Highland Belle

by Patricia H. Grasso

  “Please,” she moaned.

  At the sound of her voice, Finlay halted the horse and dismounted, then pulled her off. Brigette promptly collapsed, her legs having fallen asleep. She bowed her head in utter misery and wept quietly.

  Finlay studied the petite beauty lying at his feet. She's bonnie, he thought, crouching down beside her, even if she is a Sassenach witch. “If ye swear to cause nae trouble,” he whispered close to her ear, “I'll cut yer bindin'."

  Brigette's head snapped up and she looked into his face for the first time. He was slim and almost delicate-looking, with pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. Though Brigette was certain they'd never met, there was something vaguely familiar about his face, especially his eyes.

  Staring into her compelling green eyes, Finlay struggled against the urge to make the sign of the cross. He realized it would be foolish to let the witch know he was nervous in her presence. Only the devil's spawn, Iain MacArthur, had the courage to wed a she-devil.

  Brigette nodded her obedience. Finlay drew his dagger and cut the cord binding her wrists.

  “My husband will kill you for this,” she hissed.

  The horrifying image of Iain MacArthur with sword in hand formed in Finlay's mind, and a ripple of fear danced down his spine. “Shut up,” he snapped, then forced Brigette onto the horse and mounted behind her.

  They rode on, seemingly endlessly. For obvious reasons, Brigette no longer took pleasure in the glory of the day. Awakening from their slumber, her legs prickled painfully. Brigette gingerly worked her throbbing jaw, attempting to discover the extent of its damage. It certainly felt broken. Most annoying of all were her breasts, achingly laden with mother's milk.

  How will Dubh eat? Brigette wondered, a barrage of troubling thoughts piercing her mind. What will Menzies do to me when we arrive at Weem Castle? And Sly! My precious pet lies wounded, probably dead.

  Silent tears streamed down Brigette's face. Through blurry eyes, she saw Finlay reaching up to caress her breasts.

  “Keep your bloody hands off me,” she snarled, “or you'll be sorry."

  Finlay's hand dropped instantly. Surprised but relieved, Brigette wondered why he, after abducting and beating her, would heed her threats.

  “You killed my pet,” she accused.

  “Ye mean yer familiar,” he sneered.

  “My what?"

  “Ye canna fool me,” Finlay snorted. “Yer a witch and that beastie was yer familiar."

  Brigette made no reply. Witch? Familiar? The man was insane! She would be lucky to arrive at Weem Castle.

  Afternoon lengthened toward dusk. A pungent saltiness tickled Brigette's nose, and her nostrils flared as she tried to discern its source. The smell grew stronger with each forward step.

  “It is the sea,” Brigette murmured as they left the woods and entered a tiny cove.

  “The Sound of Mull,” Finlay said, dismounting and pulling her off the saddle. “Sit down."

  With a loud groan, Brigette eased herself onto the nearest boulder. Finlay knelt in front of her and tied her ankles and wrists with a cord.

  “What are you doing?” she protested.

  “We canna leave ‘til the tide turns, and I willna’ have ye flittin’ away in the night.” Finlay pulled a flask from his sackcloth. “Drink this."

  Parched from the long road, Brigette swallowed a gigantic gulp. Her eyes widened in shock; she choked and wheezed as the potent whiskey blazed a trail of fire to her stomach.

  Finlay laughed and slapped her back roughly, then went about starting a fire. After the fire was lit, he retrieved his sackcloth and produced a handful of oatcakes, then offered a few to Brigette, who gobbled them hungrily.

  “What's your name?” Brigette asked. No reply. “What shall I call you?"

  “Naught."

  Brigette's eyes narrowed dangerously. “I demand you release me at once! It would be fatal folly to do otherwise, Sir Naught."

  Finlay studied her suspiciously. Was the danger from Iain MacArthur or her magical powers?

  “Well?"

  “Shut yer mouth,” he barked, “or I'll shut it for ye."

  Brigette wisely remained silent. Huddled miserably on her boulder, she pondered her situation. Jamie was correct—I should not have ridden unescorted. Oh, why did Iain have to be in Edinburgh? He would have saved me by now. My poor son must be wailing in hunger. And Sly! Brigette buried her face in her hands and wept.

  “What's the matter now?” Finlay asked, irritated. How he despised mewling women!

  “If you must know”—her voice was muffled—“my breasts ache to feed my son."

  “Touch me,” Finlay whispered huskily. “I'll suckle yer titties to ease their pain."

  Brigette's head snapped up. Finlay, his flaccid member exposed, stood beside her. Unholy hatred leaped from her green eyes, and her lips curled in a snarl.

  Without thinking, Finlay stepped back and crossed himself, then hurled, “Witch!"

  “Thimble prick!"

  The insult hung in the air for the briefest moment, then Finlay slapped Brigette hard across the face. She toppled off the rock, and there she remained, down but not defeated.

  “Do that again,” Brigette threatened, “and I'll change you into the toad you really are."

  Backing away, Finlay found protection—and courage—on the opposite side of the fire. “Ye willna’ be talkin’ so bravely in the mornin'."

  Brigette rolled over, turning her back on him. She closed her eyes and prayed for the MacArthur warriors to arrive before morning. Her prayers went unanswered. A boot nudging her backside rudely awakened her the next morning. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes.

  “It's time,” Finlay said, looming above. Without another word, he walked away, and pulled a decrepit-looking dinghy from behind a boulder, then dragged it to the water's edge.

  “I'm not climbing into that,” Brigette insisted. “I absolutely refuse! I can't swim."

  Finlay smiled harshly. “Ye willna’ be needin’ these, then.” He squatted in front of her and cut the ankle and wrist cords, then wafted his dagger beneath her nose. “Get up slowly and walk to the dinghy."

  Reluctantly, Brigette obeyed. With his dagger clenched between his teeth, Finlay pushed the boat out, then jumped in. Grabbing the oars, he began rowing into the sound, toward a cluster of rocks bared by low tide.

  “Where are you taking me?” Brigette demanded.

  “Where Iain MacArthur will never find ye."

  Brigette gulped nervously. There was no avenue of escape.

  Approaching the largest rock in the cluster, Finlay grabbed its edge with one hand while waving the dagger at Brigette with the other. “Climb up there."

  “No!” she cried. “You can't leave me here!"

  “I can and I am. Climb!"

  Cursing her captor with her eyes, Brigette stood and reached for the rock. “Woe be to you and yours—forever and a day."

  Irrational fear filled Finlay's eyes. “Take it back!” he shouted, and lunged for her.

  Clinging to the side of the rock, Brigette kicked out savagely, catching her captor's groin. Caught off balance, Finlay toppled back, and the dinghy flipped over with him. “I canna swim! Save me!"

  Brigette scrambled to the top of the rock and looked down. Finlay was gone. “Holy Mother of God!” she wailed, watching the dinghy drift away. “I'm alone in the middle of the sea.... Help! Help!"

  Only the squawking seagulls heard her desperate cries.

  17

  “Help!” Brigette croaked, her abused throat succumbing to long hours of useless screaming. Trembling from the cold, she glanced down at the taunting sea, rapidly rising to the top of the rock.

  I'm too young to die, she thought hysterically. Please, Lord, I swear I'll be the perfect wife, obedient in every way. Don't let me die alone here!

  Through tear-blurred vision, Brigette scanned the horizon and saw a dark speck in the distance. It grew larger with each passing moment. Unwilling to bel
ieve her eyes, she blinked and shook her head.

  A boat! How could she get its attention? Then it came to her. Brigette pulled her blouse off and waved it wildly above her head.

  Young Danny MacDonald, sitting in the lookout perch on board the pirate vessel The Jaded Lady, was bored. Something in the distance caught his eye, and Danny stared hard, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. Waving frantically, a half-naked woman stood on top of the infamous Lady's Rock.

  “Yo! Uncle!” Danny called to Alasdair, pirate chief of the MacDonalds of Oban. “Lady's Rock!” The boy pointed in that direction.

  On the deck below, Alasdair MacDonald lifted his tubular magnifier toward the Lady's Rock.

  “What is it?” his companion asked. Wordlessly, the MacDonald passed the magnifier to the queen's emissary, Magnus Campbell. “A stranded woman. We'll rescue her?"

  From his great height, Alasdair MacDonald gazed solemnly down at the queen's man and asked, “For what?"

  “She'll drown."

  The pirate chief shrugged nonchalantly. “If a mon wishes to be rid of his wife, why should I thwart him?"

  “Ye canna leave her there to die! It's inhuman!"

  “If the husband doesna’ want the lass,” Alasdair argued, “then I'll be stuck wi’ her."

  “I'll accept responsibility,” Magnus assured him.

  “So be it,” the pirate chief acquiesced, certain the young lord was making a grave mistake. “Rob! Ye and Colin set the dinghy in the water.” He turned back to Magnus. “Ye may as well go along and collect yer booty."

  Half naked and screaming almost noiselessly, Brigette seemed like a madwoman to the three men in the boat. The brisk wind whipped her waist-length hair, hiding her face, and as they neared, Brigette fell to her knees and wept with hysterical relief.

  “Swim to the dinghy!” Rob shouted, unwilling to chance being smashed against the rock. Wildly, Brigette shook her head.

  “Shit!” Rob pulled off his boots and jacket, then dove into the cold water. Breaking the surface near the rock, he easily swam the remaining distance, then climbed to the top and helped Brigette stand.

  “Th-thank y-you,” she sobbed, clutching him tightly.

  A giant of a man like his father Alasdair, Rob peered down at the petite woman whose head came only to his chest. “Yer safe wi’ me, lassie,” he assured her. “We'll swim together to the dinghy."

  “Bring the dinghy here!” Brigette cried. “I can't swim!"

  “I canna do that. Hang onto me and I'll carry ye over. Ye'll float, so dinna panic. Take off yer boots. Now the skirt."

  “My skirt?"

  “The fabric's too heavy,” he explained. “It will drag us down."

  Brigette removed the skirt. Except for her lacy chemise, she was naked.

  Rob paused for a moment to admire the exquisite woman's flesh, then instructed, “I'll go down first and then ye. Ken?"

  Brigette nodded and glanced apprehensively at the rising sea. When she looked back at him, Rob read the terror couched in her eyes. He raised his fist to strike, but Brigette saved him the trouble by fainting.

  After hoisting her over his shoulder, Rob slowly climbed down and lowered himself into the frigid water. He turned Brigette around in his arms and cupped her chin in one hand, then swam back to the dinghy.

  The two in the boat lifted her over the side. Magnus removed his cloak and wrapped it around the unconscious woman, in the process seeing her face for the first time. “Sweet Jesu! Brie!"

  “Yer acquainted wi’ her?” Rob asked, settling himself in the dinghy.

  “She's my cousin's wife."

  Rob chuckled. “Will he be forgivin’ ye, then, for thwartin’ his plans to be rid of her?"

  “I'm certain Iain had nothin’ to do wi’ her bein’ here,” Magnus said.

  Rob gazed down at Brigette's pale face. “I dinna ken why a mon would rid himself of an angel."

  * * * *

  Arriving in Oban, Magnus carried Brigette to the cottage the MacDonald had put at his disposal and gingerly set her on the cot. After stripping her, he wrapped her in several blankets, then lit a fire and returned to sit on the edge beside her.

  “How's the lass farin'?” Alasdair's voice sounded from the doorway.

  “A fever's beginnin'."

  “I'll have someone bring food,” the pirate offered, crossing the chamber. “Anythin’ else I can do for ye?"

  “Send a messenger to Dunridge Castle,” Magnus said. “Inform the earl his wife is here."

  “Countess?” Surprised, Alasdair peered curiously at Brigette. She looked more like an orphaned waif than a noblewoman.

  “Have ye a midwife aboot,” Magnus asked, “wi’ the knowledge to dry a mother's milk?"

  “Mother's milk?” Alasdair echoed, puzzled.

  “The countess gave birth recently,” Magnus explained. “I noticed she's in desperate need of ... of..."

  “Dryin'.” Alasdair turned to leave, saying, “I'll send my wife."

  While Brigette's feverish delirium lasted, Magnus rarely left her side. When she trembled with chills, he built up the fire and bundled her tightly in woolen blankets. When that didn't help, he crawled beneath the blankets with her and shared his own body's heat. When Brigette grew hot and kicked off the blankets, he bathed her with cool water and bundled her up again.

  At regular intervals, Magnus force-fed her water and cooled herb-laced broth. Leaning her head against his chest, he forced the liquid into her mouth and gently stroked her throat to assist her in swallowing.

  When the MacDonald's wife, Ina, visited the cottage, she chased Magnus outside, insisting that she would take care of the soiled linens and the unpleasant chore of keeping Brigette clean. Magnus, Ina said, was in no way to undermine the countess's dignity, even though she was sick and not in her right mind. Magnus ignored the MacDonald's wife and returned to the cottage to nurse his kinsman's wife. And so it went.

  Magnus passed the long hours contemplating his own life. In Black Jack MacArthur's untimely death, he saw the demise of his own father. Before he passed on, the duke deserved to meet several grandsons. Fate is a woman of whimsy, he concluded, and I'd be wise to tempt her no more. His decision was made; after reporting to the queen, he would hasten to Inverary and Avril. With his feet propped up on the edge of the cot, Magnus dozed in one of the cottage's two chairs.

  “Magnus,” Brigette whispered weakly.

  At the sound, his eyes opened, and Magnus found himself staring into green eyes, sunken and shadowed with illness. For a moment, he wondered if she was still delirious, but then her face split into a poor imitation of a smile.

  Magnus sat on the edge of the cot and placed his palm against her forehead. It was cool. “How do ye feel?"

  “Terrible."

  “And well ye should,” he said. “Ye gave me quite a scare."

  “Water."

  Magnus brought a cup of water and, lifting her head, held it to her parched lips. Nothing had ever tasted better to Brigette than that first, refreshing sip.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, assuming he'd been part of a search.

  “By chance, but we willna’ speak of it now. I'll fetch Ina and bring ye some broth. Close yer eyes and rest while I'm gone."

  The MacDonald's wife ordered Magnus to stay away from the cottage for an hour. By the time he returned, Brigette had fallen asleep again.

  “Hello,” Magnus greeted her cheerfully the moment she opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of the cot, then ordered, “Sit up and I'll feed ye some oatmeal porridge."

  Naked beneath the blanket, Brigette sat up and primly tucked it beneath her arms. When she looked back at Magnus, he was staring at her display of cleavage.

  Brigette blushed furiously, and Magnus flushed to see her blushing. She chuckled and he joined her, their laughter sweeping away the awkward moment.

  “Ye've lost some flesh,” he commented, offering her a spoonful of porridge, “and I want ye to eat every bite in this bowl."
/>   “How did you find me?"

  “Open yer mouth. That's a good girl. I was negotiatin’ wi’ the MacDonald on the queen's behalf when we happened upon ye. How did ye get there?"

  Brigette opened her mouth to reply, but Magnus filled it with porridge. She chewed and swallowed, then leaned back, saying, “I can eat no more. A Menzies warrior abducted me and left me there to wash out with the tide."

  “Are ye certain he was a Menzies?"

  “He wore the black and white plaid."

  “I see.” Magnus held up a spoonful of porridge. “Ye must eat a little more."

  “I cannot,” she insisted.

  Ignoring her words, Magnus aimed the spoon at her mouth. She turned her face away, but the spoon gave chase.

  “No!” Brigette laughed, and the spoon slipped into her mouth.

  The door swung open unexpectedly, and a grim-faced Iain filled the doorway. He was unpleasantly surprised by the sight of his wife, obviously naked beneath the blanket, laughing and enjoying herself with his cousin. She did not, at first glance, appear to have suffered at all.

  “Iain,” Brigette cried, so relieved that she failed to recognize the forbidding glint in his dark eyes. She held out her arms, then remembered her state of undress and pulled up the blanket.

  “By all that's holy!” Iain roared. “What the hell are ye doin’ wi’ my wife?"

  Magnus stood and faced him. “What do ye mean, cuz?"

  “What are ye doin',” Iain growled, “sittin’ wi’ Brie on that poor excuse for a bed, and she bare-arse as the day she was born? And why are ye always the one who rescues her?"

  “Brie's been out of her mind wi’ fever,” Magnus ground out. “And I rescued her by chance—or would ye have preferred her washed out to sea?"

  “Washed out to sea?"

  “Aye,” Magnus snorted. “She'd been left on a rock in the middle of the sound."

  “I've been sick wi’ worry,” Iain said, holding up his hand in a gesture of apology.

  Brushing past his cousin, Iain sat on the edge of the cot and gathered Brigette into the circle of his arms. Her face was pale and haggard, he noted, and her eyes, usually sparkling emerald-green, were dull and sunken in her small face. Iain tilted Brigette's face up and kissed her tenderly.