She held the dog as though she would never let go, releasing him only when she tasted the salt of her own tears. Her body shook with the vehemence of her emotions and then she straightened, steeling herself against any weakness, summoning calm in the midst of her panic.
Indulging in pity and despair would accomplish naught. There would be an opportunity for her and Malcolm to escape. She needed to constantly be on guard so that she would be ready to seize it. With an abrupt motion, Joan drew to her feet. Prince copied her actions, standing readily at her side.
Joan gazed down at him, wondering if there was a way to use the great beast to aid in their escape. Prince could be an intimidating creature, a formidable foe with his head lowered, hackles raised, and teeth bared as if he were ready to attack. Yet even if she could command Prince to do her bidding—which was not assured—she feared the brigands would raise a sword to the snarling hound.
She could not, in good conscience, put the faithful animal in such peril. In fact, it would be best if the dog was unseen by their captors.
Joan patted his head affectionately one final time. “Home, Prince. Go home!”
Prince stared up at her, let out a loud yawn, and sat, placing his rump directly on her foot. Despite the gravity of the situation, a giggle rose up from Joan’s throat and she began laughing.
“What use are ye to me?” she asked him, but then an idea dawned.
A preposterous, far-fetched idea, but one worth trying. Reaching under her gown, Joan tore a piece of her chemise and tied it around the dog’s neck. ’Twas embroidered with her initials. Gertrude would recognize it immediately; Joan could only hope that its presence around Prince’s neck would be noticed and raise the alarm.
That is, if she could get the daft beast to return to the castle. Time was running short. She had to get back before one of the men came looking for her.
“Where’s Lileas, Prince? Where is she, laddie?” The dog’s ears perked and his tail began to wag furiously. Hope burgeoned in Joan’s chest. “That’s right, Lileas. Find Lileas, Prince. Hurry.”
On her command, the dog bolted away and disappeared in the woods. Joan was heartened by the sight—and the knowledge that the animal was at least running in the right direction.
She took her time walking back to the others, taking a winding route. Their impatient glares brought a tremor of warning up her spine. Heart thumping, Joan scrambled onto her horse without assistance. One of the men grunted in annoyance and they set out at a faster pace.
It took a few moments for Joan to realize that in their haste to continue the journey, they had neglected to bind her wrists. Holding tightly to the reins, she tucked her hands inside her sleeves, hiding the oversight.
They continued on a rough path that led through the forest, with the men frequently switching the duty of being in the lead and keeping watch of their surroundings. Joan thought it hardly a necessary precaution. The road seemed rarely used as it was rife with tree roots and overgrown brambles. It appeared highly unlikely they would chance upon anyone, more’s the pity.
When they started up another foothill, Joan was surprised to feel a rumbling in her belly. Given the grave situation she found herself in, one would think the lack of a meal a trifling matter. Apparently her body did not agree. Embarrassed, Joan lowered her head, hoping no one heard the rude noises.
Unfortunately, it seemed that once begun, her stomach had decided to continue its protests over the lack of food. She pressed her hand firmly against her belly, hoping to somehow muffle the sounds, but that proved useless.
“Here. Have a bannock.”
Joan’s gaze slid to the man who rode beside her, the one she had mistaken for their leader. His arm was extended toward her and in his hand was a large oatcake. Most likely several days old and dry, it looked like ambrosia to Joan.
Mouth watering, she started to reach for it, then pulled back, remembering that her hands had been mistakenly left untied.
“Thank ye, but I find with all the excitement of today, I’ve no appetite,” she replied, deliberately turning her head away from the tempting morsel.
His saddle creaked and she imagined him returning the food to his sack. Joan sighed with regret and her belly rumbled again, betraying her need.
“I know that yer wrists are unbound,” he said, not unkindly. “I also know what it feels like to go hungry. Now eat, before the others notice.”
He flashed a brief, pensive smile that possessed the power to weaken a maiden’s knees. Startled, Joan snatched the food out of his hand. Thoughtfully chewing her bannock, she took a moment to study him.
He was handsome, in a rugged, unpolished way, with curly hair that grazed his broad shoulders and framed his chiseled jaw. Surrounded by thick lashes, his eyes scrutinized her with an intelligent air. They were a striking shade of... green.
Aye, they are as green as the new spring grass.
Joan’s breath caught and she began choking on a dry crumb. It lodged in her throat and she coughed until her eyes filled with tears. Each man turned to stare at her—Malcolm looking especially concerned—but she brushed them off with a toss of her head.
Green eyes.
Was it possible that this was the man who had impersonated Malcolm at the fete? The handsome man with the green eyes who had seduced Brienne MacPhearson and gifted her with a son who also possessed eyes of this color?
Joan’s heart pounded with excitement. She swallowed, trying to clear the dryness from her throat. “Might I beg a boon of ye, kind sir, and ask fer a sip of water?”
He glanced at the other men, then lifted a pouch draped over his pommel and gave it to her. “Dinnae drink too much or else ye’ll be pestering us to stop again,” he cautioned.
Joan nodded agreeably and took but a small sip. “My thanks.” When she handed it back, she glanced deliberately at the claymore that was strapped to his back. “’Tis a fine weapon. Do ye participate often in the tournaments and fetes? I hear tell there is good coin to be made for those who can fight.”
His brows furrowed with suspicion. “Why do ye ask?”
“No particular reason,” Joan replied airily. “’Tis only that ye have the look of a warrior about ye.”
She summoned up her most curious, flirty smile, the one that had served her well when she was younger. It still had the power to dazzle, for it succeeded in erasing the suspicion from his face, yet he didn’t answer her question. Instead, he spurred his horse forward and took his turn leading the group.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Joan glanced ahead, pretending great interest in a pair of chattering squirrels. They chased each other, leaping from branch to branch, wrestling and rolling together.
“No matter how far she runs, he always catches her,” a rough male voice intoned with a snide chuckle.
The tall one had taken the warrior’s place and now rode beside her. His eyes raked her from thigh to hip, coming to rest on her breasts. Joan lowered her chin to hide the anger and disgust that filled her.
“Aye, but if he gets too close, she bites him on the tail or the snout,” Joan replied. “Hard.”
The man let out a bellowing laugh. A cruel sneer twisted his features, making her feel vulnerable and exposed. Of all the men, this one seemed the most dangerous and unpredictable. She’d best be on guard whenever he was near.
When the light began to fade, they camped on a bluff at the edge of the forest. Joan wasn’t entirely certain, but she believed they were no longer on McKenna land. The thought depressed her.
She tended to her horse, watching with wary eyes as the men set up camp. They had a fair amount of supplies, indicating they were well aware of the many days it would take to reach MacPhearson land.
“Joan!” Malcolm hissed. “Joan!”
Her heartbeat skipped as she glanced all around to make certain none of the men were watching. Assured she was being ignored, Joan sauntered casually in the opposite direction, then circled around toward Malcolm.
He was tied to a
tree, his arms pulled behind him. Still, he was able to capture her hands in his the moment she was close, squeezing them reassuringly.
Joan breathed in the scent of his skin, reveling in the warmth of his flesh. For so many years she had feared and loathed a man’s touch. How had Malcolm’s caress suddenly come to mean so much to her?
Joan slipped a flat rock into his hand, then turned her back, pretending great interest in the flowers blooming at the base of the tree.
“There is some sharpness on one side of the stone. If ye are patient, ye might be able to cut through the bonds on yer wrists,” she said.
“Aye. Though it will probably take me half the night,” he joked.
She turned to face him. Malcolm’s eyes locked with hers and didn’t waver. Joan took comfort in his confidence, hope renewing in her heart that they would be safely delivered from this danger.
“I’ve news to share,” she whispered. “Prince found me in the woods. He must have been near enough to pick up our scent. I tied a piece of my chemise around his neck, hoping if he returns to the castle, yer father will see it and set Prince along with the other dogs to track us.”
“I know my father will already have men looking fer us. ’Twould be useful if Prince could at least point them in the right direction.”
“Aye, instead of leading them through the forest to a warren filled with rabbits,” Joan replied.
They shared a quiet smile. Suddenly, someone touched Joan’s shoulder. Startled, she jerked around to look behind her. ’Twas the brigand they called Robbie.
“Ye spend far too much time in Sir Malcolm’s company fer a woman who claims she is fleeing from him,” Robbie said, his face dark with disapproval. “Ye wouldn’t be playing us all fer fools, would ye, Mistress Innes?”
“Dinnae be ridiculous,” Joan answered, defiance in her tone. “I can hardly avoid him in so small an encampment.”
Robbie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Joan twisted her face into an expression of pure innocence. Then with legs trembling beneath her gown, she stalked over to the small cooking fire and perched herself regally upon a boulder.
She lifted her chin to a scornful angle, daring him to challenge her. He stared back at her, seeming to consider it. Then with a shake of his head and a muttered curse, Robbie turned away.
Chapter Seventeen
With her knees curled against her chest, Joan lay huddled beneath the thin blanket she had been given, unable to sleep. Three of the brigands were positioned near—too near—snoring loudly, while a fourth stood guard. The small fire they had built to roast the hares they had trapped was nearly extinguished, casting off a faint residual glow.
She was lying beneath the stars, yet felt stifled and confined. Every night sound startled her, every movement put her on edge. They had placed her on the other side of the encampment, away from Malcolm, and she missed the security of his warm strength.
He was sitting at the base of the tree, his hands and feet bound, his head lolling against the trunk. She could feel him watching her and his vigilance afforded her a bit of comfort. Sighing, she shifted on the uneven ground, trying to avoid the rock that was pressing into her side.
Joan hugged the blanket tighter, struggling to control the turmoil churning inside her. She knew that she would need all her wits about her as well as her physical strength when they made their escape. Still, sleep eluded her.
She closed her eyes and for a moment she was back at McKenna Castle, languidly stretched out on the wide bed that dominated their chamber. Malcolm was leaning over her, his expression seductive in the candlelight, his hands tenderly reaching out to caress her.
Her skin caught fire when he touched her. Restless, she lifted herself closer. Soft and warm, his lips moved on hers, and Joan relished the taste and feel of his mouth as they kissed.
The fantasy was so real that for a moment she believed she could feel the pleasure they made together. But then the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Reality struck and she was once again shivering on the cold, hard ground—alone.
What a fool she had been to be so distrustful of Malcolm’s amorous intentions! ’Twas true she didn’t fully understand his ardor, but she should not have been so quick to dismiss him. Instead of exploring these inflamed feelings he evoked, she had fought against the desire, denying them both fulfillment.
Regrets tumbled over each other in her mind, distracting her and doing little to aid Joan in her quest for sleep. These thoughts continued to plague her, so intently that she lost all sense of her surroundings until she felt the surprising presence of someone moving behind her.
Joan tensed. A hand clamped over her mouth and an arm encircled her waist. Fear filled her throat. She bucked against her captor’s hold, arching her back and struggling against him, trying to free herself. He tugged harder on her waist, and her stomach clenched in fear.
The need to break free increased and then he reached down with his other hand and lifted her skirts. She tried to kick him, but her legs tangled in the blanket.
“Now ye just stay quiet and calm, so we can have a bit of fun.”
She recognized his voice. It was the tall one. Joan shuddered, repulsed by the feeling of his hot, moist breath on her neck. Fear choked through her and Joan increased her struggles, managing to open her mouth over the plump flesh of his palm.
The taste of dirt and salt invaded her tongue, yet she never hesitated. She bit him—hard—her mouth quickly filling with the coppery taste of blood.
He cried out, releasing his hold, then slapped her across the face. “Ye foolish bitch!”
Her head wrenched to the side. She rolled away, shaking her head to clear the blow. Joan clawed at the dirt, pulling herself away in a desperate bid for freedom. He scrambled after her, grasping her ankle, squeezing hard.
Despair welled up, nearly choking her, but she refused to relent without a fight. Joan’s elbows struck him in the ribs and she heard his breath burst from his lungs in a loud howl.
The night erupted into chaos. There were cries of surprise and shouts of alarm. From the other side of the camp, Joan saw Malcolm rush forward. Somehow he had broken free of his bonds and not a moment too soon.
Malcolm grabbed her attacker by the shirt and threw him against the trunk of a tall tree. The brigand reached for the dirk at his belt and slashed out wildly, cutting Malcolm’s forearm.
Malcolm pivoted, ducked low, and knocked the attacker off his feet. His head hit the ground hard. He let out a groan, then grew still and unmoving. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Joan would have thought him dead.
Sword drawn, a second man leapt at Malcolm from the shadows.
“Malcolm, watch out!” Joan’s scream echoed through the night air, reverberating in her ears.
Malcolm lunged out of the sword’s reach and picked up a sturdy branch. Steel struck wood with a crash that resonated through Joan’s heart. The two men parried, yet each time their weapons clashed Joan could hear the splintering wood of Malcolm’s branch. Soon it would be in pieces.
Malcolm fended off another blow, then brought his foot down hard on his opponent’s instep. The man howled in pain. Malcolm hooked his branch on his opponent’s sword and swung it upward. It came out of the brigand’s hand and flew in a high arc. Malcolm caught the sword handle in midair, turned, and placed the tip of the blade over the brigand’s heart.
Joan let out a cry of triumph, but her joy was short lived. Robbie lunged for her. He captured her arm, spun her around, and placed his dirk menacingly against her neck.
“Release him or I’ll slit her throat,” Robbie screamed.
Everyone froze.
Malcolm’s chest heaved as he held the sword over the man’s heart. He glanced frantically from his prisoner to the knife at Joan’s throat and back again. A tendril of fear shivered up her spine; who knew what awaited them if Malcolm relinquished his advantage?
Joan’s eyes sought the man she believed to be the imposter. He stood with his sword
drawn, at the ready, surveying the action. The only way to shift the odds was to somehow bring him to their side.
“Brienne MacPhearson and her son reside at McKenna Castle,” Joan cried. “If ye aid us, I will guarantee ye safe passage to see her.”
The man turned to her sharply. “What?”
“Ye heard me.” Joan swallowed hard. “Secure our release and ye’ll be reunited with Brienne.”
The man scoffed. “I’ve no interest in Brienne MacPhearson. Why would ye think such a thing?”
Joan closed her mind against her doubts and remembered the shadows of sadness she had seen lingering in his eyes. ’Twas unsteady ground, but she must take the risk to tread upon it.
“Brienne told me a great deal about the man who wooed her at the fete. She spoke of his courage and kindness and his pleasing features,” Joan answered. “She said that he vowed his love fer her and promised to make her his wife.”
“That has naught to do with me,” he declared vehemently. “’Twas Malcolm McKenna.”
“Was it?” Joan lifted a brow. “I, and many others, including Laird MacPhearson, know that is false. It was a man who claimed to be Malcolm McKenna.”
The imposter turned his head. “Why do ye believe that I am that man?”
A surge of satisfaction shot through Joan. I was right!
“Ye might be able to run from the truth, but ye cannae deny it. Brienne’s son has eyes as green as yers. He is a fine, healthy lad, sweet and innocent,” Joan replied. “She calls him Liam.”
In the light of the moon, Joan could see a series of emotions ripple across the imposter’s handsome face. Disbelief, awe, joy, and finally frustration. “’Tis madness to trust ye,” he finally replied. “If Brienne truly is at the castle, then McKenna must have married her.”
“I dinnae marry the MacPhearson lass,” Malcolm shouted.
The imposter’s brows rose. “Even if I did believe ye, ’tis madness to trust ye,” he said. “McKennas dinnae grant leniency to a man when they have been wronged by him.”
No Other Highlander Page 23