The Highlander's Touch

by D. K. Combs

  She met his eyes, slowly and painfully. Saeran knew what she would see, but to have it confirmed made her gut clench with a terror she had never felt before. Not when the MacLeod had taken her to the ground the day her and Kane had gone for a ride. He had been a foolish, cocky boy.

  This was a man who knew how to hurt a woman. She saw it in his eyes, saw it in the tensing of his body as the thought of defiling her crossed his mind.

  “Tis a good thing I like a wee lass,” he bit out. Fury flashed in his eyes. “I’ll no’ be killing ye’ for killing my boy—but yer sure going to wish ye’ were dead.”

  She tried to shake her head, but the grip he had on her prevented it. “No,” she said forcefully. “No, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Oh, but ye’ did,” he growled. “Ye’ killed him in cold blood—and now yer going to pay for it.”

  She stared at him, too frightened to speak. Running was pointless. If her hit to his nose, which was now gushing blood, hadn’t stopped him, she feared that nothing she did would. He was old and experienced, and full of energy and vengeance.

  He reached behind him with one hand, drawing out a dirk the size of her forearm. She stared at the metal blade as he pressed it to her cheek in a soft caress.

  “I want ye’ to run,” he whispered. “I want ye’ to run so ye’ can feel like the bitch animal ye’ are. No one kills the MacLeod’s son and survives. Not even ye’.”

  This was the MacLeod?

  THT | 37

  He used his strength to hold her down. One hand on her neck, the other holding the blade to her cheek. She couldn’t find it in her to move as she stared up at him. This was the man that had given Kane more grief than he deserved, and this was the man that would kill her.

  She felt it in her gut as he smiled down at her, his face filled with malice. He pressed the blade down and let it dig into her skin. Then he began to pull, slicing her cheek open with a meticulous cut. She felt the warm trickle of blood slide down her face.

  A scream broke from her lips, one of pain and fear, but it came out choked. It was more of a muffle, and the fact that it was so quiet, with no chance of reaching any else’s ears, killed her inside.

  The MacLeod grinned as he pulled away, putting the blade to his lips. His gray tongue slid over the sharp edge. Bile rose as she stared at him.

  Then the hand that had been holding her down loosened. Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched him remove himself from her.

  “Run,” he said, laughing. Saeran didn’t think about doing otherwise. There was a chance that she could escape. Even though it was clearly a game for him, she knew this was her only chance. Tears trailed down her face at the strength of her prayers for Brodrick or Connor to notice she was gone. If they could just search for her…follow the tracks…

  She got as far as the edge of the forest, the same spot he had pulled her out of, when she heard him from behind her. He was on a horse. She screamed with frustration around her panting, pushing forward. She was just there. She could literally reach up and touch a low-hanging branch. The trees would give her the cover she needed. His horse was too big and burly to maneuver the sharp turns the trees would give her. Thanking the Lord that she was within the perimeter of the forest, she ran forward, pumping her arms.

  Connor.

  Brodrick.

  Kane.

  Someone, if they could just notice her missing from the battle. That was all it would take. The MacLeod would be done within a moment if it were any warrior, and this could end.

  Something slammed into her heel. She dove for the ground, hands out to catch herself, as an agonized scream ripped from her throat. The shock of the hit didn’t hurt, but what happened immediately after did.

  The horse didn’t stop at her heel, and neither did the MacLeod. He dismounted the horse, arm and sword raised above his head. With a movement so sudden she didn’t have time to evade it, he slammed the hilt of his sword into her shoulder, heavy foot landing on her leg to hold her still. A pulsing pain grew from her shoulder down. The agony was too great for her to bare—and then it all become numb.

  Everything. The hoarseness of her voice from screaming. The turning of her stomach from where his foot landed as he dismounted the horse. The searing agony from her broken arm. She turned her head, staring at it as a dark shadow fell over her.

  The MacLeod. Going to kill her. Right then. In the corner of her eye, she could see the gleam of metal held high. She could feel the swish of air as he stood over her, pointing the tip of it to her neck.

  “Not fast enough, bitch.”

  Then he swung. She closed her eyes, praying that Kane would be…alright. A tear slid down her cheek. Alright. He would be alright. She stilled her breath, bracing herself for the impact of the sword—and then the most blood-curling, spine-churning cry broke through the field.

  Kane.

  A sob of relief broke from her lips—just as cold, blood-covered metal sliced through her mid-section. Saeran screamed, eyes rolling into the back of her head as the shadow was jolted away, and replaced by a completely new one. The darkness consumed her, washing away…everything.

  That sorry piece of shit.

  That was all Kane could think of as he charged through the tree line, across the clearing, and straight at Alasdair. In the back of his mind, he knew that Saeran needed help, but Connor and Brodrick were there, right behind him. They would take care of Saeran, as soon as he finished off Alasdair.

  His uncle laughed harshly, pointing his sword at Kane. It was coated in a dark sanguine liquid, dripping to the ground. Saeran’s blood—the blood of a lad he should have protected. But then, if Alasdair had not been such a sick bastard, he would not have to take revenge for Saeran.

  It didn’t matter if the lad died or lived.

  Alasdair had had this coming for him for the longest time—and now Kane was finally going to show his uncle why Kane Shaw had one of the strongest clans in the Highlands He rushed forward, swinging his claymore in a giant arch over his head. When Alasdair moved to block him, Kane let the sword fly away from them dropped low, lunging.

  No matter what, Alasdair was family.

  One never used their own weapon against family.

  Kane drove his fist into his uncle’s jaw. He didn’t give another thought before he wrapped his hand around Alasdair’s wrist, wrenching it up. The sword in his grip followed Kane’s, clattering to the ground.

  “Yer disgusting,” Kane growled, shoving his uncle back. The older man roared, clutching his hand to his chest.

  “And yer a sorry son of a bitch. My sister never should have let ye’ into the world. Yer nothing but a tainted—“

  Kane let his uncle taste his fist again, slamming it into his face repeatedly.

  “No,” he growled when he finally pulled back. He spat on the ground beside Alasdair’s face, sneering when he flinched.

  “No? She whored herself out to that bastard Duncan. The clan should have been destroyed, Kane. Yer weak—“

  “If ye’ want to keep the rest of yer two teeth, I suggest ye’ quiet yersef now, uncle.” If there was one thing Kane hated the most, it was people saying unjustified things. Alasdair had not seen his sister in nearly twenty-five years. He had no right to talk of her, to defame her and the name of a great Highland clan, in front of Kane.

  “I should kill ye’,” he snarled, leaning down so that his face was nose-to-nose with Alasdair’s. “Ye’ve insulted me. Ye’ve stolen from me. Ye’ve tried to destroy my lands. Not only that, but ye’ attacked a lad who obviously canna defend himself.”

  Alasdair stared at him with hard eyes. Blood was sliding down the corner of his mouth. His eyes were glazed, dazed from the shock of getting hit, and he was clutching his hand. Kane knew without looking that he’d broken Alasdair’s hand. It served the bastard right.

  Kane had been just on the edge of the trees when he’d seen the blonde haired lad befallen. If he hadn’t have shouted and distracted Alasdair, Saeran would be dead.
<
br />   Kane took too much pleasure in the strike to his uncle’s face, but it left him there, unconscious. One of his men would find him soon. There were plenty of bastards riding around the area, waiting for Kane and his warriors to engage in battle with them. The first wave had been the thickest, but most of the men who had dared to go against Kane were dead. For siding with a weak clan as the MacLeod’s, it was their own fault.

  He shoved himself up, stalking to Saeran.

  Connor and Brodrick were moving rapidly. Brodrick was ripping pieces of his own plaid into strips. Connor was holding Saearn’s upper back off the ground with one arm, and his other hand was wiping blood, grime, and tears off the unconscious lad’s face.

  “Kane. We need to get Saeran to the inn. Her arm is broken and the gash to her abdomen is flowing,” Brodrick said, voice cracking.

  Kane stilled.

  “Mabel will know what to do with her,” Connor added quietly. Without another word, the two of them picked the fallen lad up. Kane, without thinking, whistled for his horse. All he could stare at was the blonde locks as they slid over frail shoulders. His arm hung loosely, bent at an odd angle. Brodrick adjusted him in his arms, and that was when the clean, familiar, innocent face turned towards him.

  Ash blonde lashes swept over pale cheeks. Her skin looked like wax, and even in her sleep, her breathing was abnormally deep. This was not a lad. This was not the Saeran he had come to know and train. This was not the lad he had sent to battle, leaving unprotected.

  This was the woman he had trained. This was the woman he had sent to battle.

  This was Alice.

  Kane felt like someone had landed a blow to his stomach.

  THT | 38

  “She lied to me.” The words were hard and cold, like the deadweight in his chest that had once beat just for the sound of her laugh, the brightness of her eyes.

  No more.

  “To protect herself,” Brodrick said forcefully.

  “She should have known that no matter what, I would have protected her from any—“

  “Kane. She was terrified.”

  “Saeran—or Alice, or whoever she is—would have—“

  “Kane. Brodrick. Silence, please. You’ve been doing nothing but arguing for the past hour,” Connor snapped from the other side of the bed. Saeran was the only thing separating Kane and Brodrick. The man had been saying the same thing for the last fortnight, ever since they had brought Saeran to the inn.

  “I canna believe ye’ plan to just—“ Brodrick continued, up until Kane slashed an angry hand through the air. The man’s jaw ticked.

  “Out.”

  “Kane—“

  “I said out.”

  Brodrick didn’t speak as he stormed to the door. Connor stared at Kane, then the unconscious Saeran, then slowly got to his feet. Lines of wear were on all three of the men’s faces. No one had been able to sleep—including the clansmen that had been in the battle party with him.

  Kane understood completely.

  “Ye ken,” Brodrick said quietly as he paused just on the inside of the door. “I can’t help but wonder. If yer planning on leaving her, why are you still here?” He left quietly.

  Because she can’t leave me like everyone else has, he wanted to say. For once, he was not going to be the one abandoned. Nay, it would be the other way around. For now, however, he wasn’t going to focus on that.

  Her face was pale, strained. In the past fortnight, her condition hadn’t become better. In fact, the longer he stared at her, the more he began to fear it was worse. Kane knelt down, touching her forehead with a trembling hand. She was so warm. Feverish. It felt no warmer than it had a week ago.

  Kane sat next to her, forgoing the chair. This was the last time he would see her. The last time he would let himself gaze at her. After she recovered, he would be gone, and Connor would be left to tell the liar of Kane’s leaving.

  She was not to contact him. Not to come after him. After Connor left her here, she was not to talk to anyone. No one knew of this—he know how much of a problem it would cause between his men and he. They were all, in a way, attached to the lass who had feigned being a lad.

  His lips tightened at the reminder. God, how could he have been so stupid. Saeran had done a terrible job of acting like a lad—she had done literally nothing to convince him she was what she was not. The signs had been there—the fragility, the meakness, how she had shied away from all things unlady-like. The only thing stopping him from noticing her true identity had been the dirt. The damn dirt.

  How could she have eluded him for so long? His hands clenched. Her voice had not been overly deep—as he compared the two voices she had used with him, he realized that they were practically the same. Her features had been too feminine for a lad—not even Connor had such shapely blue eyes.

  Everything about Saeran was the same as Alice, he thought, heart pounding with betrayal. Their temperament. Their voices. Their faces. He should have noticed it sooner, but he had been too busy with his infatuation of Alice, too distracted by her than anything else.

  How ironic, that the woman he loved was the same lad he had ignored, for the very reason that Kane couldn’t think of anything except Saeran. He cursed, dragging a hand through his hair.

  He loved her. Kane loved her like nothing he had before—and he was leaving her, forcing their distance. Saeran was nothing but a danger to him. She didn’t love him. If she had, she wouldn’t have lied to him. His love was one-sided, and being alone was better than knowing she would lie to him again.

  Nay. Saeran would no’ get a chance to lie to him again.

  A small whimper drew his gaze to the bed. His heart dropped to his stomach. He hated this part of the fever—the nightmares, the hallucinations. He reached for the bowl of water and cloth, getting the thing wet then pressing it to her forehead. It didn’t do anything for her in reality, but by the easing of the lines around her eyes, he knew she took comfort in it.

  When her stirring subsided, he called for one of the maids. She knew without asking what to do. A tub and buckets of water were brought up and was placed in front of the fire. Spring was turning into fall, and the Highlands were becoming chilly. He didn’t want Saeran uncomfortable, and Mabel said it was best to use heat to draw out the heat.

  He would trust the Macleod lass on that only because his Saeran was ill and he had no clue how to take care of her. Whenever Kane became sick, he focused on something else until it had passed. With Saeran and how delicate a woman she was, he was…uncertain. Terrified. She was sick because he had been too blind to notice that she was not what she appeared.

  Once the maids had left, he checked the water to make sure it would be comfortable for her, then gently set about undressing her. He made sure to keep his eyes averted. She was sick and weak—he would be a bastard to take advantage of that just to see the perfection of her body.

  His hands trembled as he lifted her back off the bed, one hand holding her neck so that it didn’t roll, and the other pulling the shift away from her body. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and he quickly set her down, watching her, waiting for her to start thrashing.

  She didn’t.

  All he heard from her was soft, even breaths. Kane mentally prepared himself to bring her to the bath, like he did every other night that she took one, and stared at her. Not her body, but her. The woman that he didn’t know, not truly.

  He could think he knew the Saeran laying in front of him, but he didn’t. He knew an Alice, and he knew a Saeran—but not the person that was in between them, the true woman he thought he knew.

  He had fallen in love with Alice.

  Her strength and fire. Her passion. Her kindness. That was what and who he had fallen for. Saeran, the woman laying before him, was not that Alice, as much as he tried to tell himself otherwise. It just…didn’t make sense to him. Kane shook his head at his thoughts.

  There was no use thinking about it. As soon as she awoke and recovered from her fever, he
would be gone. No longer would he make a fool of himself over her. No longer would he watch as she lied to him.

  He tried to stay angry. Betrayed. Furious.

  All he felt was guilt. Over everything. The lies, her deception, his own stupidity. Kane forced himself to be tender with her as he lifted her from the bed. It didn’t take as much effort as he had thought. The anger he felt towards here was…flat.

  Saeran turned her head into the crook of his neck. Hot breath washed over his neck and he grunted, moving quicker to get her into the tub. The second her feet touched the water, she made a sound.

  Kane ignored it. She had been without a bath for a day. This was needed. It would help her recover and would sooth her pains. But as he lowered her farther into the tub, her distress grew, until he was holding her half out of the water with her arms strangling his neck.

  “No,” she said, her voice muffled by his neck. “Hot—too hot. Burning.”

  Kane took a slow breath. He wanted nothing more than to set her on the bed, but she needed the bath. She was giving the tell-tale signs of having another episode. Firmly, heart twisting, he plied her arms from around his neck let her slide even further into the tub.

  “No,” she cried. Frail arms reached for him again. Like they always did. Whenever she was distressed, she moved. Not toward Connor, not toward Brodrick, but to him. She was always reaching for him.

  “Lass,” he said softly, taking her hands. “Lass, listen to me. Ye’ need to calm down—“

  “No, it’s burning me—burning my skin.” The mantra was the same as always. The second something hot touched her skin, she began crying, whimpering, that something was burning her alive. He smoothed his hand over her forehead, heart breaking. God, he’d done this to her. This was his fault, and he had no clue how to take care of her.