by Ruth Langan
Leonora scrambled to her feet, determined to escape, as well. But before she could take a step, Dillon pulled himself into the saddle and, leaning down, scooped her into his arms. Though she kicked and fought and bit at the hands holding her until she drew blood, she was no match for his strength. At last, fighting tears of frustration, she was forced to endure the prison of his arms.
“Please, I beg you.” She struggled to keep the terror that gnawed at her from being revealed in her voice. “It is not too late to let me go. Even now my father will forgive you and find a way to begin anew.”
“Forgive me?” His voice shook with a terrible fury. “It is he who should beg my forgiveness. It is he who lured us here with lies of peace.”
“They were not lies. He believed in this peace.”
“As did I. And see how I am rewarded. I would gladly give my life for my brothers. They are worth more to me than anything in this world. Instead, I am helpless to free them.”
“Helpless?” she snapped sarcastically, thinking of the number of soldiers who were inside nursing wounds inflicted by this man’s vicious attack.
His eyes glinted with fury. “Aye. I must take one puny hostage in return for their safekeeping, and pray it is enough.”
“Puny! I would remind—”
“Hold your tongue, woman. I will hear no more.” He dug his heels into the sides of the horse and urged him into a run toward the bridge that spanned the moat.
“But surely you cannot hope to escape my father’s keep.”
“The English castle was not built that will hold a Highlander against his will.”
Above the thundering of her heart, Leonora could hear the pounding of footsteps as the soldiers burst through the doorway and raced toward them.
“You see? You are surrounded,” Leonora cried. “Free me and toss down your weapon. It is your only salvation.”
She saw the fire in his eyes as he urged his mount faster. Even before they reached the drawbridge, the call had gone up to stop his escape by any means.
Dozens of men began pulling the heavy ropes that secured the drawbridge and portcullis. Dozens more knelt and took aim with bow and arrow. When the bridge began to lift, and the portcullis began to lower, Leonora gave a sigh of relief. Their only escape route was being cut off. Now her nightmare would end and she would be returned to the safe embrace of her father.
Her relief turned to horror when she realized that the Highlander had no intention of bringing his steed to a halt. Instead of slowing down, he whipped the animal into a frenzy. As the drawbridge lifted even higher, and the iron bars of the portcullis dropped lower, Dillon wrapped his arms around her and bent low over the horse’s neck. Their mount reached the end of the drawbridge and leaped.
For the space of long seconds, Leonora’s heart forgot to beat. Closing her eyes, she clung to Dillon’s strength and waited for death to claim them both. Then, as quickly as the fall had begun, their horse landed on hard ground with the force of an explosion. For a moment, the animal’s legs buckled and he stumbled. Just as quickly he regained his footing and, under Dillon’s expert guidance, continued as though there had been no interruption.
When at last Leonora found the courage to open her eyes, the drawbridge had been raised. She knew it would take precious time to lower it, effectively blocking any attempt by the soldiers to follow them with any speed.
Her last glimpse of her father’s castle brought a lump to her throat and the sting of tears to her eyes. How could this have happened? Captured. By a vicious Highland savage.
But not for long, she thought, clenching her fists. She would cling to one hope. Her father had an army at his command. And her captor was but one man. In no time, her father’s soldiers would rescue her, and then it would be Dillon Campbell’s turn to endure the indignity of defeat. And the humiliation of capture.
Mile after mile, Leonora held herself stiffly, uncomfortably aware of the arms that encircled her, and the big hands holding the reins that rested just below her ribs.
She’d been forced to straddle the horse’s back like a peasant, her skirts hiked up to reveal more leg than was decent. What was worse, she could feel the Highlander’s thighs pressed against her naked flesh. That fact was so repugnant to her, she could not force herself to stop thinking about it. She knew that if she were to allow herself to relax her guard, even for a moment, her back would come in contact with her captor’s chest, barely covered by the tattered remnants of shirt. That indignity she would never allow.
As their mount kept up a steady gait, she stared around in confusion. This was a part of England Leonora had never seen before. All day they traveled through dense forest, and never once encountered a living soul. At times, they would scare up a covey of quails or a brace of pheasants. Then the air would be alive with the whir of wings and the spectacular sight of dozens of graceful birds. At other times, they would catch glimpses of whole herds of deer disappearing silently into the underbrush.
The trees and vines were so thick that not even sunlight could penetrate. To Leonora, it was a confusing maze. Yet Dillon never slowed their torturous pace, nor showed the least hesitation as he urged his steed to ford streams and slip into mist-shrouded dells.
Throughout the long day, Dillon allowed only one stop. At the edge of a stream, he suddenly pulled on the reins and slid from the saddle. When he helped Leonora to the ground, her legs were too weak to hold her. She sank into the wet grass and watched while he knelt on the banks of the stream and drank as greedily as the horse beside him.
He turned to her. “You must drink,” he said curtly. It was the first time he had spoken since their escape.
She shot him a hateful look. “I do not kneel in the mud and drink like a wild creature.”
“Suit yourself, my lady.” He splashed water over his hands and face, to wash away the rivers of congealed blood. Immediately, the blood began flowing afresh from the deeper wounds, though he seemed oblivious to his pain. “I will not stop again.”
“Not even for something…necessary?”
He caught the challenge in her gaze. Studying the thrust of her chin, he felt the corners of his mouth lift, though only slightly. Her comfort was of no concern to him. “If you have the need to relieve yourself, my lady, you had best do so now. For you will not be given the opportunity for some time.”
Her dignity was assaulted by his callousness. “Essex was right. You are no better than a swine.”
He caught her roughly by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “You will see to your needs now, my lady, or not at all. When next we stop, we will be in Scotland.”
She glared at him. “You will grant me some privacy.”
He led the horse a short distance away, leaving several trees and low-hanging bushes as a screen between them.
Kneeling on the banks of the river, Leonora cupped her hands and scooped the cold water to her mouth, sighing as it trickled down her parched throat. Never had she tasted anything so wonderful. But never would she admit such a fact to this hateful man.
She glanced over her shoulder and could just make out Dillon’s profile as he checked the horse’s reins. Knowing this might be her only opportunity for freedom, she sprang to her feet and made a desperate dash toward the forest.
Twigs and branches snagged her hair and clothing, slowing her progress. Brambles tore her delicate flesh, causing tiny streams of blood to ooze. She was unaware of anything except the need to escape. Behind her could be heard the sound of a horse’s hooves, and she knew that Dillon was close on her trail.
Seeing a thicket, she made a dive for it, stumbling, rolling through burrs and brambles. But instead of coming to a halt in a bog, she realized too late that the thicket had masked a sheer drop-off. Unable to stop, she continued rolling until, with a cry of terror, she found herself hurtling over a precipice and dropping through space. She landed with a thud on the forest floor. And looked up to see herself surrounded by a band of ragged soldiers.
“A fem
ale,” one of them cried.
“Dropped from the skies, like a gift from the gods,” another shouted, bending down to lift her skirts.
She slapped away his hand, scrambled to her feet and cried delightedly, “English soldiers?”
“Aye. What else would we be?”
“Oh, praise heaven. I am saved.” She glanced around. “Who among you is leader?”
A squat, ragged man, with long, matted hair and faded tunic that could not cover his protruding stomach, shoved his way toward her, looking her up and down with admiration as he did so. “These men do as I say.” He fisted a hand in her hair and yanked it so sharply tears stung her eyes. “And I say that we forgo collecting taxes from the peasants and think about more…pleasant diversions.”
The touch of him made her skin crawl. While the others joined in the laughter, he dragged her close and ran his hand possessively up her back and across her shoulder.
She struggled free and, in a breathless voice said, “You must listen to me. I am Leonora Waltham, daughter of Lord Alec Waltham. I have been abducted by a Highland savage, who’s forcing me to accompany him to Scotland. You must save me.”
“Oh, we shall save you, my lady.” The leader bowed grandly, before his hands snaked out and caught her roughly by the front of her gown. With one quick yank, the bodice was torn in two, revealing a sheer ivory chemise that barely covered her breasts.
Stunned, she clutched the torn fabric in both hands, striving for some semblance of propriety. “You do not understand,” she pleaded desperately. “My father is a very wealthy man. He will reward all of you for returning me safely to him.”
“Perhaps what we have in mind is worth more than gold,” the leader said, to a chorus of laughter from the others.
“Aye,” called a skinny old man whose teeth were missing. “And when we’ve finished with her, we can still return her to her father for the gold.”
Leonora was outraged. “He would pay you nothing if you dared to harm me.”
The leader roared with laughter. “Who is to stop us from taking our pleasure with you, and then killing you, my lady? We can return your lifeless body to your father for the gold, and blame your death on this Highland savage you claim has abducted you.”
The others moved in closer, their eyes glittering with lust. As she turned from one to the other and saw not even one soldier who would be willing to protect her, Leonora felt a deep welling of despair. “You call yourselves English soldiers? You shame me. And disgust me. You are no better than animals.”
“Aye, my lady.” The leader snagged her arm and drew her against him, pressing his mouth to hers. “Animals we are. And right now, we feel like rutting goats.”
The others roared with laughter as he held her in a painful grasp and moved his mouth over hers. His sour breath filled her lungs and she sank into even greater despair. She had traded one hell for another. And this one was far worse than the first.
“I will take my pleasure with the lady,” the leader said as he yanked her head back savagely and reached for the ribbons of her chemise. “And then you may all claim a roll in the grass.”
“Please—” Leonora struggled helplessly in his arms. “I beg you…”
“You see?” he called, swaggering in front of the men. “The lady begs for what I have to offer.”
The others were still laughing when his eyes widened. His hand suddenly went limp and he fell forward. As Leonora took a quick step aside, he fell heavily to the grass. The hilt of a knife gleamed dully from his back.
The other soldiers, caught by surprise, began scrambling about, hoping to retrieve their weapons. With a shriek that sent terror into their hearts, Dillon leaped into their midst, wielding a tree limb like a club.
“’Tis a giant,” one of the soldiers cried.
“A Highland giant,” yelled another.
They raced for their horses. Those who were unfortunate enough to move too slowly dropped to the ground as Dillon swung the club with deadly accuracy.
One of the soldiers, furious that he’d been cheated out of the fun, started toward Leonora, determined to drag her away with him. Thinking quickly, she bent to the dead leader and pulled the knife from his back. When she did so, blood spurted, staining her hands. Though the knife was slippery, she held it with both hands and stood her ground. Seeing the look of determination on her face, the soldier turned and joined his comrades in retreat.
That was how Dillon found her when the last of the soldiers had fled. With blood staining her hands and the front of her torn gown, her hair in wild disarray, she bore no resemblance to the proper English lady he had first met at her father’s castle.
For long minutes, she continued to face him, the knife poised for attack.
“Do not touch me,” she hissed.
“They are gone, my lady. You need not fear them.”
She continued to stare at Dillon with glazed eyes. “I said come no closer. If you dare to touch me again, I will sink this blade into your filthy heart.”
He had seen such shock before, on the battlefield. Men, dazed by the violence, had to be jolted back from the torment in their minds.
His hand shot out and knocked the knife from her nerveless fingers. Her eyes widened. Slowly, as one awakening from sleep, she blinked.
Dillon bent, retrieved the knife and tucked it into his waistband, then caught her by the hand.
“They did not harm you?”
Though he kept his tone impersonal, she was touched by the question, though she knew not why. “Nay. They…would have. But you…” She looked up at him. Her voice trembled. “I do not understand. They are English soldiers. Why would they do harm to an English lady? Did they not understand that I was in distress?”
“Aye, my lady.” He thought about all the battles he had witnessed since his youth, and the innocent victims who had endured unspeakable horror. “War makes men into something they would otherwise not be.”
“But I am English. I always believed that English soldiers did not do…” Her voice trailed off. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the trembling. She was cold. So cold.
Without thinking, Dillon gathered her close. She did not resist him. In fact, though she was loath to admit it, she welcomed his embrace. For just a moment, she needed to feel the warmth of another body.
Looking down at her, he smoothed back her hair from her face with both his hands. His gaze centered on her mouth and he was suddenly reminded of their kiss in the garden.
The need to touch his lips to hers was nearly overpowering. Even now he could taste her sweetness. And yet…Calling on all his willpower, he took a step back. He must never forget what they were to each other. Captor and captive.
Leonora had seen the look in his eye. For a moment, she had feared that he would kiss her, as he had in the garden. In such a weakened state, she would have no way of fighting him. But could it be that she had actually wanted him to kiss her? To hold and comfort her? Would that be enough to chase away the cold that entombed her?
When he stepped back, she felt bereft. Fool, she scolded herself. Then the old anger flared. And with it, the heat flowed once again through her veins.
Catching her hand, Dillon led her to where his horse was tethered. With stoic dignity, Leonora was forced to endure being lifted once more to the horse’s back.
Still caught in the grip of shock, she rode in stunned silence.
Her encounter with the English soldiers had made Leonora more aware than ever of the danger of her situation. Even if she managed to escape this Highlander, she could not trust even those in her own land. A lone woman, she realized, no matter what her birthright, was easy prey.
She thought about the strange man who held her captive. His shoulders were as broad as an ax handle; his thighs as muscular as twisted ropes. He had plowed into an angry mob without a trace of fear and had watched them flee in terror. He could lift her off her feet as easily as if she were a child. He could, if he chose, imitate those depraved soldie
rs and force her to do whatever he desired. He was indeed a daunting presence. And yet, though it galled her to admit it, she felt somehow…safe with him. Though she knew not why.
Then another thought intruded. She must not become complacent. Though she was safe for the moment, she would never be safe as long as she was held captive. She was no match for Dillon Campbell’s strength, but she must somehow find a way to escape him before he spirited her away from England. If she were not quickly returned to her father’s side, his heart would surely be broken.
When at last they emerged from the cover of the forest, darkness blanketed the land. Dillon urged his steed along a well-worn path, made clear by a ribbon of moonlight. As soon as they drew near a village, they left the path and headed across a meadow. When the village was far behind them, they began once more to follow the path worn smooth by hundreds of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels.
Leonora’s body protested the long hours spent in the saddle. But despite the pain and discomfort, she would not give her captor the satisfaction of hearing her complain. Gritting her teeth, she stared straight ahead, determined to endure.
Gradually, as the horse’s hooves ate up the miles, her lids flickered, then closed. Despite her best intentions, sleep overtook her.
Dillon struggled against an almost overpowering need to stop and rest. There was no longer any feeling in his hands or fingers. His body ached from dozens of wounds.
He knew he’d been weakened by the loss of blood, but he couldn’t chance stopping while they were still in England. Though there had been no sign of Lord Waltham’s soldiers, he knew they were behind him. Lord Alex Waltham was a man of wealth and power. The king, the most powerful man in all of England, was his friend. He would be able to command many armies to hunt for this female.
He stared down at the woman in his arms. He’d felt the gradual change in her. She slumped against him and would have fallen if he had not been holding her. He lifted her across his lap, but even that didn’t rouse her.