The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  He loosened his grip. She took advantage of the moment to kick him again, hard on the knee. He saw stars, stifled a curse of his own.

  He hefted her to carry take her back. It was the smartest thing he could do, the simplest—but still he hesitated. She weighed almost nothing in his arms, yet she would not go without a bloody battle. No wonder they called the MacLeods of Glen Iolair Fearsome. The women alone were terrifying. Yet they were no match for Bibiana. He stood where he was, with his hand spanning her waist, his hand over her mouth, and considered.

  “Sealgair?”

  The distant call stilled the girl instantly. He felt her stiffen, felt the tremor of fear go through her limbs, like a wild creature, sensing death is near, that all hope was gone . . .

  It was Rafael. Iain shut his eyes. He heard him moving through the fallen leaves making more noise than a whole army. He was off to the right, some distance away. Iain stayed still, didn’t reply, and the lass waited, frozen against him. Her heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  He backed against a tree out of the Frenchman’s line of sight, still holding her, and peered around the thick trunk.

  “Where the devil are you?” Rafael called again.

  He felt the tremor that rushed through her body. She raised her hand to scrabble at the glove across her mouth, and made a soft sound of despair. Now she was afraid . . . Silently, Iain caressed her cheek with one fingertip, the way one might gentle a fractious cat. He felt a tear hit his wrist, warm, then instantly cold.

  He let go of her mouth, and she drew a harsh breath.

  He held her so she could not flee, and pushed her to her knees.

  “Into the bush with ye. Hide yourself,” he said in a whispered snarl. For a moment she hesitated, deciding. “Now,” he warned, as the sound of Rafael’s clumsy approach grew louder.

  She crawled into the bush silently and sat hugging her knees to her chest. He peered at her. “Don’t make a sound.”

  He stepped in front of her hiding place and waited a moment longer. He was a fool . . .

  “Here,” he called to Rafael when the Frenchman was right in front of him.

  Rafael swore. “Merde. You scared me. How can I see you if you’re always dressed in black?”

  “Not being seen is the point for a hunter.”

  Rafael bent forward, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “Did you find her?” Rafael asked, and Iain felt his reply catch in his throat.

  Laire peered out between the sealgair’s booted feet. She could see Rafael by the light of the moon filtering through the bare trees, noted the sharp glitter of the silver embroidery on his waistcoat, and the dark red splatters of spilled wine on his white stockings. He’d taken off the powdered wig he usually wore, and his scalp gleamed through the short, spiky stubble of his dark hair. It gave him a brutal look. Then clouds covered the moon again, and she shut her eyes. Her limbs trembled. It was so dark . . .

  “Did you find the little bitch?” Rafael demanded again when the sealgair didn’t reply, and Laire held her breath.

  “No.”

  Laire opened her eyes, stared at the length of his legs. He was helping her. He wasn’t going to drag her back, or murder her in cold blood. He was helping her . . . Hope soared in her breast, and she bit her hand to keep from sobbing aloud.

  Rafael swore again. “It’s too dark to see anything. She could be right under our noses, and we wouldn’t know it. She knows these woods, this place. Where would she go, a stupid chit like that?” He stepped closer, his foot so close to the hem of her gown she could see the glitter of the diamond buckles.

  She heard the rustle of clothing, then the spill of liquid, and smelled the sharp tang of urine as he pissed on a tree near her hiding place.

  The sealgair didn’t move.

  The Frenchman adjusted his garments, cupped his hands and blew between them to warm them. “It’s cold as the grave in this accursed country, and it’s not even winter yet. I’m freezing my balls off. She can’t have gone far. She didn’t even have a shawl.”

  “An arisaid.” The sealgair said softly. “Scottish women wear arisaids, woolen plaids.”

  “What bloody difference does it make what it’s called?” Rafael snapped. “Surely she’ll freeze without a cloak, come creeping home ice cold and fainting. She’ll do what we want then, won’t she? Christ, does it ever get warm in this horrid country of yours? Does the sun ever shine?”

  “Not at night,” the sealgair said drily.

  “Then can Scottish women see in the dark, like cats?” Rafael said. “I heard this one was afraid of the dark. Maybe that isn’t true. Not that it matters. When Bibiana gets her back, she’ll kill her, just for spite. She has plenty of others in hand, and she doesn’t like being crossed She’s less tolerant now, with winter setting in. She’ll have to wait until spring for—”

  “Go back,” the sealgair interrupted sharply. “I’ll find her.”

  Laire’s skin prickled. Spring? Wait for spring for what?

  “Well, it is your job—hunting things,” Rafael said. He turned and looked along the path that led back to the castle, hesitating. “Are you sure you don’t wish me to help you? It might be fun to steal a kiss, sample her before we take her back. She’s the prettiest of them, and they’re all beauties.”

  Laire’s eyes burned in the darkness, and she clenched her fists. She’d die before she allowed Rafael to touch her. But her outrage faltered as quickly as it had come. It might well come to death, she realized. She swallowed, but the lump of fear in her throat stayed stuck right where it was.

  “Nay, I’ll go alone,” the sealgair said. “Ye make too much noise. Every creature in the forest would hear ye coming a mile off. They’d smell the perfume ye wear, and see that fancy silver vest. There’d be so many creatures fleeing it would be impossible to know what to track.”

  Rafael gave a bitter laugh and turned aside with a shrug. “Fine by me. I prefer easier prey, caught indoors and impaled on a sweeter sword. Go, freeze your balls off—I’ll be inside by the fire, with a bird on my cock, and a cock in the bush.” Rafael said, and laughed at his own jest.

  He turned to go, and Laire stayed where she was, motionless as a mouse, staring into the dark. She scanned the black silhouette that stood before her hiding place. His legs were so very long, clad in fitted leather breeches and soft black deerskin boots. She noted the sword that hung from his belt, the dirk in his boot. She could reach it easily . . . he moved so suddenly she jumped in surprise, and he reached for the dirk himself. The blade made no sound as he unsheathed it. Her throat closed. He bent and held out his hand to her. He’d removed his glove, and his fingers were long and white against the shadows.

  “Come out,” he said impatiently when she hesitated. “If I meant to harm ye I would have done it already.”

  She put her hand in his, felt the strength in the sinews and bones. He had rough callouses on his palm. He held back the branches for her as she crawled out and got to her feet, trembling, and cold, and stood before him. He raised the dirk, reached for her arm, and she flinched. He said nothing as he cut the last few inches of trailing lace from her sleeve.

  “Where were you planning to go?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “The village.”

  “Ye won’t be safe there.”

  He sheathed the dirk in his belt and unpinned his cloak and took it off. He reached for her and she flinched. “I won’t hurt ye,” he growled. He draped the cloak over her shoulders. It was warm from his body, smelled of whisky and soap and his skin. It made her nose quiver. He pinned it at the shoulder, his hands quick and careful.

  “Ye can’t stay in MacLeod territory.”

  He said it as if it didn’t matter, with an edge of irritation to his tone, as if she was an inconvenience.

  She bristled. “Then I’ll go to—”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” he snapped. He unsheathed the dirk again, grabbed her hand
, and pushed the hilt into her palm, closed her fingers around it. “D’ye know how to use a knife?”

  She nodded, gripped the hilt automatically. Was he not afraid she’d use it against him? She tilted her head back to look at the silhouette of his face. He was too big, too strong for her to best him that way, and in the dark. “My father taught all his daughters how to defend ourselves,” she said instead, fiercely. But that was in better times, when anything that threatened them could be vanquished with a knife. Now, it seemed her wits were her best chance . . .

  He grunted his approval. “Then keep it ready. There’s an inn a few miles away, over the mountain, outside the glen, and near the government fort. Do ye know it?”

  “Aye. The Glen Lyon,” she said. She’d never been there. Her father forbade it, since there were English troops there—hard, dangerous men with no respect or kindness for Scots or women.

  “Go there. Find someone who’s traveling far away. Don’t come back.”

  She stiffened. “Tell me why I must leave. What will happen to my father, my sisters?”

  He turned away. “There’s naught ye can do to help them,” he said.

  She swallowed, felt desperate tears well. “He—Rafael—said something would happen in the spring. What did he mean?”

  He didn’t answer. He took her arm and began walking, striding through the treacherous darkness as easily as if it were day.

  She pulled out of his grip, stood her ground. “My father has allies, friends.”

  He grasped her arm again. “Aye, go to them if ye wish, but it won’t matter. Even an army can’t fight this.”

  “Then how can I fight it?” she demanded.

  He made an impatient sound. “By leaving and saving yourself. Come on.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Who said I was? You’ve lived all your life here in this glen. I doubt you’ve been beyond the borders of your father’s lands. You’ve been pampered and protected, and ye won’t have that anymore. The real world is a hard place.”

  She raised her chin. “I’ve been to Inverness and—” She drew sharp breath as she stumbled over a root and stubbed her toe. He caught her elbow to keep her from falling, his touch gentle, his hand warm. He held on, guiding her forward.

  “Ye need boots.”

  “I have four pairs at home,” she said tartly. “And my own cloak.” His was too long, too heavy. Still, she wrapped it closer around her body. It was warm.

  “Much good that’ll do ye now.” He stopped walking. He unhooked the pouch at his waist, and she heard the jingle of coin. He picked up her hand and dropped the purse into it. His fingers curled around hers. Despite the cold, his hands were warm. The purse was heavy in her palm. He was close to her, and she looked up at the shape of him in the dark. The moon was behind him, and she couldn’t see his face. Could he see hers? He stood still for a long moment, gazing down at her, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and gruff.

  “Ye’ll have to buy what ye need. Have ye ever done that?”

  “No.”

  He swore under his breath. “Tie the purse under your skirts and don’t show it to anyone.” She blushed at the idea of lifting her gown and finding the trailing end of her corset strings, here before him . . . She shoved the pouch into her pocket instead.

  He began walking again, staying close to her side in the dark, bumping against her from time to time on the narrow path with a brush of hands or shoulders. It made her more aware of the size and shape of him. She was used to big men, Highlanders. He shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but she was surrounded by the scent of him, the sound of his breath, the soft sound of his footfalls next to hers on the hard ground. Every sense was heightened. Was she safe with him, or in danger? Her body buzzed, making her clumsier than usual. He caught her arm again when she tripped, pulling her briefly against the warmth of his chest. “Be careful,” he said in a low growl of impatience that vibrated through her body. Yet his touch wasn’t impatient—it was gentle and careful. He matched his pace with hers, shielded her from branches and roots.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked after he righted her once again.

  “I shouldn’t be,” he said.

  “You’re a kind man,” she said, suspecting it was true, hoping so, despite his gruff, forbidding exterior.

  His grip on her elbow tightened, and he turned her, held her before him and leaned so close she could feel his breath on her face. It was too dark to see his expression, but she could feel the tension in his body, like a bow string drawn so tight it might snap at any moment. A frisson of fear ran through her, and she stayed still, like a rabbit caught in the sights of a wolf.

  “Nay, I’m not a kind man, or a good man, mistress. I’m the very worst kind of bastard, and ye should be afraid of me, not grateful. ” His face was inches from hers, and he loomed over her.

  “You are a good man,” she insisted, breathless. “I know. My father’s a good man. He’d do the same for someone in trouble.” She took a breath. “Will you . . . will you keep them safe?”

  He let her go so suddenly she almost fell. “I can’t keep anyone safe. It’s too late.” He stalked away, leaving her to follow.

  How could it be too late? They still breathed, still danced, still lived. There was still a chance, still hope. For a moment she stood watching him go, leading her away from home and everything she’d ever known, all she held dear. He was the only familiar thing left. Fear coursed through her again, and she felt tears threaten. She stared at his back, dashed them away with the back of her hand, and hurried to catch up.

  “I’m not a coward, sealgair,” she said.

  He stopped walking and turned so suddenly she crashed into him. He caught her, held her close for an instant, his hands tight and tense on her shoulders. “I know you’re not.” He released her and took her hand in his, tucked it under his arm, kept it warm against his body, and led her forward again.

  They came to the top of the hill at the end of the glen. The ground cleaved away sharply in a steep downward slope, marking the border of Donal MacLeod’s territory. Below, she saw the lights of the fort and the wee village. They stood side by side for a moment. She half hoped he’d change his mind, lead her home again, or shake her awake, tell her all would be well, that none of this was real . . .

  Instead he pointed to a barely visible break in the trees. “There’s the path. Follow it.”

  With that, he turned to go, walking away from her without so much as a fare-thee-well.

  “What now?” she called after him. “What do I do?”

  He paused and turned to look at her. She saw the glitter of his eyes in the dark, the hard set of his jaw.

  “Make use of all that MacLeod courage,” he said. “Run.”

  With that he disappeared into the darkness, back the way they’d come, toward Glen Iolair.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “How could a mere girl have escaped from you? You can track anything, in any weather, and yet you lost her?” Bibiana glared at Iain as she paced the floor of her chamber.

  Iain glanced at Rafael, wondered what he’d told Bibiana when he returned. The Frenchman looked smug. He’d changed his clothing, wore his wig again, and a fine red-velvet coat. But there were still spots of wine on his buckled shoes, and mud clinging to the high red heels.

  Iain stood in a puddle, for it had begun to rain after he left the lass on the edge of her father’s lands. “It’s raining,” he said.

  He could see his own image reflected darkly in Bibiana’s mirror. His hair and clothing were soaked, but his back was straight. He kept his expression flat.

  But Bibiana’s eyes glittered as she watched him. He resisted the urge to swallow. Lying did not come easily, so he said nothing more. He’d brought an owl back with him, one of her favorites, though he knew it wouldn’t distract her. Nor would bedding her new husband. She’d left Donal sleeping, and had simply shrugged at the owl. She wanted the girl.

  Terza cackled. “The laird spo
ils his daughters, pampers them. She’s probably never been out at night. When we find her in the morning, she’ll come easily when the sealgair goes to fetch her. She’ll be cold and crying, her passions high and fear flowing through her veins, ready.”

  Bibiana crossed to stare out the window, her long fingers tapping angrily on the sill. The heavy crystal ring she wore flashed. Silver streams of water cascaded down the expensive diamond-shaped panes. Beyond the glass, lightning struck, shattering her image.

  “There are caves and shepherd’s huts,” Rafael added. “Probably all full of bats and wee hibernating things with sharp teeth. No one else would look there for her, only a sealgair.”

  Terza laughed again.

  “Be silent, old woman.” Bibiana said shortly. Terza’s unholy grin faded. “Go and prepare the owl.” She waited until Terza scuttled out of the room. She handed a half-empty glass of wine to Rafael. “Go and fetch me a fresh glass.” He bowed and left the room.

  Iain stood still as Bibiana paced a slow circle around him, taking in every detail of his person. He knew she’d noted his lack of cloak, his dripping jerkin and muddy boots. She didn’t touch him, but her eyes left a heated trail over his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. He said nothing. He could see their reflections in the mirror, hers clad in a soft white-velvet robe, his own as black as sin.

  She made a soft sound, a kind of purr, either of appreciation or disdain.

  “Tell me, how is your family, your clan?” she asked.

  He felt his belly tighten, curdle.

  “It has been some time since you were home. Your brother—half brother—is still at Craigmyle, is he not? His wife just died, I hear. His third wife in seven years. Each wife looked like her, your Mairi, did you know? Do you suppose he’s forgotten, or does he hate you still?” Iain held perfectly still, though his heart began to pound against his ribs. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, a nervous gesture. She noticed and smiled, sent a long, slow, simmering glance over his body. “I hear your brother bears a striking resemblance to you, Iain, and I will be seeking a new husband next summer. There are lasses at Craigmyle, young, pretty creatures, like your beloved Mairi . . .”