time?”
Highland Surrender Page 3