Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Later, however, not long after she fell asleep, he moved closer to the bed of fur and looked down at her. She lay on her stomach, with one long slender leg bent at the knee and drawn up into the thick tangle of her skirts. Her wavy hair was splayed out on the fur, shining like wild flames of fire. He recalled too easily the honeyed flavor of her lips and the soft texture of her tongue, swirling freely around his own. Growing agitated and resentful, he backed up a few steps and sat down on his haunches.

  The moon was high in the sky. Cloud shadows moved swiftly across the quiet glen. There was a strong perfume of late-summer blooms in the air. In the far-off distance, thunder rumbled softly over the mountaintops.

  He sat for a long time watching Amelia sleep while the curve of her hip played tricks on his mind.

  With a soft moan, she rolled over onto her back and settled into a flauntingly feminine, seductive pose. Her breasts—too tightly confined by the stays, which she refused to take off, even at night—seemed to reach out and beckon to him lasciviously. Sexual hunger overwhelmed him, and he wished he could unlace all those constricting articles of clothing, slide her skirts down over her hips, and run his hands across her naked flesh. She lay before him like the embodiment of human sexuality, and he realized this was more a test of his strength than any violent swordfight on a battlefield.

  * * *

  The following day they stopped by a river to water the horse and eat a light lunch.

  “Are you going to talk to me at all ?” Amelia asked when Duncan sat down on a low boulder across from her.

  “Nay.”

  “Not even if I get down on my knees and beg?”

  He shoved a piece of bread at her. “Do you want me to stuff a gag in your mouth?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t be saying things like that.”

  * * *

  They made camp in the forest that night, and Amelia was surprised when, after supper, Duncan lay down on the bed of fur next to her—for he had kept his distance the night before and had treated her with hostility through most of the day. “What happens next?” she asked, hoping that tonight would be different. She had not enjoyed the tension between them, or the loneliness she felt, knowing he did not even wish to talk to her. “We’ve been traveling for two days. When will we reach Moncrieffe? Surely we must be close.”

  He covered her with his tartan and looked at her grimly.

  “Aye, lassie. This very ground belongs to the earl. We’re an hour north of the gatehouse.”

  She leaned up on an elbow. The tartan fell away from her shoulder. “A mere hour? Then why have we stopped? We could be there by now.”

  His eyes were dark and indecipherable. “I wanted one more night with you, lass.”

  She took a moment to comprehend the meaning behind those words and thought again about how silent and brooding he had been all day. She had thought it was because he resented her for the things she said about Richard the other night and was surprised that he would stall the ultimate achievement of his victory.

  “But you told me that you would never let me hold you back from killing Richard,” she said, “or distract you from it.”

  “Aye, and I resent you very much right now, so be careful what you say. I’m ill -tempered.”

  She swallowed uneasily. “I do not understand.” He resented her, but he wanted another night with her?

  Then suddenly her imagination was running riot and she was permitting herself to wonder if she might be able to sway him from his goal after all —that perhaps a small sliver of affection for her could become more important to him than the bloodshed he craved. Perhaps he might give it all up for the sake of her happiness. He was risking a great deal, after all , camping here for one more night, when Richard might be heading in the other direction at this very moment.

  But then she understood, more realistically, that it was not an affection for her that had slowed their progress but a simple physical lust. She remembered how he had watched her throughout the day, and shivered with apprehension—a fear of something inevitable, something she might not be able to control or prevent.

  “Make no mistake about it,” he said. “I want my vengeance, and justice, too. Nothing can stand in the way of it. But when I achieve it, you’ll not be able to look at me, lass.

  You’ll see only the brutal savage that I am.”

  She felt a lump of dread rise up in her. Of course she wanted to reach Moncrieffe and return to her comfortable, civilized world, but the horrors of what Duncan felt compelled to do before he could release her did not bear thinking of.

  She did not want to imagine him committing an act of murder.

  “I want this to end,” she said. “I don’t wish to be your captive. But must you real y do it? Can you not have your vengeance another way? Report Richard to the authorities.

  Write a letter and demand an official inquiry.”

  Duncan chuckled bitterly at the suggestion, then reached up and pushed her hair away from her face. “I’ve enjoyed your company, lassie, and I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

  Why would he not see reason?

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

  “I’ve been aching for you all day, and try as I might, I can do nothing to slake my lust. I’ve never felt more savage than I do when I am lying next to you.”

  Shocked by his confession and flushed by the heat that was simmering inside her body, she pulled back and stared at him. But before she could utter a word, his mouth collided with hers, and he rolled over on top of her.

  A breeze swished through the leafy treetops, and Amelia arched her back wantonly. The desire to hold him and be held by him was powerful, and her head began to swim. He cupped her breast and massaged it, and she gasped helplessly. She wanted the passion and intimacy, but at the same time she wanted to fight against it.

  His tongue swept into her mouth; then he lifted her skirts, slid them up to her waist, and caressed her thighs. all that stood between them now was her split drawers, which he soon penetrated with skillful, probing fingers. She felt his whole palm slide between her legs, then stroke and knead her sensitive damp flesh. The pleasure became a kind of insistent ache, and she pressed her legs together, squeezing them around his hand.

  “I’m just touching you, lass,” he whispered against her lips, and she quivered with delight, even when she knew it would lead to so much more. This was seduction. He was luring her to a very dangerous place.

  Her legs parted readily when he used the heel of his hand to pleasure her. Sensations rushed forward, and she thrilled at his touch. He tasted her with his tongue, then rose up on his arms and mounted her.

  Her rational mind was telling her to put a stop to this, but her body refused to listen. Legs spread wide, she felt the silky tip of his erection, pressing against her. Everything was hot and wet, and she did not want it to end, even when she knew it was wrong.

  “I want to take you now,” he said, “but you must be willing.”

  Her chest was heaving. She hesitated to respond.

  “If you do not want to part with your virginity, you must say so now.”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop, but I always believed I would save myself for my husband.”

  Duncan gazed down at her in the firelight, then drew back and rested his forehead on her shoulder. He seemed to be taking some time to bring his desires under control.

  “I’ll not ruin you,” he softly said, “but I can still give you pleasure.”

  She did not understand what he meant. all she could do was watch him inch downward on the fur and disappear under her skirts. She gasped in shock as he kissed her ankles, her knees, her inner thighs, then pushed her legs wide apart and plunged hard with his mouth and tongue into the folds of her womanhood.

  She arched her back and sucked in a breath, reeling in a blind and mindless haze of rapture. “What are you doing to me?”

  He offered no explanation, however, for
his lips were very busy.

  She soon forgot the question anyway, as she listened to the sounds he made with his mouth. Was this normal? Was this what all men and women did, or just the Scots?

  Overcome by passion, she threw her head back and cried out. Her body began to quiver and shake, her muscles tensed, and a hot wave of fire splashed over her. She writhed like a trapped animal on the fur and pounded her fists on the ground. Pleasure like no other consumed her, even while she fought to resist it; then all her strength poured away.

  After a time, he backed out from under her skirts and covered her body with his own. He held her close, and she felt strangely loved and protected. She didn’t want to let go of him. She wanted to be held like this forever. She had never felt so close to anyone.

  “What was that?” she asked, knowing that her emotions were not, at present, rational.

  “I told you, we Scots like to pleasure our women.” He pulled her skirts down to cover her legs. “But you should sleep now, lass.”

  She stared up at the sky, feeling as if she were in some kind of drunken stupor.

  “I enjoyed it,” she confessed.

  “I know.”

  “But I should not have all owed it to happen. It was too much.”

  For a long time he said nothing. He simply looked up at the shadowy treetops against the night sky.

  Then at last he spoke. “Aye, it was. And I should not have all owed it to happen, either.”

  They said nothing more to each other that night.

  * * *

  Duncan had not slept soundly in months, and feeling completely rested the following morning was a foreign, unrecognizable thing. He woke to the perfume of the pines, the sound of swallows chirping in the treetops, and the pink glow of the sunrise beyond the forest, casting a pale light on his eyelids.

  Yawning, he stretched his arms over his head, then remembered, with a sudden stab of discontent, what would occur on this day. He would ride with Amelia to the castle and perhaps find Richard Bennett there, enjoying the many luxuries Moncrieffe had to offer.

  Duncan’s immediate reaction to the idea of Bennett being served at the castle made him want to go there straightaway, grab the dirty maggot by the throat, and toss him over the castle wall s. But first he would drive a sword through Bennett’s heart and remind him why he was dying: Do you remember the girl in the orchard? This is for her. And it’s for the woman you thought you might have for a wife. She’ll never suffer what Muira did.

  Duncan sat up and looked around. Amelia was not beside him, however, nor was she within view of the camp.

  Instantly alert, he rose to his feet and shouted, “Amelia!”

  No answer came, nor was there any sign of another person within sight or earshot.

  He surveyed the silent forest. Hazy beams of sunlight shone through the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. The new day seemed to be creeping up on him, moving surreptitiously along the mossy floor of the wood.

  “Amelia!” he shouted a second time, striding forward more insistently into the mist, but his call returned only as an echo.

  No, she wouldn’t have. …

  But yes, he knew that she had. “Fookin’ hell .”

  Within minutes, he had saddled Turner, packed up the camp, and was shoving his axe into the saddle scabbard. He swung himself up onto Turner’s back.

  “Yah!” Duncan shouted, urging Turner into a gal op toward the edge of the forest, then to the southern fields beyond.

  What time had she fled the camp? Duncan wondered anxiously. Had she reached the castle yet? And what if Bennett was there and had already issued orders to hunt down the infamous Butcher, who was in the immediate vicinity? Duncan might not even reach the castle gates before he was overtaken by enemy soldiers, and then what would he do?

  Damn her. Damn her straight to hell . He should never have taken her from Fort William, because now the only thing he cared about was getting her back. He didn’t care if Richard Bennett lived or died—only that he would never touch Amelia again.

  In light of the current circumstances, Duncan could see only one way to accomplish all of those things. He kicked in his heels and rode hard toward Moncrieffe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After an initial ordeal of terror and imprisonment, followed by a confusing and overpowering lust for her captor, that particular morning was the worst.

  Amelia had woken up in a state of emotional turmoil. She took one look at Duncan asleep on the bed of fur—the most handsome man she ever laid eyes on—and realized she had to get away from him, because she had fall en hopelessly, passionately, foolishly in love.

  Now she was stumbling across a field, weak and disoriented. Her shoes were wet from the dew in the grass, her toes numb from the chill . She was exhausted and breathless, for she’d been running frantically for almost an hour—first through the forest, then across these wide, rolling fields. She had no idea where she was; she had only the sunrise to guide her in any direction. She could be lost in the middle of nowhere for all she knew, for it was entirely possible that the castle was not located perfectly south of where they had camped the night before, even though Duncan had said they were north of it. She could have inadvertently passed it by and might in due course end up on the shores of the Irish Sea.

  Surely he must have discovered her absence by now and begun his pursuit. He could come galloping across the fields at any moment and bring a swift end to her escape. If he found her, he would be furious. It would not be so pleasant between them after that. There would be no more kissing and caressing. He would likely tie her up and gag her from that moment on.

  But it would not be so very different, she supposed, from the bonds of his sexual power, which had enslaved her in a mad, irrational desire and almost kept her from running this morning when she final y had the chance to escape.

  She stopped and looked around, glanced up at the sun to try to ascertain her location and bearings. If she was going to survive this ordeal and return to the life she once knew, she would have to stop thinking about Duncan and set her sights on locating the castle.

  * * *

  It had been far more than an hour since Amelia had fled the camp in the woods. She was just resigning herself to the fact that she was lost when she reached the edge of a tree-lined field and a grand skyline of towers and turrets came into view. Exhausted but clinging to newfound hope, she stopped in her tracks and blinked to focus her eyes on the impressive panorama of stone architecture, like a small city in the distance. On its outskirts she saw vegetable gardens, an orchard, a vineyard, a mil —al less than a mile away.

  Civilization at last. A world she knew.

  She began to run, stumbling on blistered feet over grass that glistened with dew. White mist rose from the surface of a lake, but as she drew closer it revealed its true purpose as a defensive moat. The castle stood on an island. Its stone wall s and drum bastions rose sheer from the water, and the tremendous gate tower was connected to the mainland by a drawbridge and an arched entrance.

  Richard might be there now, perhaps with a small battalion of soldiers, stationed within. What would she do when she saw him? What would she say about the appalling stories she’d heard about him?

  Would he ask if she had been ravished?

  Breathless with exhaustion, she reached the bridge at last and crossed over, where she was met by a large, ruddy-cheeked guard dressed in a kilt and armed with two pistols and a claymore. He stood under an iron portcullis.

  “Are you lost, lassie?” His voice was deep and intimidating.

  “No, sir, I am not lost. For once, I know exactly where I am —at Castle Moncrieffe—and I wish to address the earl.” She could barely speak through her breathing.

  “And what’s your business with my laird so early in the morning? He’s a very busy man.”

  She spoke in a clear and steady voice. “I am Lady Amelia Templeton, daughter of the late Duke of Winslowe, who was a colonel in the King’s army. One week ago, I wa
s abducted by the Butcher of the Highlands, and I have just escaped. I am in immediate need of the earl’s protection.” It took every ounce of mettle she possessed to get the words out.

  The Scotsman’s smile faded, and his face went pale.

  “You’re the colonel’s daughter?”

  Oh, thank God. “Yes.”

  He bowed to her. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady. Come this way.”

  He led her through the wide, shaded archway, then into the blinding sunlight beyond, which beamed down on an inner bailey. It was a green, parklike space with a circular drive all around. To the left a high curtain wall with drum bastions blocked the view of the lake, and to the right a large square building cast a long shadow across the lawn. There were few people about.

  Amelia and the guard walked quickly toward the main castle, which was just as she’d imagined from her father’s descriptions. Moncrieffe was a stately palace of classical elegance, and she could barely believe she was about to set foot inside it, after the trials of the past week. How strange it would be to walk on polished floors again, to behold works of art, to climb ornate staircases.

  They entered the main hall and passed through an archway to a small reception room with elaborate wood paneling, a marble chimneypiece, and a fine collection of Chinese porcelain.

  “Wait here, milady,” the guard said, bowing again before he quickly departed, closing the door behind him.

  Amelia once again felt the sting in her shoes from the blisters, so she hobbled to an upholstered chair, sat down, and clasped her hands together on her lap. She sat very still , taking a moment to close her eyes, catch her breath, and calm herself. None of this seemed real. She felt strangely detached from it.

  It was quiet in the room, except for a clock ticking on the mantel. After a moment or two, she opened her eyes. She looked around at the furniture. The chairs and end tables appeared to be of French workmanship, while the carpet looked Persian. On the far wall there was a portrait of an ancestor—a fierce-looking man in an armored breastplate and kilt, with one hand on his sword.