Still, guilt gnawed on him as he tracked Laire MacLeod, made him hesitate. He could have slipped up beside her, grabbed her off the horse and slit her throat, or put an arrow through her from a distance. Instead, he kept pace with her, skulking among the trees and heather with his hand tight on his bow.
He had to do it. He had no choice.
She wore borrowed clothes—his cloak and a simple dress of russet wool. Her hair was bound with plain white ribbon. She wore a silver locket for adornment. She looked simple and pure. Innocent.
Which, of course, she was. She’d done nothing to deserve such a fate—none of them had. He followed her longer and further than he had to, delaying the moment when he’d have to take her, look into those amethyst eyes of hers as he drew his dirk across her throat . . .
He watched as they made camp the first night, and sat outside the circle of firelight with his back against a tree, watching her from a distance. She was beautiful and kind. She tended the older woman like a mother, rubbed her aching legs, and helped Colin skin and cook a brace of rabbits. She ate very little herself. After the meal, the big lad sat apart, whittling a stick with a small, sharp dirk.
“Poison,” the goodwife said thoughtfully, and Iain’s senses prickled. “I was thinking about what ye said about needing a healer who knew about poisons. There was a woman in Inverness once . . . She had garden, and grew all manner of plants. Folk would bring her seeds and berries from all over, but she used other things as well, things from the earth and the sea. Some said she was a witch. Now, if a man grows such a garden, there’s naught said about it, but a woman, especially a widow without beauty or fortune to recommend her, must be a witch.”
Iain saw Laire’s head come up, saw her eyes widen and her lips part. “A man,” she whispered. Iain frowned. She looked like a lass with an idea, and those amethyst eyes of hers suddenly shone. She was beautiful, the fairest lass he’d ever seen. He looked away, shut his eyes and rubbed them. It wouldn’t stop him from killing her, couldn’t. There was no sense in delaying it.
He took his dirk from his boot. He’d have to take the big lad first, hoped he could knock him out with as little harm as possible. The goodwife would shriek and set up a terrible din, seeing her son fall before her eyes. And Laire MacLeod—would she freeze, or flee, or fight for her companions? It wouldn’t matter. He’d wait for them to sleep. For now, he’d let them eat and rest . . .
The goodwife chattered nonstop, telling Laire all about her sister, and her sister’s family, and the price of goods in Inverness. Laire sipped water from a horn cup and nodded, though she said little. She was worried about her family, no doubt. And hadn’t Rafael said she was afraid of the dark? He’d seen no evidence of that, but she’d been occupied by other things—himself included.
Her emotions were nearly transparent in her lovely eyes and offered a fascinating pageant. He read worry and determination. He saw mirth as she smiled at one of the goodwife’s stories. He saw cunning when the woman asked Laire about her home and her family and she made up lies. And he saw hope, and some kind of plan brewing inside her pretty head.
Iain was concentrating so hard on Laire’s face that he didn’t hear the three men approach until they stepped out of the dark wood and into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. Thieves. Iain recognized what they were at once. Their eyes were sharp, their weapons ready, and they were lean, hard, and dirty.
“What have we here?” one of them asked. His face was scarred across one eye, and he was nearly toothless. He pointed his knife at Laire, the blade already stained with old blood. His ragged plaid was so dirty it was impossible to tell what clan he called his own, if any at all.
One of his companions had already slipped an arm around the lad’s neck, and held him still with a dirk against his Adam’s apple, and the third man stood with his legs splayed, his bow drawn and nocked with an arrow and pointed at the goodwife’s broad breast. She fell silent for the first time in hours. Laire didn’t move at all. She simply sat regarding the brigands, her spine straight, her eyes moving over them with slow calm.
The one who’d spoken was staring at Laire, and Iain watched the bastard’s eyes widen, saw a toothless smile kindling. Iain’s belly tensed. He detested those who preyed on the weak, the vulnerable. It made him a hypocrite, perhaps, but the folk Bibiana targeted were greedy, saw her as an easy prize. They went to their destruction more than willingly. He considered. He wouldn’t have to kill Laire MacLeod—these bastards would do it for him, and take the coin, his cloak, and the garrons. They’d kill the others, and rape her before they cut her throat. They’d take their time, imagining there’d be no interruptions, no rescue. Bitterness filled his mouth.
In a second, the leader would nod to the man who held the lad, and he’d slash the boy’s throat, and the arrow would fly into the goodwife’s broad chest, and they’d take Laire . . .
He couldn’t allow that. She didn’t deserve it. He swore silently and loaded his bow, keeping his eyes on the leader.
He barely saw Laire move. She was on her feet in a single lithe motion. She pulled a dirk from her sleeve—his dirk—and it whistled through the air and buried itself in the bowman’s arm. The bow went off, and Iain felt the arrow graze his cheek, draw a stinging groove in his flesh before it embedded itself in the tree beside his head. The lad grabbed his captor around the head and flipped him easily onto his back, and his whittling knife dimpled the thief’s throat.
The goodwife kicked the leader hard in the groin. He fell back with a shriek of pain and one hand in the fire.
“What’ll we do with them?” the lad asked.
“Let’s kill them,” the goodwife said cheerfully. “We’ll roast them over the fire for breakfast.”
The leader rolled out of the fire howling and clutched his bruised balls.
“Stop your whining.” She kicked him again, this time in the backside. “Get up and go.” She pulled the knife out of the bowman’s shoulder, ignoring the man’s cries of pain. “Ye as well. Get ye gone.” She returned the dirk to Laire with a smile. The third man made to rise from under Colin’s blade. Colin punched him in the jaw, and he sprawled back on the ground, unconscious.
“Best tie him up and drag him into the bush and let him sleep,” the goodwife said, wiping her hands. “By the time his friends come back for him in the mornin’, we’ll be long gone.”
She grinned calmly at Laire. “Well done, lass.” She resumed her seat by the fire, spreading her weight beneath her like a comfortable cushion. The lad settled back to whittling, and Laire gazed into the wood with a final sweeping glance and sat as well. “Now what was I saying afore we were interrupted so rudely?” the goodwife asked, and began to talk once more.
Well done indeed. As a Highlander, he knew the MacLeods of Glen Iolair had reputation as fierce fighters, and she’d told him she could use a dirk. Still, he’d not have believed it if he hadn’t seen it. He let his eyes wander over Laire’s sweet face and smiled. Her hand trembled slightly as accepted a bite of bread and cheese from the goodwife, but otherwise she was as calm as if she threw knives at brigands every day.
Iain grinned in the dark, felt admiration stir once again.
He stayed still until the women slept, and Colin, who was on watch, dozed. Iain slipped out of his hiding place and went down to the wee loch beyond the trees. Killing her would be harder than he thought. He sat down on a log, his back against a tree, and looked out over the moonlit water. How many nights had he spent at Craigmyle doing just this? He’d dreamed of Mairi then, and love. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to banish the last image he had of her, dead in his arms, her blood staining his hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At dawn, Iain woke to the sound of splashing water. Thick mist floated over the loch, and there was a crust of frost on the leaves and dry grass. He sat up and saw Laire kneeling on the shore of the loch, clad only in her shift, bathing. He stayed still and stared. The first rays of the sun shone through her thin garment and
illuminated her breasts, her nipples alert in the cold air. She gasped at the chill of the water as she splashed it over her arms, and the sweet sound went straight to Iain’s groin. He scanned the long slender lines of her body and reminded himself that he was here to kill her, not . . . It didn’t matter. His bow and sword were back by the campsite, and he had only a dirk. He’d have to get close to her, hold her still, and look in her eyes as he cut her throat. His own throat closed, prickled. He forced himself to reach for the blade in his boot and told himself she was only prey, like a bird or a doe. There was always a moment’s regret, killing something beautiful. He gripped the blade in his palm, screwing up his courage. Her own dirk glinted in the sun as she picked it up and began to wash the brigand’s blood from the blade. He hesitated now that she was armed. She’d fight him, and it would go harder for her. He wanted to give her a clean, quick end. So he sat where he was and waited.
The water was freezing. Laire longed for a bath, for hot porridge and warm bannock dripping with honey. Instead, when she returned to the campsite, there’d be hard cheese and stale bread, and another day of hard riding.
She knew where she was going now. She had an uncle in Edinburgh who studied plants, a man of science. Sir Hamish MacEwan was her mother’s brother, and he doted on his only niece. Surely he’d welcome her, and he’d know what to do. The decision made her easier and gave her direction. There was a way to save them, and she’d find it with Uncle Hamish’s help.
She scrubbed the rest of the brigand’s blood off the dirk until the polished metal gleamed in the shallow water. She wanted the weapon clean again before she slipped the sealgair’s borrowed blade back into the sleeve of her borrowed woolen gown, under her borrowed cloak. She stared into the thick mist that covered the loch, and watched as a flock of birds rose and sailed so low over her head that she could hear the buzz of their feathers against the cold air. They would not be back until spring.
Spring . . . What would happen in the spring?
She shivered and returned to cleaning the knife, holding it up for examination. Something shifted in the polished surface of the blade, reflecting something behind her. Laire froze.
If it was Aggie or Colin, they would have spoken. Perhaps it was only a deer. Perhaps one of the thieves had returned.
Laire’s heart climbed into her throat. What if the rest of the brigands had returned, and were even now holding her companions at knifepoint while one man dealt with her alone? Suddenly she no longer felt the cold, though her gown, her cloak, even her stockings and shoes, were some yards away, hung over a branch to keep them dry while she bathed.
Slowly, she reached into the water and closed her fingers on a rock. In one swift move, she rose, spun, and threw it. She heard the smack of the impact, followed by a low, male, grunt of surprise and the fall of a big body into the leaves. Human after all. She stood where she was, the dirk in her hand, and waited for him to get up.
He didn’t.
She crept forward, the knife poised before her, and looked down at him.
She gasped in surprise.
The sealgair lay sprawled on his back with a bruise blooming on his forehead. She noted the dirk that had fallen from his hand, the blade naked and lethal in the morning light, and she knew. He wasn’t hunting birds today.
He was hunting her.
She nudged his booted foot with her bare toes, but kept her distance. She remembered how easily he’d grabbed her in the dark at Iolair. He didn’t move.
Had she killed him? She crept closer, bringing her face near to his, checking for breath. “Sealgair?”
He groaned softly, twitched, and Laire leaped back, fell, and scuttled out of reach. She grabbed her gown with shaking hands and pulled it over her head. She left it unlaced, still holding the knife. She kept her eyes on him, but he didn’t move again. She pulled the thick woolen stockings off the branch and squatted beside him. She clutched the knife in her teeth as she bound his hands and feet. She tossed his dirk out of reach, and grabbed hold of his black leather jack and propped him upright against the trunk of a tree. She scooped a cup of water out of the loch and threw it at him. He groaned and tried to raise his hand to his face, frowning when he could not. His eyes opened, and he looked confused as he regarded the bonds that held him. He let his hands fall back into his lap, his eyes wary gray slits as he focused on her. Laire held the knife before her.
“Why are you here? You told me to go. You went back to Iolair. Why are you here now?”
“What the devil did you hit me with?” he asked instead of answering her question.
She raised her chin. “A rock. It’s only a bruise. Now tell me why you’re here.”
Only a bruise. Iain’s head throbbed. She’d hit him hard enough to knock him senseless. How long had he been out? It was still morning . . . She’d bound him hand and foot, and she stood in front of him holding a knife on him. He scowled at her, and winced at the pain that caused. Had she cracked his skull?
He settled for squinting at her. Her dark hair hung in a loose tumble over her shoulders, slightly damp. Her gown was unlaced, and the locket glinted in the V between her breasts. They were heaving with every breath she took, and her lush lips were parted, her eyes narrowed on him. His body responded, even now, and his heart kicked at his ribs at the magnificent sight of her, warrior woman, fierce Highland lass . . . This was not how this was supposed to go . . . He remembered how easily she’d vanquished the brigand the night before. And now she’d vanquished him. Irritation turned to admiration, then anger. He looked around for the goodwife and her ham-fisted son, but he was alone with Laire MacLeod.
“Why are you here?” she demanded again.
“To kill ye,” he growled. He was willing now. If he could get loose, he’d wring her neck. But her knots were well tied and held him fast.
She went pale. Her face, her blushes and frowns and blanches, gave away her thoughts so easily. She wasn’t so certain now, but she held her ground, her head high.
“Why?” she asked. “You helped me, let me go.”
He held her gaze. Amethysts. Violets. Would she kill him? She didn’t look like a killer. But then, she didn’t look like a woman who could defend herself against three brigands, either. Behind her frown, she looked vulnerable and afraid, even with a knife in her hand.
He forced his heart to curl back into a tight, pitiless, iron ball. “I shouldn’t have helped ye. My mistake. Now it’s my job to bring ye back, and I mean to do it,” he said harshly. He tested the strength of the bonds again, but they held him with tenacity worthy of her. She was a contradiction—the face and body of an angel, and the heart of a warrior. She made a formidable opponent. He felt a flash of admiration and squelched it. He looked around and saw his dirk a dozen feet away. She’d stab him before he could reach it. He was unarmed, helpless, and at her mercy.
He lifted his chin, bared his throat, silently dared her to bury her blade there, do him the favor of ending his miserable existence. At least it would be her, not Bibiana, or that bastard Rafael, who took his life.
“What will happen in the spring?” she demanded, surprising him.
Iain felt his gut tense, remained silent. She waited, the knife ready. He sighed. What difference did it make? Still, he lied. “Bibiana enjoys the flesh of birds. Spring birds. She believes they give her the power to remain young and beautiful indefinitely.”
She frowned. “Then why drug my sisters, my father?”
“Power,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Control.”
She scanned his face. “I don’t believe you. There’s more. Tell me.”
Och, she was canny. He let his lips curl into a parody of a smile and remained cold and hard and silent. He watched her face, saw pain there, fear for the ones she loved. And hope. Little fool . . .
“They’ll live.” For now. “There’s birds’ blood and God knows what in the potion. Well, not God—Terza. It will fortify your sisters’ blood.” It wasn’t so far from the truth. Eventually, the
potion would make them more bird than woman.
“And my father?”
By spring the Fearsome MacLeod would be a shell of a man, broken and useless. It was too late. But Laire would be dead by then . . . he shook his head, but she must have read something in his eyes. She moaned, swayed. “I won’t let it happen.”
“Ye can’t stop it.”
Her jaw tightened, and she shifted the knife. For an instant he expected her to throw it, pierce him through the heart.
“Ella?” he heard the goodwife call out. “Where are ye lass? ’Tis time to go.”
She didn’t move. She stood glaring at him, the knife quivering slightly, her knuckles white on the hilt. Iain held his breath, waited for her to decide.
“You’re wrong. I won’t let her harm them,” she said. “I’m going to find help, a way to stop her.”
He gave her a bitter smile. “In Inverness?” He watched her blush, surprised, perhaps, that he knew. She bit her lower lip, and another jolt of arousal shot through him, made him chuckle at his own idiocy. “Ye may be able to fend off brigands—and me—but not her. Not Bibiana.”
She was trembling now, and he could see the pulse point beating rapidly at her throat. In a moment, she’d start to cry. Iain braced himself for that.
Instead she raised her chin higher still. Her violet eyes flared, caught fire, burned into him “I do have a choice. I am the daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod. We do not abandon those we love. We do not give up.”
He grinned, entirely charmed by her. She was so slender a strong wind might topple her, so delicate he could break her with one hand or a harsh word, but he was the one who sat bound and helpless, and she was responsible for that. Fearsome indeed. She was a worthy adversary. Perhaps . . . He pushed the idea away. Could he let own his kin die to save the life of one lass? But he knew Bibiana’s revenge wouldn’t stop there . . . He felt his grin melt.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 8