He had her.
Iain saw Rafael’s hand close on the lass’s sleeve. He saw the evil smile of triumph bloom on the Frenchman’s face, then fade to malice as she plunged away from him. He saw the lace tear, give way, and watched Rafael reach for her again. The liquid in the cup sloshed, splattered. He didn’t dare spill it . . . It cost him a precious second to right the cup, and the lass dodged, kept running.
She was coming straight toward him now, and Iain’s belly tensed. In three steps he’d have her in his grasp. Behind her Rafael was already after her again.
Iain made ready to move, to take her, but he caught sight of her face and it stopped him. He expected terror and tears. There was fear to be sure, but there was something else as well—determination, anger. It stopped him in his tracks, knocked the breath from his lungs. Her eyes were on the door and nothing else. She didn’t stop when her sleeve tore. She picked up her skirts and ran harder.
He watched as the dance went on, her kin oblivious to her struggle as she twisted past them.
Rafael cursed as he shouldered bodies aside, his eyes on the girl. He still had a cup in his hand, still half full. He’d knock her to the floor, hold her as he poured it down her throat . . .
Still Iain hesitated. He had a choice—he could catch her and help hold her down.
Or he could set her free.
He measured the distance between the lass and the Frenchman with a glance, took in the position of the crowd that surrounded them. He felt his heart kick into a gallop. She could make it to the door, and escape—if Rafael weren’t gaining on her with every step.
A pair of dancers swept past him, and Iain shifted his weight ever so slightly. He bumped the big clansman just hard enough to knock him off balance. He stepped back as the lad toppled, cartwheeling his arms. Iain winced as he fell straight into Rafael. The glass flew out of the Frenchman’s hand, and the wine arced through the air, sparkling in the candlelight. The goblet tumbled, turning end over end before it hit the stone floor and exploded, sending shards of glass across the floor.
People screamed with laughter as they slipped and fell, cut themselves, oblivious to pain or shock. Rafael landed hard on his hands and knees, the blood-red potion soaking his silk stockings and his breeches, the glass slicing into his palms.
Iain didn’t dare look toward the lass, not now. He heard the groan of the hinges as the door opened behind him, and felt the gust of cold night air before it banged shut again.
She’d made it.
He felt the first moment of happiness he’d had in years. He had to refrain from grinning as he bent to help Rafael to his feet.
CHAPTER SIX
“How could you let her escape?” Bibiana demanded, pacing the floor of her chamber. “Three of you, and you could not stop one silly girl.”
She looked disdainfully at the red stains on Rafael’s stockings and coat, at the bandages on his hands, the rips and cuts on his knees, and her lip curled. “You should have been more careful.”
The Frenchman flushed but knew better than to reply when his mistress was in a high temper.
“And you, Terza—you said she was in the kitchen today. Why did you not make her drink then?”
“According to her sisters, she drinks only water. She always has, since she was a child,” Terza replied.
“But she eats, doesn’t she? You might have the potion in her food.”
Bibiana’s wrathful glare found Iain next. He stood by the door, his arms folded over his chest. Every moment they spent here was a moment longer for the lass to escape. He hoped she’d be sensible and not go to the village. It was the first place Bibiana would look for her. But she was young, frightened. She’d probably never been away from this glen before. He met Bibiana’s gaze evenly, kept his expression blank.
“You’re a hunter, used to tracking prey. Where would she go?”
He looked away briefly, lest she read his best guess in his eyes. “She grew up here. She knows the lands hereabouts well. She’ll know where to hide.”
“But you can track her.” It was a statement, not a question or a request. She came closer, stood before him. “You know the kinds of places where prey goes to ground, the sort of holes they choose. She’ll be afraid.”
Terza cackled, and Rafael managed a snicker.
Prey. She liked her victims full of fear . . . Something changed in Bibiana’s eyes, hardened, and Iain felt his belly tense.
“You can track her, can’t you, sealgair?” she said, a mocking edge to her tone. Did she suspect he’d helped her?
“Aye,” he said, fixing his eyes on the wall.
Bibiana ran her finger over his leather jack to the hilt of the dirk tucked into his belt. She raised her eyes to his, pinned him with a sharp look. “Did you let her go?” she asked.
He didn’t reply. She tilted her head and smiled at him. “How tired you must be of hunting only birds. Are you bored?”
He shook his head but didn’t step back. Her perfume was heavy and overly sweet, though other men loved it.
“I understand, Iain. Truly I do. But now you have a quarry that’s worthy of your talents.”
His mouth went dry.
“Go and catch her. It should be even more enjoyable in the dark, a bit more of a challenge. She didn’t even have a cloak when she left the hall. She was wearing dancing slippers.”
Rafael laughed until Bibiana spun on him “You’ll go with him,” she said. Rafael’s mirth faded.
“I hunt alone,” Iain said gruffly.
She raised one eyebrow and looked at him sharply. “Nevertheless,” she murmured, and dismissed them with a languid wave of her hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Laire wasn’t certain which was worse—the dark or the freezing wind. The cold hit her body like a battering ram. It stole her breath and instantly chilled her. She was clad only in a thin silk gown, suitable for dinner but not for being out on a cold autumn night when a storm was brewing. She didn’t even have a shawl. A few drops of rain were already falling, and the delicate satin slippers that matched her gown were almost immediately soaked. And it was dark, so very dark—she couldn’t see anything after the bright light inside the hall. She ran by memory, followed the path she’d trod thousands of times.
But never at night, in the terror of the dark. Panic caught in her throat, made it hard to breathe, and the wind twisted her hair, tugged it, whipped it around her face. The nightmare . . . Was she dreaming?
The pain in her feet, the chattering of her teeth, told her it was real. She felt tears gather and dashed them away. She’d cry later, when she was safe, and the ones she loved were safe too.
She looked over her shoulder. Was that a shadow or someone running after her? Not Papa or any of her sisters. They didn’t even know she was gone. Would they think to look for her tomorrow, or did the wine make them forget everything that was precious, important, and good? She wouldn’t forget. She’d remember for them, find help, save them.
She rushed onward, down the rutted track that led away from Glen Iolair’s gates. By the time she reached the bottom, her breath was raw in her throat. Stones pierced through the soles of her thin slippers, making her stumble. She gritted her teeth and ran on until she reached the place where the path forked. A wider road led along the shore of the loch to the village. A narrower way led into the wood. She paused. Where was she going? Away, just away. She looked out over the black waves of the loch as the wind shoved at her, bullied her, and tangled her skirts tight around her ankles.
There were folk in the village who would take her in, give her food and shelter. They were good, loyal people. They’d raise an army for their laird if she asked it of them . . . and Ada’s sister lived in the village. She would know where Ada had gone.
She looked back at the lighted windows of the castle. The cheerful, familiar glow gave no hint that anything was wrong within the powerful walls. All looked safe and normal. But it wasn’t. There’d be light in the village as well, and she’d be sa
fe, out of the dark. She could get there by either path . . .
She had to decide.
The village was two miles away along the shore of the loch, with the moon for company—when it came out from behind the rain clouds.
Or it was barely half the distance if she went through the wood.
The very dark, very terrifying wood. It was dark among the trees, and there were wild creatures there. Dry leaves skittered over the ground. In the wood, the bare branches of the trees clacked, and black shadows moved and shifted. Unseen dangers lurked there. Shards of the nightmare came back to her, and she shivered as she scanned the path behind her. Was someone there in the shadows, chasing her, coming to drag her back?
They’d make her drink, or kill her . . .
Her pursuers wouldn’t see her in the dark wood. She knew the path by day, every root and bump and boulder, every patch of moss and low-hanging branch. She could walk it blindfolded. Despite the dark, it was safer, smarter to choose that path.
Laire ran toward the trees before she could change her mind, her heart pounding, terror making her limbs jerky and clumsy. She stepped into the black void with an exclamation of fear. She shut her eyes, held tight to the trunk of the nearest tree, felt sweat beading along her spine. It made her colder still.
She forced herself to continue on.
The dark invaded her very bones. It wasn’t like being blindfolded at all—there were shapes in the dark, things that moved and shifted, skittered across the path. The shadows confused her until the familiar path was unrecognizable, and she wasn’t sure she was going the right way. The loch was on her left, wasn’t it? Was that the sound of waves, or the rustle of pursuers coming along the path? The very earth under her thin soles felt alive, menacing. She tripped over a root and sprawled headlong, jarring her teeth together. She scrambled up, hurried onward.
Someone—or something—caught her sleeve, and held her fast. She hadn’t the breath to scream. She clenched her fists, ready to fight, and turned to face her assailant.
She sobbed with surprise and relief. The torn lace of her sleeve was caught on a branch. She gasped, ripped it free, ran on, and fell. She rose and fell again, and again, until she was aching and bruised, exhausted.
Still, she forced herself up and pushed her unruly, wind-tangled hair out of her eyes. Which way? She spun in a circle, trying to decide. The shadows shifted, drew in, and this time it wasn’t her imagination.
She felt hands close on her arms, and she opened her mouth to scream.
She’d been easy to track, but then, he was used to tracking prey in the dark. Rafael had taken the path that led along the shore of the loch to the village, sure she’d taken the easy way, that he’d find her lying on the road, sobbing and terrified. Aye, she’d be terrified, Iain knew. But a smart lass who knew her father’s territory well would take the safer way, through the wood. If she was smart.
He scanned the track that led into the wood, a white ribbon against the black landscape when the moonlight came out from behind the clouds to show the way. He entered the wood. It was too dark to see much of anything at all, but he could feel her here, hiding among the underbrush, or running for her life. He felt a moment’s pity as he scanned the shadows for a gleam of silk, listened for the rustle of petticoats. The trees creaked and groaned like old women lamenting a death—or predicting one. He walked on, treading lightly so she wouldn’t hear him, moving like a shadow in his black deerskin boots. He held his sword still against his hip and passed silently through the trees, following her toward the village. He couldn’t let her reach it. She was the laird’s daughter—they’d help her and hide her and never give her up. It could take days to sniff her out, and it would be the same in the end—They’d drag her back to face Bibiana, and Bibiana was merciless when she was angry. It would go hard with the lass . . .
Pity swelled again, along with regret and guilt. He remembered how she looked in the wood, her eyes on his, her skin soft under his hand. She hadn’t flinched when he touched her. And he remembered the determination on her face as she fled the hall, and the fear—which would win? She was a brave lass, to be sure, but was she smart?
He dismissed the faint hope that surged in his breast. It didn’t matter, couldn’t. She wasn’t his concern.
It didn’t take long to find her. He saw her a few yards off the path, and she was doing battle with someone. His heart tightened in his breast. Rafael had caught her already. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and curled hard around the cold metal until the pattern on the pommel bit into his skin. He heard the unmistakable sound of cloth tearing.
He watched as she pulled free of her assailant—the branch of a tree—with a curse that would make a warrior blush, and ran on. He found a torn scrap of lace hanging from a twig and pulled it free. It bore the sweet smell of her skin, the scent he remembered from touching her in the wood . . . He stuffed the lace into his pocket and heard her stumble and fall. He crouched behind a tree and watched her fall, and rise, and fall again, getting up even when it was easier to stay down. She wasn’t crying—she was cursing. He felt another surge of admiration and crushed it. It was naught to do with him how bloody brave she was.
He closed in on her as she rose yet again, saw the shimmer of silk, heard the rustle of starched petticoats and dry leaves. She was three long strides away.
He had her.
Laire hadn’t heard a sound, but there he was, holding her. The hands on her arms were more like iron bands than flesh. She twisted in his grip, but he held on easily. The hard, hot wall of his body behind hers was huge. She scratched at his knuckles, but he wore gloves. She opened her mouth and gathered herself to scream.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice a low growl, and she froze, the sound dying in her throat.
The sealgair!
She felt her bones turn to water, but he held her up, pressed her against his body. There was nothing soft about him. His limbs were as solid as tree trunks. She felt his breath on her cheek, and her eyes widened with panic. Dead closed her throat, left her as useless as a cloth doll against his strength.
He’d throw her over his shoulder and take her back. He’d hold her while they made her drink the sweet, seductive potion. She thought of the dazed, glazed look in her father’s eyes, the way her sisters stared at nothing and danced until their slippers were shredded by the rough stone floors. There’d be no one to stop it. She was the last . . . She felt helpless tears sting her eyes. But she was a Fearsome MacLeod, and if she was the last, she would not, could not, let that legacy die with her.
She took a breath and raised her foot. She stamped on his booted foot, kicked at his ankles, and rammed her elbow straight back into his belly. He grunted, shifted and lifted her off the ground, so she was kicking at the air.
“How dare you touch—” she raged, but his arm circled her waist, and he clamped his hand over her mouth. Furious at the indignity, the insult, the terrible, unforeseen fate of her family, she fought him with all her strength. Colors swirled before her eyes and she panted with the effort of her battle, exhausted. If she could speak, perhaps she could reason with him, convince him to release her . . .
She bit the hand that covered her mouth, but her teeth caught nothing but the leather palm of his glove. Frustration and anger were all she had left. She began to yell at him from behind his hand, insisting on her release, warning him, threatening, but the words were naught but a muffled, unintelligible garble.
“Be silent,” he hissed in her ear. His breath was whisky-scented and warm. She could feel his heartbeat pounding through her, hammering in time with her own. He’d spread his legs wide, enveloping her with his powerful body. She gathered herself to kick him again, but he wore boots, and the effort was worthless. He wasn’t even breathing hard. She issued a string of muffled curses from behind the glove and tried again, driving her elbow into the hard body, rewarded by nothing more satisfying than a faint grunt of discomfort. What next? Her mind worked frantically. She would never give
up. She’d fight until the very end.
What the hell was he going to do with her? Captured, she fought like a wildcat. She was good, too—someone had taught her how to keep herself safe. The addled laird of Glen Iolair had done something right. She caught him in the gut with her elbow and drove the wind out of him, but he held on. She was magnificent.
She didn’t deserve the fate Bibiana had in store for her.
She kicked him again, and he felt the pain radiate through his shin and gritted his teeth. Fortunately she wasn’t in a position to aim any higher . . . but then she squirmed, twisting in his arms, and tried exactly that. Her knee grazed his groin, not at full force, but hard enough to hurt.
What was he waiting for? He could knock her out with one tap to the chin. He could simply throw her over his shoulder and take her back to the castle. But a bitter taste filled his mouth, and he frowned into the dark. It was his job, his sworn oath, his damned duty. He had only months left with Bibiana, a matter of weeks, and he’d be free to go to the devil his own way. The winter would be quiet here, easy, and he’d be gone by spring, before the other lasses met their fate. But this lass—this lass would be dead by morning, and there was every chance Bibiana would insist that he put the knife to her slender white throat. He wouldn’t be allowed to refuse. And if he did, if Bibiana ever discovered what he was hiding from her, he’d lose the one thing he had left that he cared about. The woman in his arms was nothing to him. He had no connection to her, no reason to risk his own life by saving hers. At least he hadn’t until he’d looked into her eyes, saw her, and wondered . . . He tightened his grip on her. He could easily end her struggles. But she was brave, and she smelled like wind and wildflowers and summer heather. She was alive and vibrant in his arms, and she’d made him feel something for the first time in seven years.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 5