Sue-Ellen Welfonder

by Master of the Highlands

  And in especial that she’d not blanch—or seek to scratch out his eyes—when he revealed the rest.

  “MacLean?” she echoed his name, seeming to test its feel on her tongue.

  A flare of hope sparked in Iain’s breast. Not bold sparks but promising nonetheless… and hale enough to breathe warmth onto the outermost edges of the cold dark inside him.

  She was peering at him, her light green eyes brimming with interest, so he summoned another rusty smile and inclined his head. “Aye, that is my name, lass, and I would that you know it.”

  That, at least, I can share without shame.

  “MacLean of the Isles?” she prodded, tipping her head.

  “Nay, of Baldoon on the Isle of Doon in the Isles,” he corrected, and knew a moment’s uneasiness—a ridiculous tide of nerves washing o’er him that perchance his calamitous reputation or even his most recent act of sacrilege had somehow found the way to her ear.

  But she merely nodded, her greenish gold gaze flickering o’er him, the disappointment he’d noted just before crossing the kirkyard now replaced by open curiosity.

  She looked past him to where his pilgrim’s gear lay discarded on the stony ground. “I knew you were not a pilgrim.”

  “A pilgrim, nay,” Iain agreed, “but on a similar path.”

  A journey of penitence, his conscience urged him to add, but he glanced aside instead.

  He’d tell her the rest—the most of it—later.

  After he’d found suitably respectable lodgings for them for the night… and perhaps, too, after he’d plied her with a wee dollop or two of fine and fiery uisge beatha, a good Scotsman’s “water of life” and thought to be a cure-all for every ailment known to man.

  Hopefully, too, for averting disenchantment.

  Unable to help himself, he gently tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

  Something he’d burned to do ever since she’d stepped from the burial enclosure, his cloak and her badly torn head veil clutched in her hands, her red-gold tresses no longer hidden but wound in satiny-looking plaits above her ears, a riot of bright-gleaming curls tumbling sweetly about her face.

  He swallowed hard, the cool silk of that one wee curl, the satiny-smooth warmth of her cheek beneath his fingertips sending arrow bolts of keenest desire streaking through him.

  She regarded him with an unblinking gaze, but a faint pink tinge colored her cheeks, and he would’ve sworn a light shiver traversed her length at his touch.

  Endeavoring not to disillusion or frighten her, Iain lifted away his hand, struggled to keep his gaze from dipping to the torn bodice showing beneath her unfastened cloak.

  Two brooches held the ruined gown together, her own and his, for he’d forgotten he’d secreted the heavily enameled cairngorm brooch on the inside of his pilgrim’s cloak, using it thus to fasten the hated mantle without calling undue attention to the piece’s worth.

  Despite himself, he stared at his brooch, at the remnants of the once-fine cloth it held together. His hands fisted, rage pounding through him at the stark reminder of what had been done to her—and at the worse villainies she could have faced.

  He stifled a furious oath, hoped the long shadows cast by the nearby yews hid the muscle beginning to tic in his jaw.

  Hid, too, the increasing edginess that he had yet to proffer his protection as her escort… and under the guise of her husband.

  To his dismay, his cheeks began to prickle and burn, and he prayed to any gods who might hear him that he wasn’t blushing.

  Prayed, too, that her response wouldn’t press him into forcing her acquiescence. The saints knew he’d rather march naked through the deepest, darkest glen in a storm of sleet and rain.

  Forcing a woman to do aught against her will would break the one code of honor he prided himself on ne’er having breached.

  The only corner of his valor he’d kept brightly polished since the very first day he noticed a difference between himself and the fairer sex.

  Ill ease closing in fast, he slid a helpless look in Mac-Fie’s direction, thankfully catching the Islesman’s eye, but the bland-faced bastard merely shrugged… clearly content to withhold himself from Iain’s task of persuading the two women of the necessity of remaining together.

  The need to submit themselves to the farce of pretended marriages.

  Feeling more inept by the moment, Iain drew a long breath before he returned his attention to Madeline.

  And the instant he did, a fierce jolt of pure male appreciation shot through him when his gaze defied his best intentions and flew straight to his brooch, this time seemingly determined to linger there.

  And what true man’s gaze wouldn’t, for the scoopedneck bodice bore such a jagged tear a full score of brooches would have failed to repair the damage.

  Worse yet—for him—the sight of something of his resting so close against her skin proved almost more than he could bear, for her attempt to recover her modesty only drew the tattered linen tighter across the full swells of her breasts, emphasizing rather than shielding their lushness.

  One or two irreparable rips gaped wide, giving delicious glimpses no red-blooded man ought be exposed to… lest he be allowed to sate the lust such sweetness was sure to stir in his loins.

  Iain’s throat instantly tightened, as did other parts of him.

  Indeed, it’d taken but one fleeting look at a single coral-tinted nipple, puckered tight and thrusting, for his body to make short work of his fervent wish not to un-settle her.

  And she thought him a gallant.

  Shoving nervous fingers through his hair, he said a silent prayer of thanks for the loose-hanging folds of his plaid.

  Nevertheless, if she peered as closely at his lower body as she was studying his face, she’d soon see just what an un-gallant he was.

  So he turned away.

  And hoped another glance at MacFie’s ugly countenance would banish the rise beneath his plaid.

  Blessedly, it did, and he wheeled to face her as soon as he knew he could without further compromising her modesty.

  “Iain of Baldoon,” she surprised him by saying, again seeming to practice its feel.

  “So I have said,” Iain ceded, amazed his voice didn’t crack like a besotted squire’s, so enchanting was the way she said his name. The soft lilt of her Highland tongue a sweet balm he’d not tire of hearing, if he lived a thousand years. “But there is more I must tell you.”

  She peered at him. “Aye?”

  A flicker of interest flitted across her face. No coyness or condemnation… just a look of simple and honest inquiry.

  Iain’s heart twisted, then began thumping hard against his ribs.

  How long had it been since a lass had eyed him with aught but accusation or pity?

  And even before, with the exception of his sweet Lileas, it’d been the glitter of MacLean gold lighting every bonnie female face to turn his way.

  That, or the titillating thrill of bedding a laird’s brother.

  The closest many an ambitious lass would e’er come to such a coup.

  And Iain had ne’er much cared… till now.

  Straightening his shoulders, he clasped his hands behind his back. He was almost certain they’d begun trembling and he wouldn’t embarrass himself by adding weakness to his long list of faults.

  So he stood as straight as he could, waited for her gaze to cease flitting over him, and hoped he wouldn’t catch a gleam of calculation hiding anywhere within the depths of her gorgeous, thick-lashed eyes.

  “I ken what you want to tell me,” she said, her green-gold eyes all innocence and wonder.

  Iain arched a brow, waited.

  “You are laird,” she said, and Iain’s heart plummeted to his toes.

  Careful to keep his alarm at bay, he steeled himself to rectify her conclusion. “Sweet lass, I would subsist upon naught but bread and water if I could please you by claiming it were so, but I am not laird,” he told her. “I am but the laird’s brother.”

 
To his amazement, she simply shrugged.

  “It matters not,” she said, her gaze full earnest. “But I vow your brother is one of the most fortunate lairds in the land.”

  Iain eyed her carefully. Surely he’d misheard her.

  He had to be dreaming.

  She reached up to press gentle fingers to his cheek. “I should like to know more of you, good sir,” she breathed, and a shadow passed o’er her face. “Aye, I truly wish I could.”

  Iain stared at her, his skin tingling where she’d touched him. Golden warmth like he’d never known spilled through him, its sweetness cloaking the faint glimmer of regret in her eyes. Erasing, too, the tint of melancholy coloring her last words.

  Her other words shot straight to his heart and made him want to throw off every cumbersome chain of guilt, yank her into his arms, and claim her lips in a searing, never-ending kiss.

  A fine, soul-slaking kiss to make up for all their lost yesterdays and to lend resplendent promise to the many tomorrows lying before them.

  Tomorrows that should have lain before them.

  A bliss that would ne’er unfold.

  Iain blinked away the thoughts, suppressed a frown, and almost succeeded in closing his ears on the voices of a past he couldn’t flee.

  Indeed, a decidedly gruff-sounding harrumph at his elbow minded him of the impossibility of escape.

  “I thought Amicia’s arisaid would suit our disguise better than a torn and soiled postulant’s robe,” Gavin MacFie declared, Amicia’s exquisitely woven plaid dangling from his outstretched hand.

  “Disguise?” Madeline’s brows shot up, her gaze flying to her friend, then to Iain’s sister’s arisaid… the same one he’d used to wrap around a few of the most priceless pieces of MacLean treasure.

  Precious goods stashed in the very bottom of his travel bag.

  A fierce growl rose in Iain’s throat, his fingers itching to curl around the Islesman’s neck.

  A neck slowly turning as red as the bastard’s beard. “You haven’t told her yet,” the dimwit stammered, for once having the grace to appear nonplussed.

  Saints, he even looked rattled.

  A condition Iain would have reveled in under any other circumstance.

  “Told me what?” Madeline whirled on him, her wide-eyed paleness lighting balefires of warning across every inch of ground he’d managed to win from her.

  He opened his mouth to speak—to say something, anything—but no words came, for his tongue seemed determined to stick to the roof of his mouth. Ramming both hands through his hair, he wished the stony ground would open up beneath his feet.

  His blood cooking, he glowered at MacFie.

  She blew out a breath and swung on her friend. “What have I not been told?” she repeated, a vein pulsing visibly at the base of her throat. “And what is this about a disguise? Who is Amicia?”

  The older woman met her questions with a well-meaning if cautious smile. “Amicia is your shadow man’s sister,” she said, indicating Iain.

  With surprising agility, she plucked the arisaid from MacFie’s hand and thrust it into Madeline’s arms before she could voice a protest.

  As quickly, she snatched away the wadded mass of Iain’s pilgrim’s cloak and handed it to him.

  He took it, some unattached part of himself noting that it now smelled faintly of heather before he sent it sailing through the air to join the other cast-aside vestiges of his pilgrim disguise.

  “What you’ve not yet been told,” Nella of the Marsh was saying, “is that these two gallants have kindly offered us their escort.” The words out, she looked so pleased with herself Iain wondered fleetingly where her loyalty lay.

  Madeline looked anything but pleased. Her eyes widened to an alarming degree, and every freckle gracing her proud cheekbones stood out in stark relief against the gleaming whiteness of her skin.

  Her companion rushed on, clearly unconcerned… or perhaps well used to the lady’s wrath. “For propriety’s sake and our own good safety, they’ve suggested posing as our husbands until we’ve reached our destination.”

  Sheer panic—and barely contained anger—broke out on Madeline’s face. She stared at her friend, nigh white-lipped, her eyes darkening to a deep, mossy green, the lovely golden flecks completely gone.

  Iain stared at her, slack-jawed.

  Were he not so intimately involved in her vexation, he would have hooted with amusement, for ne’er had he seen a lass come anywhere close to the fury of his own unleashed temper.

  Ne’er until that moment.

  Her indignant gaze flitted between the three of them before settling on her companion. “We do not need an escort,” she ground out, her agitation palpable. “And I’ll have naught to do with the husband part of it.”

  Clenching Amicia’s arisaid so tightly her knuckles ran white, and with high color seeping onto her cheeks, she looked every proud inch an unconquerable Celtic warrior princess.

  She swiped a curl away from her eyes. “You ken we must travel alone… and why.”

  Nella folded her arms, apparently every bit as brave and daring. “And you, my la—” she broke off, her own cheeks flaming. “You cannot say I e’er approved. Two lone women a-traipsing across the land!”

  Leaning forward, she braved Madeline’s narrow-eyed stare. “No matter the reason.”

  “And what is the reason?” The question slipped from Iain’s lips before he could catch it… remembering too late the danger of provoking anyone caught in the throes of such white-faced fury.

  She rounded on him. “None that I care to discuss, sirrah,” she said, the whole sweet column of her throat and the fine upper curves of her breasts wearing the same becoming flush as her cheeks. “Not even in the face of your gallantry, which I shall ne’er forget and e’er cherish.”

  That last, and the wee shade of regret he’d caught lighting across her face as she’d said it, gave him hope… and the encouragement he needed to seize his advantage.

  He stepped forward before the courage left him, lifted his hands, palms outward. “I give you my word of ho—” —he broke off to slide a warning glance at MacFie—“my word of honor that no harm shall come to either of you from this hour onward, my lady,” he sought to reassure her.

  “Not so long as you are in our care,” he added, low-voiced… and, he hoped, with enough quiet certitude to calm her. “We shall see you safely whither you please.”

  “Nay.” She waved a dismissive hand and began backing away from him, her swift retreat causing her to stumble over a toppled headstone.

  She caught herself, but one of the cloak brooches sprang from her bodice and dropped to the ground.

  The nipple Iain’d glimpsed earlier popped into view, the tear in her bodice gaping wide enough to display it fully. Wholly relaxed this time, the nipple’s unpuckered fullness and the round disk of her surprisingly large are-ola proved just as rousing as in a tightly ruched state.

  Iain’s loins clenched at once.

  His conscience chided him.

  And she gasped, clapping a quick hand over the delightfully exposed delicacy.

  “Oh, dear saints, whate’er have I done to be so tested!” she cried, a telltale brightness sparkling in her eyes. “Just leave me be, all of you,” she pleaded, and swirled Amicia’s arisaid about her shoulders.

  With a last, furious glance at each of them, she snatched up the fallen brooch, spun on her heel, and hastened out of the kirkyard.

  Gavin MacFie whistled and turned aside. Shaking his head, he took Nella’s elbow and began guiding her toward his horse. Too flummoxed to move, Iain watched them go, knowing without asking that she’d ride with Gavin to MacNab’s.

  He also knew he’d not ride anywhere without his particular bane sitting securely before him… whether she desired to accompany him or nay.

  ’Twas for her own good, he told himself, starting after her.

  He caught up with her in eight easy strides.

  “Lass, you have just caused me to br
eak the one code of honor I ne’er thought I would,” he grumbled, and swept her into his arms.

  A dark scowl now marring his face, he strode back through the kirkyard gate, carrying her toward his waiting garron. With each step of way he tried not to think about the gravity of his deed.

  For not only had he just abducted a woman against her will, he’d also rubbed grime all o’er the last untarnished corner of his pride.

  Chapter Eight

  MANY HOURS LATER AND MUCH incensed, Madeline huddled above a wee patch of heather-free ground, her rumpled skirts bunched about her hips, and blew out a breath of sheerest frustration. She kept a narrow-eyed stare pinned on him, her shadow man, and wondered where her dignity had gone.

  More than that, she couldn’t decide which of her present depredations plagued her the most—her aching feet, her fiercely sore buttocks, or the humiliation of Iain MacLean’s refusal to allow her to slip alone into the sheltering cluster of gorse bushes and dwarf hawthorns.

  Dangers a-plenty roamed the land, he’d minded her, excusing his overly vigilant shepherding by claiming robbers, rogues, and ravagers bedeviled even this pleasant country of gently wooded slopes and deceptively peaceful vales.

  Especially in these times of disharmony and lawlessness in the Scottish realm.

  He’d underscored his point by tightening the arm he’d wrapped securely about her middle when, his warning scarce spoken, they’d passed the gutted ruin of an empty cot-house, its fire-scorched walls and blackened roof thatch lending harsh validity to his caution.

  In truth, leaving her glad of it.

  Unbidden, Silver Leg’s hood-eyed visage flashed through her mind, and a torrent of cold shivers snaked down her spine. Lifting her chin a notch higher, she closed her heart to the horrors she’d seen and wished a triplefold plague on the dastard.

  Blinked back the tears she’d sworn not to shed for her father until she’d seen his death avenged.

  Aye, ’twas glad she was of her shadow man’s protection.

  But not this glad.

  Pressing her lips into a firm line, she aimed another barrage of impotently defiant daggers at his broad back and wished the tumbling burn beside her would gurgle and splash with a bit more vigor.