All except Lachlan looked at Darach for confirmation. He cleared his throat before speaking, trying to break the spell she’d cast over him. Not a faery, but maybe a witch.
“Nay, lad,” he replied, voice rough. “She’s naught but a bonny maid.”
“A verra bonny maid,” Lachlan agreed.
Her throat moved again, and Darach lifted the flask. Opening her mouth, she drank slowly, hand atop his, eyes never leaving his face. He couldn’t look away.
When she’d had enough, she pressed his hand. He removed it, and she stared up at him, blinking slowly and licking her lips. Her pink tongue tempted him, and he quelled the urge to capture it in his mouth.
Then she raised her hand and traced her fingers over his lips and along his nose, caressed his forehead to the scar that sliced through his brow, gently scraped her nails through the whiskers on his jaw.
A more sensual act he’d never experienced, and shivers raced over his skin.
Finally, she spoke. “Par l’amour de Dieu, etes-vous un ange?”
* * *
Caitlin stared at the beautiful creature gazing down at her. He was magnificent, with flashing brown eyes and a fierce scar. Wavy, chestnut-colored hair framed his face and glinted with red highlights in the sun, emphasizing his tough jaw and soft, touchable lips.
For some reason, an overwhelming sense of peace spread through her. She must be in heaven, and he was a warrior angel. Maybe Michael or Gabriel, sure to wreak justice upon the men who’d abused her.
“Non, ma petite. Je suis seulement un homme.”
A man. Her angel said he was but a man.
Beneath her, a horse moved, and she realized she sat on the warrior’s lap. The man’s strong arms and powerful chest cushioned her. Protected her. She felt like a child held close to his big body.
Nay, not a child. A woman.
He watched her quizzically, and she realized something was amiss. Where was she? Had she been taken across the sea by the man her uncle had given her to?
She glanced at the forest above her. Afternoon sunlight poured through the leaves, but the air was still crisp. “Am I in France?” she asked. The words spilled out in her native Gaelic.
The man looked surprised, then replied in kind. “Nay, lass. You’re in the Highlands of Scotland.”
“But you spoke French.”
“Only because you spoke it first.”
“I did?”
“Aye.”
Why had she spoken to him in French and what had she said? She tried to remember, but her head ached. Pain radiated down her face. Oh, aye—she’d asked if he was an angel.
“I spoke French because I couldnae remember Latin, and Gaelic seemed too coarse for an angel. English even worse. What angel in his right mind would appreciate being spoken to in English?” She stopped when she realized she was babbling.
The man smiled, and to her delight, a dimple formed in his cheek. “What angel, indeed.”
Then a thought occurred to her, and she frowned. “Maybe a fallen angel. He would like the English devils, now wouldnae he?”
Another man laughed, and she realized they weren’t alone. Shifting her gaze from the warrior’s face, she found herself looking at another handsome Highlander astride a horse. Tall and broad shouldered, his light-brown hair was tied by a leather cord at the nape of his neck. Dark-blue eyes smiled at her from a finely formed face—though not nearly as fine as the man holding her.
“Doona startle her, Lachlan. She’s still confused,” her savior said gruffly.
“I’m all right, angel. Doona fash.”
A young lad leaned forward on his horse, as skinny as he was tall, with a face covered in pimples. “Why’d you think him an angel, lass?”
Two other men on horses gathered ’round. Every one of them stared at her, concern etched on their faces. For the first time since the fire, she felt safe, even though they were strangers.
“Because he saved me. You all saved me.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “And he’s so bonny, of course.”
The lad went from looking proud to horrified. “Our laird isna bonny. He’s fierce and intimidating.”
“Oh, aye, I’m sure. But he has such bonny eyes, doona you think? And his hair glints red in the sun. ’Tis verra pretty.”
The man named Lachlan laughed again, causing her warrior’s brow to furrow. She reached up and massaged it with her fingers. “Doona glower so. ’Twill cause lines. You doona want to look fierce all the time, now do you?”
The man’s eyes widened and the wrinkle disappeared. He appeared uncertain, an emotion she was sure he found bewildering. For some reason, it pleased her.
“What’s your name, lass?” he finally asked.
She hesitated, not wanting to give too much away. “Caitlin. What’s yours?”
“Darach MacKenzie, laird of Clan MacKenzie.” He indicated his men. “This is Oslow, Gare, and Brodie. You’re safe with us.”
The truth of his statement settled in her bones with a certainty, and the fear and anxiety she’d been living with for the past three years slipped away, leaving her almost giddy.
She could barely contain her happiness as she waited for him to introduce the other man, the one he’d called Lachlan. A familiarity lay between them that did not extend to the others, and she wondered if they were related.
When it became clear Darach had forgotten, she asked, “Are you his brother, then? Lachlan MacKenzie?”
“Aye, we’re brothers. Foster brothers. Two of five reared together by the great Gregor MacLeod. But I’m not a MacKenzie. I’m Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay.” Then his eyes twinkled. “Do you want to ride with me, lass? It’s been suggested Darach may be getting tired.”
Caitlin clutched Darach’s lèine. “Am I too heavy for you, Laird MacKenzie?”
He made a loud, dismissive sound and tightened his arms around her, telling her in no uncertain terms where she would ride.
“I’m not your laird, Caitlin. You will call me Darach.”
“Oh, aye. Darach.” It was a good name. Soft yet hard. Strong yet gentle. Worthy of the warrior. And the way he said her name—rough and deep—caused warmth to spread through her chest.
“What clan are you, lass?” he asked. “We’ll make sure you get home safely. How did you come to be so abused by the dog Fraser?”
The heat inside Caitlin turned to ice, and she stiffened. He wanted to give her back? Nay. ’Twas unthinkable. She’d just escaped.
She closed her eyes, knowing they were the windows to her soul and allowed anyone to discern her thoughts.
“Caitlin?” The worry in Darach’s voice compelled her to look at him. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, lips pressed together lest she blurt out the horrible truth and they took her back to Fraser. Or her uncle.
Her clan, her real clan, was dead. That was the truth. By all that was holy, she didn’t belong with her uncle or Fraser. She belonged…she belonged… Where did she belong? Maybe she could find her mother’s people in France?
Surely she’d be safe there. Her uncle and Fraser wouldn’t travel so far to find her.
“I doona rightly know,” she said, her heart skittering as she shifted her eyes downward.
“Is it your head, lass?” Oslow asked.
“Aye. ’Tis thumping like a rabbit’s back foot when the fox nears.”
It was true enough, and she heaved a sigh. Surely exaggeration would not be considered a mortal sin. Besides, she could barely keep her eyes open.
She peeped at Darach through her lashes to see he watched her skeptically. Aye, just like her da—although he didn’t feel like her father. And at times he had a look in his eye she’d never seen in her father’s eyes. It made her want to burrow into his embrace.
“I’ve seen these things happen,” Oslow continue
d. “Men taking a blow to the head and not rightly remembering. The lass may ne’er remember, Laird.”
Darach exchanged a glance with Lachlan. The MacKay laird shrugged, and Darach returned his gaze to her, expression bland.
“Is that what’s happened, Caitlin? You canna remember anything? Other than your name, of course. And how to speak French?”
“Well, things are a bit foggy. Maybe in the morning, my mind will be clear.”
Darach stared at her before answering. “Maybe.” Then strong fingers gripped her chin and tilted her head.
To her surprise, his eyes had darkened. He released her and traced his fingers over her face, following the same path she’d taken earlier on his face. Her heart swelled and something filled her deep inside.
When he spoke, his voice was grave. “I promise to keep you safe, sweetling. You’ll come to no harm while there is breath in my body. I pledge this on the honor of the MacKenzies.”
Two
Darach wanted to kill the lass—or at least toss her in the loch and end his misery.
As weak as she’d been yesterday, today she wouldn’t sit still, rubbing her soft ass against the vee of his thighs as she squirmed in front of him on Loki, craning to look at the view through a break in the trees, turning to talk to the others, reaching for the stallion they’d stolen from Fraser.
He was in a state of perpetual arousal, and it was apparent she was oblivious to it, unaware she excited him something fierce when she touched his thigh or leaned forward to whisper in his steed’s ear. If they were alone, and if she were willing, he’d lift her skirts and plunge deep inside.
She wriggled again just as he imagined her soft, wet channel surrounding him, and his cock swelled so tight it was all he could do not to cry out.
Aye, he would tup her good and hard till she stopped squirming and moved her hips with his. Or maybe he’d spread her so wide she couldn’t move at all, just accept his hard length until she reached her peak and convulsed around him.
And she would. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Caitlin was a very curious woman.
They’d camped last night beside a loch high in the mountains, taking a long loop back through the forest in hopes of confusing any trackers. The conflict would come—Darach longed for it to come—but for now, he would take the time to see Caitlin safe.
She’d succumbed again to that unnatural sleep right after he’d given her his pledge, failing to wake even as they dismounted. He’d wrapped her in his extra blanket and laid her by the fire, then settled close to her. When she cried out in the night, flinging wide his blanket, he reached for her immediately. Her limbs trembled and heat poured off her body, her dress soaked in sweat. She looked around, unable to focus, her big, blue eyes glassy.
“Darach!”
“I’m here, lass.”
“Darach!”
“Hush, Caitlin. I have you. You’re going to be all right.”
A strong smell issued from her body—an herb of some sort. He’d smelled it many times in the sickrooms after a battle.
Christ Almighty, not only had they hit her, they’d drugged her too. The devil help them if they’d raped her. He’d kill every one of them.
“We need to cool her. The fever is too hot,” Lachlan said.
Lifting her gently, Darach hurried with her toward the loch. Removing neither his boots nor his plaid, he splashed into the icy water, then lowered her beneath the waves.
He’d taken off her shoes earlier but had left on her hose and arisaid for warmth. Now the wool dress was soaked. She’d need something dry in the morning when she recovered—and she would recover. He’d given her his oath to keep her safe.
Unfastening the brooch on her breast, the pleats came loose. The garment floated away, leaving only her linen chemise. He removed her hose, gathered her arisaid, and tossed them onto the shore. Gare and Brodie picked up the wet clothing.
“Hang them to dry by the fire and bring me a blanket.” His men returned to camp, leaving Lachlan on the narrow beach.
“Shall I join you, Brother?” he asked.
“Nay, Lachlan. She’s barely decent. She wouldnae want another man to see her like this.”
The lines of her body showed through the garment that covered her. He distantly noted how wee she was, although she was long past the age of childhood—twenty, maybe younger. Her breasts were well formed, with dark areolas and protruding nipples, her waist small, her hips rounded. Her woman’s mound showed against the wet chemise.
He concentrated on her flushed face, tilting her head back to soak her hair. The dark strands floated around her like she was an ancient sea nymph. Seductive. Alluring. His fingers ran through the silky tresses as he murmured all would be well, she’d be safe with him at clan MacKenzie. Cupping his hand, he scooped up water and trickled it over her brow.
She gasped and looked at him, her eyes focused.
“Darach?”
“Aye, love. I’m here.”
Her fingers clutched his chest. “Doona leave me.”
“I’ll not leave you, lass. I promised you, aye?”
She gazed at him a moment, then relaxed. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened as the heat left her. Darach caressed her face. She turned her cheek into his palm.
Once more during the night, he did this. She was sick too, emptying what little was in her stomach. By sunrise, her color was better and her eyes bright. She slept late into the morning, waking with a hunger to rival Gare’s, demolishing a good share of apples, cheese, and oats as she sat by the fire.
“Even the porridge tastes good,” she said, her smile lighting up her face. It drew him in like the blazing sun. “My mother made pastries that puffed up as they cooked, but she always made me eat my oats first. For a good constitution, aye?”
He could do naught but nod in agreement. She had a childlike enthusiasm that endeared her to the men, somehow seemingly unaffected by her treatment at the hands of the Frasers.
A sweet, pliable lass…until she had seen Fraser’s white devil-horse tethered at the edge of camp. With an excited yell, she’d run toward it. Darach’s heart pounded as he raced after her. He caught her just as the stallion reared and slashed at them with his hooves, missing her by inches. He pulled her back, blood coursing through his veins.
“By the love of Christ, lass, are you trying to kill yourself? Or me? My heart nearly stopped.”
“Cloud would ne’er hurt me.”
“Cloud?”
“The stallion. He rose up because you were running behind me. You gave him a fright. He’s a verra sensitive horse.”
The lass blamed him for almost getting them killed?
“And ’tis most ungodly to take our Savior’s name in vain. ’Tis a commandment, doona you know?” She placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head to look him in the eye. “What will you do when you’re standing in front of Saint Michael? Tell him you’re a blasphemer?”
His men, including Lachlan, had stopped to watch, eyes wide and, in Gare’s case, jaw dropped.
Darach heard Lachlan laugh, then mutter, “Christ Almighty.”
Caitlin heard as well, for she spun toward him. “Laird MacKay, didn’t your mother teach you anything? The angels desert you every time you curse. I hope for your sake they’re still there when the devil comes-a-calling.”
Darach would have let her continue just to see Lachlan on the receiving end of her pointed finger, but they’d tarried long enough.
“Caitlin, hush.” A command he knew he’d be repeating often. “We’re leaving now.”
She gazed at Cloud and stepped toward him. Darach blocked her way. He gave her a stare that had intimidated the fiercest warriors. “You willna touch the stallion. You ride with me.”
She looked over at Loki, standing proud in the morning sun, his coat glossy, his mane and tail a darker g
ray than the rest of him. “He’s certainly a bonny lad,” she said, then walked over and leaned into his side, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Finally he did, and when he huffed at her, she huffed back. He swished his tail and she laughed. “What’s his name?”
“Loki.”
Her eyes widened. “After the trickster god?”
“Aye, he was a mischievous colt. You had to stay one step ahead of him like Odin with Loki, or disaster would strike.”
“Surely not.” When he nodded, her eyes danced. “Are you Odin, then?”
He tried not to smile. “Maybe.” Moving beside her, he laced his fingers together for her to use as a step. “Mount up, lass.”
She did, putting her foot in his hands and swinging her leg over Loki’s back. Darach averted his eyes as her skirt rode up her leg, but he couldn’t help glimpsing silken hose over a slender calf. He grabbed the reins and quickly swung up behind her.
That’s when the real trouble began.
Half a day of her squirming on Loki in front of him. Smelling fresh and clean like the loch with a touch of woodsmoke, like the flowers and leaves she picked from the trees along the way. Smelling like a woman. Like Caitlin.
’Twas a god-awful torture.
“Verily, Lachlan, you donna care to marry?” Caitlin leaned around Darach as she spoke to the MacKay laird, nudging Darach’s shaft as she did so. It pulsed eagerly, and he gritted his teeth.
“Nay. ’Tis not in the stars for me, lass.”
“But surely you like women?”
Lachlan snorted. “Aye, I like women.”
“You willna speak on this with the lass,” Darach interrupted, pushing a branch out of the way so it wouldn’t scrape her. “She’s too innocent for such talk.”
“I’m not that innocent, Darach. I grew up on a farm.”
His arms tightened around her of their own accord, thinking of what she might know about tupping. She leaned back against him. It surprised and pleased him to hear her humming a light, happy song. Surely a lass who’d been carnally abused wouldn’t be so merry.
“I am lucky you found me, Darach. I wouldnae have liked being with the Frasers. They treated me poorly.”
Highland Promise Page 2