Stolen by the Highlander

by TERRI BRISBIN

  He ran to his cave and entered. She backed away from the entrance and stood there, her arms tucked tightly at her waist and her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Is there an attack?’ she asked. ‘I heard many voices and yelling about horses approaching.’ Then she looked at him, her gaze moving from the blood on his head, face and neck down to his tunic that was soaked through with it. ‘You are wounded.’

  ‘Aye, I am. But...’ He was going to ask her and realised that their last leave-taking had been less than affable. If the request came from him, she might refuse. ‘Margaret has asked if you would help her.’

  First her gaze glanced at the entrance, then at him. Would she refuse?

  ‘’Tis daylight out,’ she said, pointing to the sunlight’s play on the ground near the opening in the rocks.

  In the confusion, he did not understand her meaning at first. Then he did—she had only been outside during the night or the dark, at his orders, so she could not identify the people here or their location. Now, that mattered not.

  ‘Will you help?’ he asked again.

  ‘Aye. Of course I will,’ she said. She looked around the cave as though searching for something. Arabella went to the pallet and picked up a pile of clothing there. ‘We...she might have need of these.’

  He took her arm and led her out of the cave. She threw her hand up to block the sun from her eyes as they walked quickly away from the cave and towards the turmoil in the centre of the camp. He nodded and answered questions as they walked, never stopping in their progress towards Margaret’s tent. The woman herself opened the flap and stuck her head outside as they arrived there.

  ‘I was about to send someone for you, lady.’ She nodded at Arabella. ‘Your skill with stitching would be most helpful inside. Now.’

  He released Arabella and she followed Margaret back inside. Brodie could hear only some whispered words. Leaving the lady to Margaret, he went about his own duties and the next hours passed quickly as he organised the others in the camp for a quick escape if one was needed. He saw to gathering what supplies the women would need to treat the injured. He summoned his friends and set up plans for more defence around the camp and in case they needed to move.

  * * *

  Night had begun to fall as he finished his work and stood outside Margaret’s tent, awaiting word of Magnus’s survival or passing. Rob walked to his side and handed him a cup of ale and an oatcake. He answered Rob’s raised brow with a shrug. No word had been given or asked about the man’s condition.

  In a way, Brodie did not want to ask, for in the absence of an answer, he could continue to believe his friend was alive. The birds of night, the ones who roosted on the mountainside, sang their songs. The winds, dry all day, now carried a hint of moisture, of storms coming on the morrow.

  ‘I think the burden of trying to appear friendly towards the Camerons is wearing on my cousin,’ he said. ‘He expected his plans to be further along by now and is running out of patience.’

  ‘Patience?’ Rob asked. ‘I have never known Caelan to be a patient one. Even as a child, he wanted what he wanted at the moment he wanted it. Not later, certainly.’ Rob had actually grown up as Caelan’s friend until the three had trained as warriors and fought in their first battles, skirmishes truly, against the Camerons. Something Rob saw had made him turn away from Caelan and never be his friend again.

  ‘Oh, he can be when it works in his interest. But now, the delays I caused by bringing the lass—the lady—here have worn it thin. This—’ he waved his hand at the ongoing activities around them ‘—this is a sign of his desperation.’

  ‘What will he do next, Brodie? Do you think he will come here?’

  ‘I think the Camerons might be asked to leave so he can focus his attention on wiping us out.’

  ‘But what about Lady Arabella? Her father would not simply leave without her, would he?’

  Brodie considered the question. Caelan was playing both of his enemies against each other in this—blaming Brodie for Malcolm’s death and Arabella’s kidnapping while using the troubles with Brodie to manipulate Euan Cameron. Knowing his cousin, Caelan had most likely promised to accept another Cameron lass if Arabella was not returned alive and...marriageable.

  And if, as he suspected, Euan did want a lasting peace between their clans, he would agree. If Lachlan and Caelan had increased the concessions after Malcolm’s death, it would be done again, until the bargain could not be refused. But then Caelan knew the eventual outcome—it would all be his—when Euan did not.

  ‘Would he, Brodie? Would my father abandon me here?’

  He turned to discover Arabella standing outside the tent, staring at him. Her face had lost all its colour, whether due to what she’d heard or what she’d seen this day, he knew not. She stepped closer and he read the exhaustion on her features. And the blood splashed on the gown she wore and along the edge of her jaw where she must have missed wiping it.

  ‘Arabella...’ he began. He glanced at Rob, who deserted him and walked into his sister’s tent. ‘Not here. Not now. I need to check on Magnus first.’

  ‘He lives,’ she said. ‘Thanks to Margaret’s skills and the man’s determination not to die.’

  He nodded and went inside as Margaret left to go out. Magnus’s battered and bruised face and body had been patched up with stitches and bandages, but he was alert and ready to talk. They questioned him quickly, getting the most important details from him before allowing him to rest. Before leaving, he gave Rob new orders to protect the man.

  Stepping outside, he found the area empty. Margaret and Arabella were gone. Trotting towards the cave, he found Margaret returning alone.

  ‘Margaret?’ he said, stopping in front of her. ‘The lady?’

  ‘Waiting for you, Brodie,’ she said. She laughed softly and shook her head. ‘And she has many questions for you.’

  ‘Margaret, I told you...’

  ‘Oh, aye, you told me this and that, but the lady deserves the truth now, Brodie. She did well today. Her stitches saved Magnus from bleeding to death. And she never shied away from doing anything I asked of her. She’s a right one, she is, and not the woman most think her to be.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He already knew there was a depth to Arabella that she did not let many see. But at this moment, he did not want to be reminded that he, like the others, had underestimated her.

  ‘Ask her to see to your wounds.’ She pointed to his shirt which showed signs of fresh bleeding. ‘I will send some ointment to you.’

  ‘What did you tell her, Margaret?’

  ‘I did not share your secrets, Brodie. I but told my tale, for it was mine to tell.’

  He exhaled loudly and wanted to pick up their custom of cursing under his breath just then. ‘I asked you not to.’

  ‘She wasna ready before, but she is now. Arabella Cameron would be a good ally when the time comes.’ She began to walk away but faced him once more. ‘And it is coming, is it not? Everyone will have to choose their side. Give her reasons to choose yours.’

  Having made her point, she walked away then. Margaret had suffered the most grievous loss because of her brother’s friendship and backing and so he took her counsel seriously. With her skills as a healer, she had saved dozens of lives many times over. And her abilities to organise and oversee supplies and souls made her as indispensable as any or all of his warriors.

  Most times in the past, she’d left the leading to him, but clearly she had wanted her say on the matter of Lady Arabella Cameron.

  The only problem, the insurmountable one, was that the lady would never marry the man who had killed her brother. She had agreed to marry into the clan responsible for it, but would never allow herself to be joined in marriage to him. And he knew how strong her resistance could be.

  A spine of steel.

  Those wo
rds again! He rubbed the back of his hand across his brow, pressing against the pain that throbbed there now. Would he ever remember? Why could he not remember, for other memories of that night trickled in through dreams or random thoughts? Yet when he tried to make them come, they fled.

  Like the name Bella. It poured forth from him and he knew her brother had used it in his company. But her reaction told him it was something dear to her, something only shared by brother and sister who’d been born from the same womb. And in spite of their father’s forbidding it.

  The weight of these past days, with hours on horseback, a battle and a harrowing escape, suddenly crashed down on him. Exhaustion stole his resolve and his ability to focus his thoughts. Even though he knew he must be on his guard with her. She was in danger and was a danger to him. Every time he saw her, the wanting within his body and soul grew stronger.

  And knowing he could never give her the explanation she craved simply made it worse.

  He washed at the stream to get most of the dried blood off his skin. The fabric of the shirt was stuck in the deep gash of his side, so he took some time and eased it loose. The bleeding began once more as he walked back to his dwelling. Mayhap if she was still awake, he would ask her to stanch the bleeding and bandage it for him.

  It would matter not how close she stood to him or how her gentle caresses stirred him, for he vowed that he would not repeat the liberties he’d taken the last time.

  He might be exhausted from lack of sleep and the tumultuous journey and battle, light-headed from the loss of blood and lack of food and even resistant to the fact that she could never be his—but—his honour demanded that he not press his affections on her.

  So, Brodie entered the cave filled with complete and utter determination that he would not kiss her.

  * * *

  Although she’d helped the healer at Achnacarry Castle since her mother had passed, nothing in her life had prepared her for this day’s work. Mixing a concoction, mayhap. Applying a bandage for certain. But, sewing muscle and skin back together? Never.

  And yet, Arabella had.

  As she stood in the cave now, she glanced down at her hands. Traces of blood remained under her nails and the length of the gown she wore was stained in it.

  Margaret had praised her work, said that Magnus lived because of her abilities and skill with a needle. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was appreciated for something other than her God-given beauty. A laugh bubbled out of her then, inappropriate considering how many had died or had suffered grievously but she let it out.

  If her father saw her now he would be horrified by her appearance and condition! Covered in blood and sweat and who knew what else, her hair a tangled mess down her back and a borrowed gown that did not fit. The Cameron heiress looked more like a serving woman than a noble bride.

  He’d been very precise about how she should behave and appear in public since she was his heiress. Though her brother would eventually sit in the chief’s seat, she would inherit a good part of her father’s, and mother’s, wealth and so be a bargaining tool for his use. Once her mother had died, he’d lost the benefit of her tempering and his will had become iron. His goal was to make the Cameron Clan the strongest and always to come from a position of strength. To do that, infractions were punished, rules were enforced and his children learned his ways.

  So, the graciousness and false smile became her best defence and were always in place. She and Malcolm had been careful not to let their small rebellions be seen. Only Aunt Gillie ever saw her as she was.

  Today felt like the biggest rebellion of all.

  And it felt wonderful.

  She had saved a life today. She had helped others. Her actions were meaningful and not gracious or frivolous. It had taken being kidnapped and held against her will to feel this freedom.

  Now, she waited for Brodie to return. Many questions plagued her about what she’d overheard between the two men and from the pain-filled murmurings of the man they’d treated. Even worse, she’d heard men talking as they walked by Margaret’s tent, about the fighting that had happened. More tales that revealed Caelan’s two faces—the one he had shown to her and the one seen by those who lived here or questioned him.

  Margaret’s own words had been the worst to hear and the hardest to accept, but the woman had no reason to lie to her. Indeed, she owed the woman much for being the one who understood Arabella’s place and still spoke to her about the truth.

  Margaret had urged caution on their walk back here. Emotions flared all day, from anguish and pain, to anger and hot-headedness. The worst time to deal with her father was when his anger was high.

  Though she did not know all of the details about what had happened at Drumlui, what she did know was upsetting, even to her. Men Brodie knew and counted as friends had died. From some of the talk, she’d learned that innocent villagers had been caught in the middle and had perished, too.

  Letting out a breath and feeling the bone-deep exhaustion seeping in, Arabella decided to wait before asking him everything she wanted to know. She would still be here on the morrow and there would be time. Searching the chamber, she did not see water for washing. And she had no brush or comb to use on her tangled hair. She took the empty jug to the entry and asked one of the guards there if he could fill it for her.

  Arabella sat on a stool and lifted the length of her hair over her shoulder, using her fingers to ease out the knots. She needed to wash it. She needed a bath. She needed a good night’s rest. She needed to sort through this situation and figure out how this was going to end. Only when a soft indrawn breath drew her attention did she look up to see Brodie there.

  Watching her wordlessly. Intensely. Her mouth went dry from the way he gazed at her.

  He wore no shirt, instead he held it in his hand and pressed it to his side. His long hair, made darker by the wetness of it, dripped rivulets of water down over his shoulders and chest. It was not the bare-chested part that shocked her, for she’d watched him fight like this all those months ago. It was the nearness of him and the size of him and the intimacy of being able to hear his breathing and see his muscles move.

  She might have been able to look away but he stared at her mouth as if he remembered the kisses they’d shared. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her very dry lips and he groaned and closed his eyes. His hand dropped from his side, exposing the deep slash there that bled freely now.

  ‘Your wound. No one saw to it?’ she asked, moving towards him. He took a half step away before stopping.

  ‘Nay. I washed it, then.’ He turned and walked to the large chest where he kept garments.

  ‘It will keep bleeding. Here—’ she pointed to the stool that she’d used ‘—sit. Let me see if I can stop the bleeding.’

  He followed her instructions without arguing which told her that the wound did pain him. She needed better light to see the gash more clearly, so she sought out a few candles and a lamp and set them around him. It took only a few minutes to gather what she needed and then she was ready.

  Nay, not ready. All she did was look at him there and her hands began to shake. Her legs trembled as she walked closer to him. As much as she tried to convince herself it was just the exhaustion taking over, Arabella knew the true reason for the way she felt—the man before her. The thought of touching his skin, feeling the heat she knew his strong body produced...

  ‘Come now, lady,’ he said, his voice deep and dangerous, as he lifted his head and met her gaze. ‘Margaret told me of your daring deeds this day. Surely, this—’ he glanced down at his injury and then back at her ‘—is nothing to worry over.’

  All the confidence she had in herself fled as he opened his long legs to allow her closer. The gash went from under his arm towards his chest and she would need to see it better. Sitting on the stool would not work. Standing here would not work, e
ither. She moved to his side and knelt next to him. Bringing candles closer, she reached out to test the length and depth of the wound.

  He hissed at the first contact, his back stiffened and she drew back, glancing up at his face. His lips, the ones so recently kissed, thinned in what she knew was pain. Remembering where he kept his jug, Arabella found it and held it out to him. She was nervous enough, the thought of touching him and the thought of piercing his skin with needle and thread made her own stomach clench. As if reading her thoughts, he lifted it up to her mouth.

  ‘I think you need this more than I do, lass.’

  His voice was as deep and smooth as the uisge beatha in that jug he offered. She tilted her head a bit and let some slide into her mouth. Its heat trickled down her throat and into her belly, spreading through her. Licking the last drop from her lips, she glanced at him.

  A mistake, that was. A huge error in judgement.

  His mouth was on hers before she could take a breath, his tongue dipping inside, chasing the heady liquid towards her throat. Any sense of calm the brew had given her exploded as his hot mouth slanted across hers to taste her.

  Brodie slid his hand into her hair and held her to him. When she would have eased back away, for fear of hurting his wound, she told herself, he would have none of that. His other arm came around her shoulders, holding her there.

  Now the heat piercing her had nothing to do with the potent whisky but everything to do with the man. Her blood did not rush, but it thickened and heated with every caress of his tongue in her mouth. She opened wider and took it in more deeply, suckling his in response. Her breasts grew heavy against his naked chest and she fought the ridiculous urge to peel off her gown and feel the heat of his skin against hers.

  Only when the feel of his hair tickled the sensitive skin in between her fingers did she realise she’d reached up to touch him. Without moving her mouth from his, while he plunged in and possessed her, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him closer. She wanted...she wanted...she wanted...