Highlander Unbroken (Highland Adventure Book 8)

by Vonda Sinclair

  "Saints! How could the man be so heartless? You're incredibly brave," Neacal whispered, his chest tightening with admiration for her.

  Anna shrugged. "I traveled to Edinburgh and that was where I met the other minstrels. That was also where Anna Douglas was born. Before that, my name was Susanna MacQueen MacCromar.

  He shook his head in amazement, so thankful she trusted him completely now. He wanted to hold her in his arms while she talked.

  "We traveled south into the Borders and even into England," she said. "We went many places, never staying in one place too long, which suited my purposes perfectly. I slipped back to my aunt's twice to take Kristina some of the money I'd earned, but it wasn't much. 'Tis lucky my aunt cares for her."

  "Saints," Neacal hissed. "You've suffered through a worse hell than I have."

  "I know not. I suspect we have both seen our share of pain and torment."

  "Aye."

  Her eyes were still moist with tears but all he saw reflected back was tenacity. Strength. He held her in such high regard in that moment he wanted to crush her to him. Blackburn had stripped everything from her except life itself and yet she had a fierce determination to survive. She was such a wee thing. Where did her strength come from? She was a woman like none other he had ever met. A healing light shone within her, a divine light. He would've never suspected she had gone through such emotional agony. Somehow, she had healed. 'Haps it was her own singing that had healed her just as it had him.

  "How do you do it? How do you go on?" he asked.

  Her eyes searched his. "This life is not all there is, Neacal. 'Tis like one chapter of a book. We don't die and cease to exist. Our spirits live forever. We must learn to overcome our struggles here."

  Neacal shook his head; she amazed him. "Instead of destroying you, this made you stronger."

  "Aye. Just as the torture made you stronger."

  Saints! 'Twas no wonder he wanted to marry her. She was incredibly wise. And he would have her as his wife. All he had to do was rid the world of Blackburn.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anna could hardly believe she'd just revealed every secret she possessed to Neacal. Maybe that made her foolish, but she couldn't help but trust him. She glanced at him. The expression in his eyes reflected the devastating pain and anger she'd felt. As if he'd been with her, experiencing each disaster as Blackburn lay waste to her life. Ill at ease since she had told him so much, she stared into the fire.

  She didn't know how she'd found the strength to drag herself out of the pit of despair. 'Haps she did it for her sister. Nay. Though she did love her sister more than life itself, she wasn't sure that was it completely. She had come to think it was some journey she was destined for and the only thing for her to do was overcome in the best way she knew how, taking it day by day, finding small things to appreciate.

  At least she'd spent three wonderful years with her husband. Those memories sustained her, as did the feeling she often got that John's spirit and love surrounded her like a comforting, warm blanket. She'd experienced dreams of him that were so real, she woke up feeling as if she'd just seen him. In one such dream, he was holding their wee daughter, saying her name was Marigold, just as they'd talked about naming her if she were a girl.

  John's spirit gave her strength. She didn't tell anyone this, for she feared they would think her a lunatic. Every time she was desperate or at her wit's end, a solution would come to her. 'Twas how she'd met up with the minstrels. She'd been asking herself for days as she'd led Blackburn away from her sister—how will I survive? How can I pay for food and shelter?

  The idea came to her. People had always told her they enjoyed her singing. Aye, that was the answer. Sing for her supper. Bring others joy. She was constantly surprised when she came out of her singing trance to find those around her wiping the tears from their eyes, smiling and clapping. She had moved them, and in return, their reaction moved her. She wanted to embrace them all, just as she wanted to embrace Neacal every time after he'd listened to her sing. His reaction appeared even more profound than all others. Though there were no tears in his eyes, no beaming smile, the expression in his eyes was indescribable… a jumble of pain and astonishment. Awe. And, after the last few times he'd heard her, a small glint of happiness.

  Lifting her gaze to his now, as he sat on the stool beside hers, she could not decipher his expression. 'Twas a mixture of amazement and determination.

  Seemingly against his will, he tore his gaze from hers, arose and moved to the table and then the pot over the fire.

  Using the large wooden spoon, he dipped chunks of meat and turnips into a clean bowl, then cut them with a small knife. "Appears to be tender." He blew on the bite, then tossed it into his mouth and chewed. "Um-hum. 'Tis gusty. Try some." He sliced off another small hunk of meat and held it before her lips. "'Tis hot. Blow on it."

  She did, unable to help that her gaze automatically lifted to his, grown darker in the firelight. If there was one thing—or rather, one person—who could distract her from the memories of her devastating past, it was Neacal. He was like a warm healing balm to her soul.

  Once she thought the bite was cool enough, she took it into her mouth. The tip of his finger grazed her lower lip, near making her forget about food. When she imagined tasting him instead, a delightful shiver coursed through her.

  Telling herself to cease her wanton thoughts, she chewed carefully, for the meat was still too warm in the center.

  "How is it?" he asked.

  She focused on the flavor. The herbs and salt had given it just the right amount of seasoning. "Delicious."

  "You see? We're skilled cooks."

  "I worried 'twould be far worse since we have no butter."

  He dipped out two bowls of the stew and handed her one, along with a small wooden spoon.

  While eating, she tried not to watch him too much. She didn't want him to think she was staring, though that's exactly what she wanted to do. Even something so mundane as eating became fascinating when he did it. Had she lost her mind? She couldn't help that his sensual lips drew her attention, as did his throat when he swallowed. She wanted to run her mouth along his neck and kiss him there, feel his pulse beat against her lips. Daft woman. She forced herself to stop imagining and eat.

  When she'd finished her stew, she set her bowl aside, while he dipped himself a second helping.

  "You should have more," he urged.

  "Nay, I thank you. That was more than enough." She needed something to do while he finished eating so she wouldn't stare at him. Remembering she had brought her small flute along, she got up, dug into her pack and pulled out the instrument. "Would you care for some music, m'laird?" She curtsied.

  "Aye, 'twould be most agreeable, m'lady," Neacal said, astonished that Anna could be in such a pleasant mood after what she'd revealed earlier. Evidently, 'twas her nature to not dwell on the tragedies and disappointments in life, but instead to pull beauty from the despair.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes and pressed her pursed lips to the flute. Saints, how he envied that flute. He craved her lips more than he had ever craved anything in his life. He had tasted her mouth and well knew she was sweet and her lips silky-soft. He couldn't rest until he kissed her again.

  Tearing his gaze from her while she played, he stared at the glowing embers in the fire-pit. He found it difficult to eat while she played… or sang; he might well choke from lack of attention to what he was doing.

  Exquisite, fairy-like music floated from her instrument. He had heard the ballad played many times, but never so beautifully. The music was composed of pure emotion, and it struck a chord deep within him. Her flute playing affected him almost as much as her singing. He quickly devoured the rest of his stew and set his bowl aside by the time she finished the song.

  "'Twas beautiful," he said. Aye, that and so much more than he could put into words. After lighting the lantern from the fire-pit, he picked it up and headed toward the door. "I must go check
on Dunn."

  "Very well."

  Neacal stepped outside in the faint mist of rain, closed the door, and released a breath.

  Hell, why did her music rip at his soul? He loved it, but at the same time, it made him feel things he didn't want to right now. Whether 'twas her singing, violin playing or flute music, it made his emotions as raw as a fresh wound.

  Thank goodness the rain had slacked off. He needed a break from the intensity Anna filled him with. At the same time, he couldn't wait to go back inside and talk to her, look into her lovely green eyes. When he was out of her presence, he could think of little else.

  Lying in the dry shed, Dunn barely raised his head as Neacal passed him on his way to relieve himself behind the outbuildings. Next, he petted Dunn and listened for prowlers for a few minutes. Hearing naught more than his horse nickering softly in the byre and munching on oats, he washed his hands and face in the nearby cold stream. The water felt refreshing on his overheated skin. Standing, he drew the cool air deeply into his lungs.

  A sharp pain pierced his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he massaged it with his other hand. He had strained it when he'd climbed that cliff earlier. After a few moments, the pain eased and Anna claimed his thoughts again.

  She'd suddenly become even more spellbinding to him. 'Twas no longer a simple carnal attraction. But then, it truly never had been. Even from the first moment he'd heard her sing, something deep within his soul had yearned for her. He'd wanted to be in her radiant presence and learn everything about her.

  Now, he knew they were alike in many ways.

  He didn't know how he could resist her this night. Legally, she might be a married woman, but 'twas the worst sham he'd ever heard of. How could a man mistreat her so badly and destroy her family? Blackburn was no man, but a beast. A criminal and murderer. Neacal wanted to be the one to mete out justice in her stead. For a man to abuse those who were weaker than himself was not the Highland way. Two armed warriors meeting for hand-to-hand combat was indeed the Highland way, and he was ready for it. 'Haps he'd been preparing for this confrontation for the past several months and didn't even know it. A chill spread over him as he glanced back at the cottage. Saints! He didn't understand fate or destiny, but Anna did. Some of the things she'd said to him were so simple, yet profound.

  Having been away from her for a mere quarter hour, he was already starting to hanker for her presence again. He couldn't grasp the effect she had on him—comforting, yet exciting.

  Leaving Dunn guarding in the shed, Neacal returned to the cottage.

  Anna sat on a stool by the fire-pit. Her gaze darted to him. "Is everything all right out there?"

  "Aye. All is peaceful."

  She arose and headed toward the door, taking the lantern from his hand. "I find that since the rain has slacked, I need to… visit the byre also."

  He opened the door for her and exited behind her. She turned back, a question in her eyes.

  "I'll await you at the door. I don't wish you to be afraid."

  "Oh. Very well."

  Though the light was too low for him to see her blush, he imagined her skin was rosy-red.

  After she relieved herself, they returned to the cottage a few minutes later without incident. She set the lantern on the table, then tossed out the water from the basin and refilled it from the bucket. She washed her hands and face while he barred the door.

  "You may sleep in the box bed." He motioned to it, the only one in the small cottage.

  "Nay, 'tis your turn. I slept on the bed last night at the tavern."

  "Nonsense. We're not taking turns."

  "I'm not sleeping there," she said, an obstinate glint in her eyes.

  He frowned, not liking that at all. He now knew she was a high-born lady, and even if she wasn't, she deserved the softest of beds every night.

  "I'll not argue it further," he muttered. "I'll sleep on the floor."

  "Then we both will," she blurted.

  Both of them sleep together on the floor? Arousal flamed through his veins, and his gaze flew to her. She must have realized what she'd said, for her face flushed red as a fiery sunset. But she did not avoid his gaze.

  Damnation, how he hungered for her sweet, stubborn mouth. He clenched his teeth in restraint and shoved his hands into his damp, mussed hair. What the hell was he doing here with a married woman?

  Even knowing Anna was legally bound to a blackguard, he wanted her in a most wild and fearsome way. Did he have enough of the scoundrel left in him to have his way with her? To seduce her with long, slow kisses and languid caresses?

  He muttered a curse and paced away from her. It had been so long since he'd been with a woman… to imagine Anna naked before him… 'twas almost more than he could withstand. Need blazed through his body, hotter than a bonfire. What if he finished before he even got started?

  He had barely restrained himself last night as he'd brought her to the peak of pleasure. But he'd learned much about self-control, willpower and endurance over the past several months.

  He shook his head, wishing more than anything he could kiss her right now. His chest ached and yearned… but he could not. "I suppose I should get some sleep. I want to arise before dawn and head back down to the pass to make certain they don't come through." He bent and picked up his bedroll. After untying it, he flung it out on the floor. The spearing pain in his shoulder returned. Hissing, he ground his teeth and massaged the tight muscle.

  "Are you injured?" she said in a rush and moved in behind him.

  "I strained it earlier, when I climbed the cliff to get a better view," he muttered. "'Tis from an old injury."

  "I have just the thing." Anna dug into her sack. "Tavia gave me some salve for my neck."

  "Your neck?" He eyed her, wondering if Blackburn had injured her neck when he'd shoved her down years ago. "How did you hurt your neck?"

  "I know not. It often pains me, but this balm is very soothing. I rub it on before I go to bed." She pulled out the small jar, opened it and set it aside. "I'll help you remove your shirt so your shoulder doesn't pain you so much."

  He glanced away, aching for her to strip him bare and pretend his scars didn’t exist. He would relish her silky skin against his. But what would she think of his scars? Would she be disgusted by them? Of a certainty, all warriors possessed scars, but his were more extreme than most.

  What the devil did he care? He couldn't impress her… he couldn't impress anyone. He was what he was and naught more. After unfastening his penannular brooch, letting his plaid sash fall and removing his doublet, he pulled his shirt from beneath his plaid and yanked it over his head. The sharp pain stabbed his shoulder again and he silently ground his teeth. Without looking at her, he sat before the fire-pit on the low stool.

  She approached him from behind. "Where is the pain worse?"

  Did she realize how soft, husky and seductive her voice was? He thought not. It slid through his senses and stroked his body to life.

  With his opposite hand, he pressed his fingers around the area until he found the tender spot on his shoulder. "Here."

  She smoothed the balm onto his skin and massaged it in. At first, even her light touch was painful, but he would gladly endure it because she was touching him. Finally, the pain lessened and his muscles loosened. The mint and lavender scent of the salve helped soothe away the tension. He released a breath.

  Anna extended her massage down his arm, over the spot where the bone had been broken.

  When his body had started healing from the torture and his many injuries, he'd pushed himself each day to regain his previous mobility until finally he was scaling mountains faster than his clansmen. Some of them had never been injured and they had no inkling what it was to be bedridden and unable to move without assistance. Neacal had hated the helplessness he'd felt then. He'd sworn to himself, if he could ever get out of bed, he would train himself and become stronger than he'd ever been before. Now, he endured the lingering aches, ignoring them as best he could, in e
xchange for his renewed agility and strength.

  Anna gently stroked the raised area on his upper arm. Her touch held him spellbound. Tingles and excitement flowed from her fingertips, sending charges of arousal through him.

  "'Tis where my arm was broken," he said.

  "What happened?"

  A memory of the pain flashed through his mind. Squeezing his eyes closed, he shook his head. "'Tis better that you don't know."

  "They say you were tortured. Is that true?" she whispered.

  "Aye." He dropped silent, focusing instead on how amazing her massaging fingers felt.

  "What did they do to you?" she asked.

  "Are you certain you wish to know?"

  "Of course. I told you everything that happened to me."

  Indeed, and he admired her courage. Still, he had reservations about revealing the extent of the torture. Why laden her mind with such evil, to add to the abuse she'd already suffered? He would give her the tame and uncomplicated version. "I was a spy for King James. My da was always his loyal subject and was knighted for his service. I wished to be like him. The king knew some of the rebellious clans were ignoring the laws and doing whatever they wished. He sent me in to see what kind of mischief they were into and report back to him. He needed to know of any who were traitors to the crown."

  "I see."

  "Once they discovered my clandestine activity, they tossed me in their dungeon."

  "But how did your arm get broken?" Anna whispered.

  He shoved back the suffocating darkness and forced himself to speak normally. "They tied me to a torture device similar to a rack that stretched out my limbs. They dislocated my shoulder and broke the same arm. My right hip and left knee were dislocated."

  "Good heavens. Who did this?" she asked in a fierce whisper.

  "Titus, the MacRankin chief, and his henchmen." Nausea and rage rose up within him when he pictured the bastard's face. With each question he'd asked, Neacal had told the truth, but the persecutors had not liked his responses, cutting him shallowly with a dirk each time. MacRankin hadn't wanted to kill him right away; he'd wanted Neacal to suffer.