He lifted his head with his next stroke and saw her near. Three, maybe four, more strokes and he would have her in his reach. He could not imagine what made the lass think she could have escaped him. Except…he had to admit that she had accomplished the feat once before. But he had been distracted by battle!
Begrudging admiration for her determination to risk everything to get what she desired settled in his chest. When he raised his head once again, Isobel had one foot on the embankment on the opposite side of the river and then she was scrambling up and running. He was not worried. He reached the embankment in a breath and raced out of the water in another. In two more breaths, he caught her arm and swung her around to face him. Defiance shone in her beautiful eyes, and her chest heaved enticingly with each ragged breath. His shriveled bollocks grew back to proportion along with the rest of his groin as his eyes fastened on the twin peaks of her nipples that strained hard against the wet, thin material of her gown.
His mind went completely blank of purpose for a moment as he took in her full glory. Isobel had a body made to spark and fulfill passion. She had generous hips and breasts but a tiny waist. She was not a tall woman, but he could see that her legs were long and slender by the way her soaking gown molded to them. Desire strummed through him, and it took every bit of will he possessed not to drag her to him and crush his mouth to hers.
“Going for a swim, my sweet?” he asked, forcing himself to forget how much he wanted her and concentrate on how deceitful she had proven. He could not forget that.
“Release me!” she demanded. “Ye dunnae have the right to keep me hostage and take me to yer king.”
Graham cocked an eyebrow, refusing to feel pity for the contained sob throbbing in her voice, or the blue of her lips, or chattering of her teeth. “King David is yer king, too, or did ye forget? Or perchance ye wish to see him toppled as your father does,” Graham accused.
“Nay!” she denied. “I simply wish to have a say in who I marry!” Anger reverberated in her voice. “I was raised away from the rest of the world, then dragged back into it to be used! By my father.” Her voice shook with raw hurt, and his heart twisted, but he shoved the pity back. “By you!” She surprised him by poking him hard in the chest. He could not keep his admiration totally at bay. The lass had undeniable courage to face him so. “And by a king who I dunnae ken is a good king or nae! I’ll make my own choices! I’ll decide my future!”
Her words struck like a dagger to his heart. It was so similar to how he had felt when it seemed his place in his clan was out of his control, and was dictated first by his mother, who had made him feel worthless, and then unknowingly by his brothers, who had once made him feel pathetic by constantly trying to protect him. He understood the burning need to decide one’s own fate, and he had learned through great pain and strife that he was in control of his place in this world and how he felt, but he was a man. It was different.
“Ye are a woman,” he stated, refusing to let her see that he understood. It would not do any good to encourage her feelings. “Yer lot in life is to do as ye’re bid by yer family. Unless,” he quickly added, “they be as evil as yers. Then ye must do as yer king wishes. He is a good king.”
“And can ye vow he will marry me to a good man?” she demanded, her chest heaving.
He stilled. He could not vow it. He did not know who the king would pick and whether the man would be kind and honorable. “I will champion yer cause,” he said. “I will do all in my power to assure ye are married to a man who will be kind.”
“What power do ye have over the king’s wishes?” she demanded in a growl.
“I’ve enough,” he said simply, praying it was true. Surely, the king would not go against Graham’s brother Iain, one of the most powerful lairds in the Highlands and someone David well knew would stand by Graham.
“That is nae good enough for me,” she muttered. “Now let me go, or I’ll be forced to hurt ye.”
“Hurt me?” he scoffed.
“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” she snapped.
“Ye dare to quote The Vulgate, God’s book, to me?” he growled, his temper rising.
“I do dare to quote God’s book to ye!” she snapped. “And ye need to heed it. Now unhand me!”
“Nay!” he boomed and moved to slide his hand around her waist to sling her over his shoulder. But a flash of steel caught his eyes and so surprised him that he hesitated for a fraction of a breath.
That small pause was a grave mistake.
She brought the dagger, which he had so foolishly handed back to her, between them. “Let me go,” she said in a low voice, “or I will be forced to stab ye.”
“Ye dunnae have the mettle,” he replied, keeping a steady eye on her badly shaking hand.
“I will find it,” she insisted, inhaling a deep breath that made her chest rise and her nipples strain even harder against her still-clinging gown.
“Ye best do it, then, because this will be the only chance ye get, and I will nae ever let ye go.”
A cry ripped from her, and he was sure she was going to lower the dagger, but she surprised him by plunging it forward. He released her arm to twist away from her weapon. The blade skimmed his shoulder, unfortunately where his injury was, and though it did not pierce deep into his shoulder, it caught the edge of the healing wound and ripped it open. As hot pain seared into him, he saw her eyes widen in horror before she turned and started to run.
His own shock yielded quickly to fury that nearly choked him. With a burst he was upon her, knocking her to the ground, yet catching her body as they fell as one to the cold, hard dirt. He rolled her over, wishing to see her expression as he unleashed his anger, but the tears that streaked her cheeks and the fear that marked her beautiful face stole his words.
At once he became acutely aware of the soft, utterly feminine woman pressed against the full length of his hard, yearning body. The scent of heather surrounded him, and her breath, coming in little gasps, washed over him sweetly.
“I should beat ye,” he finally managed over the desire battering his very soul.
“Ye best do it, then,” she muttered wretchedly, repeating the words he’d said to her but moments ago. “For I vow this will be the only chance ye ever get.”
Compassion and understanding for this prideful, hurt woman filled him, and all his intentions to ignore his admiration and pity for her fled. He reached up and brushed his fingers over her hot tears. Her gasping breaths stopped, and she stilled. “What are ye doing?” she whispered, eyes wide.
He wanted to taste those lips. He wanted to claim her mouth and bring her pleasure. “I hardly ken,” he replied, finding it hard to concentrate. His need for her was almost uncontrollable.
One kiss was all he would ever take, he promised himself, before lowering his mouth to hers and capturing her lips with the intensity that had built in him to a near pulsing, living thing. He expected her to protest, and the minute she did, he intended to release her, but when he touched his tongue to the crease of her lips and she parted them with a mewling sigh, he unleashed his hunger fully and delved into her welcoming heat.
Heaven—that’s what she was. And as he offered one long kiss after another, the thought resurfaced that it was foolhardy indeed to tempt himself with a woman his family hated and his king intended to manipulate.
Chapter Ten
She should fight him, yet she could not find the desire to push him away. Instead, she found she wanted to circle her arms around his broad back and cling to him. Abandoning all reason, she did exactly that. Her fingers trailed over slabs of carved muscle that flexed and jumped under her ministrations. He was a warrior to the bone. She could feel it in the steel that was his body, in the thick bands that crossed his back, and as she slipped her hands to his sides, she realized she could feel his strength in every part of him.
He was heavy upon her, his body almost crushing hers, his heart pounding against hers. Yet she was not fearful. She
felt somehow protected and cherished. It was an illusion, she knew, but she longed to hold on to it just for a moment, so when he touched his tongue to her lips, she opened them for him. But she was not prepared for the bliss that came next.
He tasted of mead and faint smoke, as if he had breathed in the fire, and it was a heady thing. Her lips burned with the heat of his possession, and his hunger hardened him even more atop her. He kissed her urgently and with what seemed a purpose—to explore her and know her. She eagerly returned his kisses, feeling her own need to learn this man, this honorable warrior and fiendish foe.
Suddenly, his lips left her mouth and traced a destructive but blissful path down her neck and to the top of her chest where his mouth brushed across her sensitive skin. Unable to contain her response, she cried out in pleasure, the ragged sound of her desire-laden voice shocking her into awareness of what they were doing. She stilled, and it seemed he did, as well, and before she knew what was happening, she had been dragged off her back and to her feet, gripped by the arm, and was being towed back toward the water.
Her senses reeled from his kiss, his nearness, his abrupt change. No longer was the passionate man touching her. He was once more the warrior intent on fulfilling his task. She jerked back on his hand, knowing it was futile to fight him but too stubborn to go meekly. He came to a shuddering stop and whirled around to face her. The large blood stain on his plaid made her cringe.
“Ye’re bleeding,” she cried, reaching toward him.
He flinched away, and the quick movement caused his lips to press together in a thin white line. “What did ye expect?” he growled. “When ye stab a man it usually produces blood.”
Guilt swarmed her. “Ye dunnae leave me a choice, but I did nae stab ye! I missed!”
“Aye,” he said through gritted teeth. She frowned, unsure whether it was anger or pain that caused his clenched mouth. “Ye missed yer mark, but yer dagger pricked my wound from the wolf and ripped open the flesh.”
Her stomach roiled at his words, and she felt momentarily lightheaded.
“Do ye wish to see?” he asked blandly.
She quickly shook her head. “Nay. I…I’m sorry. But as I said, ye left me nary a choice.”
He brought his face a hairsbreadth from hers. “There is always a choice, Isobel. Never forget that. Ye may nae care for the choice, but there always is one.”
She bit her lip, knowing he was right. She could have submitted to him, but she had chosen not to. Yet it hardly seemed right to submit willingly to something she did not want. “I did nae like the other choice ye gave me,” she finally said.
“I ken ye did nae. And I understand why.”
“Ye do?” she asked, startled.
He nodded. “Aye. Ye feel helpless to control yer own life, and it infuriates ye.”
Her mouth parted. That was exactly how she felt. Well, it was part of it. She also felt very alone. As she stood there, it occurred to her that only someone who had felt as she did would recognize those emotions in another.
“Ye speak from experience,” she said softly.
His eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, she was certain he would deny it, as his gaze became hooded, but then he sighed and focused on her. “Aye, I do.” With that, he took her by the hand and led her into the icy water once more.
This time she followed without a fight. Her body protested the frigid temperatures, but there was no time to linger on it. He swam rapidly, pulling her along to match his pace. They reached the embankment in no time, and as they climbed out and then up, hostile gazes greeted her. His men were lined above, staring down at her, and all of them but Cameron and Marsaili looked as if they wished she had drowned.
She followed Graham in silence, fighting the urge to hang her head to avoid their angry stares. Instead, she met each gaze defiantly, barely resisting the urge to cry when Marsaili gave her a sympathetic smile, but Marsaili did not make a move to come to her. Instead, her sister exchanged a look with Cameron, who gave her a distinct shake of his head. Isobel wanted to protest, but she did not want to make things worse for Marsaili than she probably already had by talking her into helping with the escape.
She walked past Graham’s silent men, who parted to let Graham through to his horse and did the same for her. When Graham swung up onto the beast with a loud grunt, she moved close and stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to give her a hand up. He glanced down at her and then to Rory Mac, and said, “The lass will ride with ye.”
Hot humiliation burned her cheeks. Did he not want to ride with her because of the kiss they had shared? She noted he had not said a word about it. It was as if it had never happened. Did he regret it? She should, but somehow she could not make herself. Her vast, fluctuating emotions for this man confused her.
She could not help but look at him. He rode very close, as if he had been forced to relinquish her to Rory Mac but wanted to stay near to guard her. She frowned. That could not be correct. She was seeing intentions that were not there. He didn’t even look back at her. He simply looked straight ahead, concentration tensing his face. Her gaze skimmed over the rest of him without her approval as his powerful thighs bulged against his destrier and his arms grew taut as he gripped his reins.
They traveled through the day and into the night until every inch of her body screamed in pain. She longed to beg Graham to stop, and just when she thought she had reached her breaking point, he called a halt and his men quickly complied. She was unceremoniously whipped off the horse by Rory Mac and set hard upon a rock beside Marsaili. He glared at her and then gave Marsaili a warning look, too. “If ye let her run this time, ye ken ye will nae be welcome at Dunvegan, part MacLeod or nae.”
Marsaili nodded and offered Isobel a silent, apologetic look.
Isobel patted her sister’s hand. “Dunnae fash yerself. I’m too weary to run. I fear if I tried, I’d simply fall on my face.”
The sudden flash of fire near where Graham, his brother, and the rest of the men were caught her attention. If they were risking lighting a fire, they must be in an area he considered safe.
“Have we stopped because we are near Dunvegan?” she called to Rory Mac’s retreating figure.
When he looked at her, his glare had grown more ferocious than before. “Nay,” he snapped.
“Are we in friendly territory to the MacLeods?” she asked gently, sure Graham would not stop unless they were.
“Aye,” he growled. “So ye can get any notion of escape out of yer head.” With that, he stormed away.
She clenched her jaw, and then muttered, “I was nae thinking upon escape.” Yet as the words left her mouth, she found herself looking around, wondering if it was actually possible. When Graham stripped off his plaid, she found her attention riveted on him.
Without thought, she stood and moved quickly to where he was walking toward a loch, but as she passed Cameron he grabbed her by the arm. “Nay, lass. He’d nae want ye watching him.”
“What is he doing?”
“Taking a quick swim,” Cameron replied gruffly. He looked quickly away.
“Ye’re lying,” she accused, casting her gaze back at his men, who seemed to be preparing something. “What is happening?”
Cameron gave her a long look but said nothing. She turned away from him, and at that moment, Graham surfaced from where he had disappeared beneath the glistening water. In the bright moonlight, she could see that his face was set in grim lines, and when he came fully out of the water and walked toward her, she gasped. A bloody, gaping wound covered his shoulder. His gaze met hers, as if he had heard her intake of breath, though he was surely not close enough to have done so.
Dear heaven above, the pain he had to be in! She had caused this. She swallowed hard against the tide of sickness that swelled in her throat. He’d been wounded protecting her from the wolf, and in thanks, she had tried to stab him in the shoulder. Humiliation battered her, and as he came closer, she could not tear her gaze from him, and he did not remove his fro
m her.
His powerful, well-defined body moved with the grace of a man who knew perfectly how to control every part of himself. His broad chest had been bronzed by the sun and was marred with many small scars, which he must have obtained in battle. It did not make him less magnificent, but more so. He was a warrior, honed to protect those he loved, and she imagined he gave no quarter and allowed no fear when in a battle.
Slabs of thick bands covered his stomach, each one rippling as he walked. His arms looked like they had been carved by the finest of stone masons, and his legs were long and sculpted. The closer he came to her, the more she was aware of the inherent strength that was at the very heart of him. He stopped in front of her, so close that the water dripping from his hair splattered on her feet.
She shivered from his nearness, as well as from the chill that had settled into her bones. “Put on my plaid,” he ordered, waving to his brother, who silently walked to her and handed her his plaid.
She took it and held it, but did not put it on. “What of ye?” she asked.
“Ye are more important than I am,” he replied.
Her heart squeezed at his words and happiness filled her chest, but then she stopped herself. “Because of Brigid?”
His square jaw tensed visibly. “Nay,” he replied, shoving back his wet hair from his forehead. Drops of moisture clung to his skin, and her fingers twitched to reach up and brush them away. “Go rest, Isobel. We will ride again soon.”
She looked to the men and saw that Rory Mac now held a red-hot blade in his hands. His gaze was fastened on Graham, and she knew then what was about to occur. She had sealed several travelers’ wounds when they came to the convent seeking the nuns’ help.
When a Highlander Loses His Heart (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 4) Page 12